I got married on Monday

Well, not married married—more like I-was-the-groom-in-my-agency’s-wedding-reception-themed-spec-creative-for-a-beer-commercial married. Which happens to a lot of people, so you can understand how the headline for this post might have come off as confusing or a little misleading. Plus, as a filthy homosexual, I don’t really understand the true definition of marriage because I’m too busy trying to seduce young Christian boys with firm buttocks so what the hell do I know anyway?

Since it was spec creative, there were no professional actors or costume/makeup people or even a freakin’ catering table (though there were some warm Diet Cokes in one corner of the room, and of course there was beer on every table, but it was PROP BEER so we couldn’t drink it—not that I even would because beer tastes like camel piss with farts in it). We did have some cool props, though—including a FABULOUS wedding cake—and somebody decorated our big conference room to look just like a depressing hall for a boring wedding reception complete with polyester skirts on the tables and wilted iceberg lettuce on our plates.

And how did I get to be the groom? I’m an incredibly talented and handsome actor who can pull off the heterosexual groom thing just as easily as I can play a Swedish mountain ranger or a drunken Labrador with an engineering degree. I own my own tux.

They used the same exhaustive audition process to cast the bride as well: This co-worker of mine just got married … she hadn't yet heirloomed her dress … BINGO! Instant bride!

So on Monday afternoon we climbed into our wedding finery and took our places at the table of honor … and basically sat around for two hours while the prop people refilled our water glasses and the lighting people jiggled with the barn doors on the Fresnels. (That’s not a metaphor for anything.)

The spec commercial ended up being all about the totally-bored-with-our-reception best man, though, which reduced the bride and me to mere set decorations—despite our delicately nuanced portrayals and our thoughtful character development. Which means I’ll be deferring my life dream of parlaying my beer-commercial-groom fame into a lucrative career as a backup dancer in a DeBarge video for at least a few more weeks.

Career setbacks notwithstanding, the wife and I had fun at our fake reception with our wilted lettuce and our prop beer and our fake guests. And we expected we’d at least get to enjoy a couple slices of that fabulous wedding cake when the shoot was over—until we were told it was just a stack of beautifully frosted Styrofoam.

“Damnit!” the wife exclaimed in her delicate, properly submissive manner. “That cake is as fake as my tan.”

And my heterosexuality, dear wife. It’s also as fake as your new fake-beer-commercial fake husband’s heterosexuality.