Sunday, March 4, 2012

Congratulations on Your Marriage! Next Up: Death!

As you all know, I recently got gay married to my boyfriend of fifteen years, Little Man Jimmy (now obviously known as Mrs. Timothy Anderson), and we are currently trying to put together a sexytime party to celebrate. This will happen in June and will involve pizza, pasta, booze, popsicles, Pop-Tarts, hot yoga, and a performance by Wilson Phillips.

So, in the mean time, what other things are on the horizon for the happy couple, now that we've taken the plunge that we are now legally able to take (slowest plunge ever), against the wishes of President Leviticus and Vice President Santorum? Well, there are all sorts of benefits to being married, obviously. For example, we can check a new box on forms. Also, is there a tax break or something? And if were to have a child now, the public would not be forced to refer to it as an awful bastard child. That's a step forward, no? Sadly, we're not going to be having children because the two of us can barely take care of our cat. But we don't want children in the least, so it works out.

Anyway, this week we finally received our first piece of joint junk mail. (See picture above.) Whatwoulditbe? Whatwoulditbe? What. Would. It. Be? A pre-approved credit card application? A chance to jointly donate to the SPCA or the Recall President Leviticus campaign? A hilariously misguided set of coupons for Home Depot? No, none of these. Here's who it was from:

Hmmm. So, we are being invited to get joint plots at some terrible mausoleum. Okay. "Congratulations on your recent nuptials. Now that you are married, you obviously wish that you were dead. Let us help." Their actual pitch: "Let's Face It Now."

Well, they're barking up the wrong tree with us. We both want to be burned up. Then Jimmy wants his ashes scattered in the German town of Gelnhausen where he lived when he was a young army brat. And I want mine sprinkled into the marshmallow cream icing of a Mississippi Mud cake that all of my friends will consume at my wake on some rooftop in Brooklyn (Kelly, can you host?) while crying and listening to the Flash Gordon soundtrack on repeat on massive speakers. (Sorry, but those are my wishes, friends, so make it happen.)

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