Let me start off by saying I’m quite surprised by how many of you expressed disappointment in our decision not to honor the tired tradition of the bouquet toss (most of this resistance is admittedly coming from Brad’s side). For those of you not familiar with me or the Chudnowsky family, it’s as simple as this: Chudnowsky brides do not throw a bouquet – we throw a live wolverine.
Now before you come at me with your PETA bullshit, I assure you the wolverine is unharmed. In fact, I might even go so far as to say it actually likes it. I can’t say as much for the lucky woman that catches it. There are casualties. What do you expect? It’s a live wolverine. They’re mean as hell!
I know there was confusion from some of you regarding just what a wolverine is. Some invitees not local to the Upper Peninsula thought I meant a live wolf. Christ, can you just imagine how ridiculous that would be, throwing a wolf at a bunch of reluctant women? Besides, think of the liability! Even the UP has laws. Some of you also thought I was joking and, adorably, you tried to play along, suggesting instead I throw a hunky Hugh Jackman and let you man-hungry females go at him.
Sorry, ladies. It’s no joke. I intend to line you up and toss a live wolverine over my head.
We Chudnowskys are hardy stock. We hail from the Upper Peninsula where we’re prone to cold, dark winters, a lack of facilities and services, and excessive leg hair – an evolutionary feature to adapt to said cold winters. We toss wolverines around at backyard barbecues like you debutantes play frisbee. This wedding tradition dates back to the mid-19th century (known unofficially as the “Year Without a Summer”) when, thanks to some especially-volatile volcanic activity in the Philippines, no flowers bloomed in the UP.
But the prolonged darkness extended the wolverine mating season and an ingenious young Chudnowsky bride came up with the brilliant idea to blindly toss one of these perpetually-angry critters at her reception’s unfortunate, publicly-shamed, matrimonially-challenged women. Six months later, that bride was with child, and the lucky lady who caught the flying skunk bear was engaged (despite the deep scar on her forehead that made Harry Potter’s lightning bolt look like a freckle). A tradition was born, and the tossing of the wolverine was fully embraced by the Chudnowsky brood to ensure both the fertility of the bride and also that hideously-scarred UP females (both physically and emotionally) would be married to area men not put off by women sporting claw marks down both cheeks.
Is it a barbaric relic probably best left to the past and our ignorant ancestors? Yeah! Is it unorthodox and likely to spark an animal rights protest outside the wedding hall? You betcha! Will some lucky unmarried female be the recipient of permanent facial scarring? I guarantee it!
Why do you think I wear an eyepatch, because it makes me look badass? It’s because I caught one of these mean sons of bitches right on the kisser. I hugged the wriggling, snarling – and later determined to be rabid – vermin against my face and went to the ground with it like I was Desmond Howard catching a TD pass during his glorious Heisman year.
When they finally separated the animal’s razor-sharp claws from my face, I was missing an eye, and both my cheeks looked like pulled pork. History has taught the Chudnowskys to keep an ambulance standing outside the hall, and I was whisked away from the reception to complete the traditional 279-mile trek to the nearest hospital – with only one brief stop at the party store for a six-pack. The passably handsome EMT bachelor who began the painful series of rabies shots (even with only one eye, I could see no wedding band) chatted me up as he applied pressure to my face to stop the excessive bleeding, and by the time we reached the hospital in Wisconsin, we were practically hitched. Of course, I’m referring to the love of my life, Brad. Dreams do come true, ladies! I’m living proof!
No doubt, some of you will try to scheme your way out of facing down the wolverine, perhaps by hiding in the ladies room, or sneaking out to the car until it’s over. My Uncle Cal, a beekeeper from Menominee, will be in the handicapped shitter with his “box o’ bees” ready to unleash a swarm on anyone foolhardy enough to buck tradition. And my cousin Neddy – recognizable for his handlebar mustache and his fashionable pairing of a Packers cap and tuxedo – will be stationed by the door with his Rottweiler, Bojangles. So I issue this disclaimer to you now: if you are not sincere about finding yourself your own Yooper husband, don’t RSVP.
Lastly, I ask you to pass this information on to any male guests: Brad will be shortly sending out a similar notice regarding a long-held Benderovich tradition where the bride wears a throwing star on her thigh in place of a garter. No matter how stupid this seems, I request that all single male guests be prepared to catch it, so his family can honor Ceres, the pagan god of the harvest, and ensure a season of bountiful crops. Thank you.
