A Man of the Cloth…

I assume that you know you are supposed to tip because you tipped me 10 bucks.  Then I also have to assume that you know that 10 bucks is not 20% of 157.00.  Actually it’s not even 10%.  Perhaps the education system in the UK is worse than the education system in Alabama.  If that’s the case then I guess I can forgive you.  You were too stupid to know better.

THE MINISTER.

THE MINISTER.

THE MINISTER.

He was the pastor of some mega-church in LA.  I know this because he told me at least 12 times.  I also know he’s charismatic.  Why…because he told me at least 12 times.  I also know that he’s good at engaging people when he speaks…because he told me at least 12 times.

What I really find interesting is that I can’t find him on line at all.  I can find pastors with his name, but not him.  You’d think if you were the pastor of a mega church in LA that you’d be out there on the Internet somewhere.  But what do I know?

I do know that he’s a freak show.  ONE GINORMOUS FREAK SHOW.

Adam and I met him at the rehearsal dinner.  We arrived late and the only place to sit was next to him.  We introduced ourselves.  And thus started his intense need to make sure we knew that he was as special as he thought he was.  He bragged about his church.  He bragged about his taking over the church.  He bragged about telling his replacement exactly what he needed to do to succeed in the church.  And then bragged about how he laughed when the guy didn’t do so well.

During all this he drank.  And drank.  And drank.

Finally he got up to say a few words.

And made a few off color remarks that were totally inappropriate for a room full of people you don’t even know.  And especially inappropriate for a wedding.  And VERY inappropriate for a rehearsal dinner with four small children present.  Someone stopped him mid sentence in the middle of his “sex” joke about the bride and groom.

And he drank.

And drank.

And drank.

Okay.  Perhaps we are just over reacting.  We are tired.  A bit cranky.  And he’s a minister.

Tune in to the wedding.

From the moment the wedding started I didn’t like him.

He had no sense of decorum or occasion.  He made jokes when he shouldn’t have.  He made REALLY off color jokes when he really shouldn’t have.  He was sexist.  I repeat SEXIST.  I MEAN VERY SEXIST.  He made jokes about the groom having to take the bride shopping.  He made jokes about the groom promising to listen.  He made jokes about this and that that the groom would have to do.  He made no jokes about what the bride would bring to the table.  It was a very 1950’s approach to the role of the man in the relationship.  He didn’t allow for one second the ceremony to have any seriousness to it.  I don’t think we should play up the emotion…fuck it.  I do think you should play up the emotion.  It’s a big deal, at least it should be a big deal, to stand up in front of your friends and family and declare your undying love for someone.  To say that you will love, honor and obey someone till death do you part.  Anytime the sentimentality of the ceremony started to come through he killed it.  I felt like I was watching a stand up comedian perform.  At one point I leaned over to Adam and asked him whether the wedding was about the bride and groom or about him.  I couldn’t tell which.

I mentioned yesterday that the mothers of the bride and the groom went to a table and poured wine from two different bottles into a common cup.  During the actual ceremony the bride and groom also poured wine from the two bottles and drank from the single glass.  A bit heavy handed if you ask me, but I’ve seen it done before and it makes it’s point.

At the end of the ceremony the minister presents the bride and groom.  They start up the aisle.  Then he goes to the table, picks up the wine glass they’ve taken a drink from, downs it in one gulp, holds one of the wine bottles over his head and shouts, “Let’s party.”

I was done with him at that point.

He finished the first bottle before the reception started.  He was well into the second bottle by the time dinner was over.

He managed to flirt and hit on every single girl in the place.  He even hit on the redneck girls at the bar down the hill.

And he drank.

And drank.

And drank.

When I last saw him the father of the bride was taking his keys away from him so that he wouldn’t drive away drunk in his BMW convertible sports car.  I thought if not for the fear that he’d kill someone that it might make for a fun story if he spent the night in jail for drinking and driving.

The next day the mother of the groom continued to express her unhappiness with him.

The mother of the bride could not express more her love of him.

I didn’t get it.

I still get a bad taste in my mouth when I think of him.

He’s the kind of man who goes to the play ground after school  to “talk” to the little girls.