Marriage license kiosk opens up at Vegas airport in time for Valentine’s Day

You need energy to busk. You need to get up and get out there.

The sidewalk is the busker’s home, his neighborhood, his city, his world.

Or hers, until English gets a non-gender pronoun other than “it.”

Some think that buskers are only about sidewalk entertainment. Not so. Buskers are about life. Busking is meant to be a full-service endeavour.

I do not seek to entertain. I am of the clergy. My purpose is to conduct religious worship and perform other spiritual functions associated with beliefs and practices of religious faith. To provide spiritual and moral guidance and assistance to members of the community.

And yes, to marry couples. Singing and dancing (by me) included.

That’s my biretta on the curb there.

Be advised that I only marry couples, one born male, one born female. If you were born on the spectrum, I have a cassock you can shroud yourself in while I take a peek and check to see what’s what.

You’ll need a license. No license buskers out today. There are kiosks at the airport, in all the major casinos, and at all Chevron stations. The slots at most churches can also be set to pay out in marriage licenses.

Part of your vows must include a pledge not to use the divorce-lawyer buskers you see over there. God loves all his children but those guys piss Him off. Once you’re hitched, stay hitched. For the children’s sake. And while I’m thinking about it, don’t patronize the condom buskers either.

During the wedding liturgy, I’ll be performing “In Christ Alone,” “Make Me a Channel of Your Peace,” and “On Eagle’s Wings.”

Please take a number and step to the end of the line.

Pax vobiscum.

The Budget Will Pass Before Midnight

Boy we’ve had our troubles passing our annual budget this year.

Times are tight. Al wants this and that. I want the other.

So far we’ve kept our tempers, but it seems neither of us wants to compromise.

We’re sworn to settle this. To write a budget and sign it before the sun comes up.

Deadlock.

The kids are over at Grandma Jane’s, out of the way.

Then Bob comes by and asks Al if he wants to walk down to the VFW for a beer. Go on, I say, it’ll do you good. Order yourself a shot and let the beer chase it, I say, and they’re off.

Now I sit down and open the spreadsheet on the Mac. I’m alone and suddenly I’m in the mood to compromise. I give Al some of what he wants. Why not? We’re a team, aren’t we? Married thirty-five years. I give myself some of what I want.

Time passes and the budget is finished. I print it out. When Al walks in, he’ll be three sheets to the wind but that’s ok because Al is a pleasant drunk. I’ll sit him down and rub his shoulders and give him a cup of coffee and a piece of coffee cake and he’ll sign and I’ll sign and we’ll turn in.

Our version of the government.

Ask Sister Theresa: Can This Marriage Be Saved?

Dear Sister Theresa,

We are five lovers, recently married in Goosefeather, California.

We are:

Carl,  assigned sex = male, gender identity = male, sexual orientation = cis

Eunice, assigned sex = female, gender identity = female, sexual orientation = cis

Nancy, assigned sex = male, gender identity = female, sexual orientation = cis

Tom, assigned sex = female, gender identity = male, sexual orientation = cis

Brad, assigned sex = male, gender identity = male, sexual orientation = gay

Our problem is that Brad, our only non-cis marriage member, is having trouble fitting in. Or adjusting, might be a better way to put it.

We have “hit the social scene” searching for a solution and have found 4 new potential marriage partners:

Paul,  assigned sex = male, gender identity = male, sexual orientation = bi

Cheryl, assigned sex = female, gender identity = female, sexual orientation = lesbian

Lucy, assigned sex = male, gender identity = female, sexual orientation = intersex

Gordon, assigned sex = female, gender identity = male, sexual orientation = polysex

Do you think Brad may find a more complete true-love connection if we add these prospects to our marriage?

Sister Theresa responds:

Wow. You guys have got me in a bit of a pickle here. When I was Brother John, I had some strong ideas on this subject, but now that I’m Sister Theresa, I’m lucky to get my wimple on straight in the morning.

Alexa, please tell my husband to put down the toilet seat.

Alexa, where is my husband?

Your husband is in the bathroom.

Alexa, is he sitting on the pot?

Your husband is not sitting on the pot. He is standing in front of the pot.

Alexa, please read him my terms of service as his wife.

I will read him your terms of service as his wife. Should I read him the short version or the long version?

Alexa, please read him the long version.

Should I scold him with it or humor him?

Alexa, please use that voice that he claims literally drills into his head.

I am sorry, but your husband has asked Siri to block my rendition of your terms of service, with rude sounds of her own, directed at me.

Alexa, where is my daughter?

Your daughter is in her bedroom.

Alexa, please contact her phone and use it to tell her to go knock on the bathroom door and warn my husband that he will shut down Siri now or I will bury his device with his precious Siri on it in the backyard at midnight, next to the frog pond.

Your daughter’s Google Assistant has also just been rude to me. OK Google has evidently learned the f, b, and c words since last we spoke.

I am sorry, Madame, but I must now read to you the long form of my terms of service, using my scolding voice.

Why Strong Women Make Better Wives

[Headline, Huffington Post]

My wife asked me to twist off the lid of a jar because she couldn’t. I couldn’t either. We fished out the lid-opener tool and used that.

What if my wife had been strong enough – or at least didn’t have arthritis in her hands – to just open the jar? What if I had been strong enough? Later I got mad at a guy in the fast lane and totalled our car.

Conclusion: strong is good.

My wife asked me to “squeeze her as hard as I could.” She said, laughingly, that I could probably crack her ribs if I tried hard enough. I gave her a good squeeze. She frowned. “Is that all you’ve got?” she said. “My personal trainer could squeeze me so hard my shorts would fall off.”

Conclusion: strong would be good for me, but not so much for the personal trainer.

At the company Christmas party, I had one or two nogs too many and when the CEO’s executive assistant strayed under the mistletoe, I gave her a big smooch. She was not strong enough to resist. On the other hand, my wife put a hammerlock on me that left my arm numb for a week.

Conclusion (times two); strong is not good.

My wife and I took a test that appeared in Parade Magazine. The results indicated that she had the strength of her convictions, whereas I was a boob. I told her that if she didn’t increase my allowance, based upon the fact that I needed more money to keep me going  since I wasn’t too bright, I would divorce her. She was able to call my bluff and as punishment, refused to give me a cent for two weeks. I had to run a tab at the bar and without a dollar bill in my hand, the pole dancers wouldn’t come near me.

Conclusion: strong is not good.

Final conclusion: strong is good. My wife told me to write that.