I'll be honest, I can't stand weddings. It's not about the grumpiness of a (formal) bachelor who, for forty-odd years, has successfully avoided that circus with himself as the main character, although, I admit, honest odium has often served as a good alibi for me. I avoided my own wedding, but other people's, in several cases, I didn't, so I had the opportunity to get to know this "parade of drunkenness and kitsch" (Đ. Balašević) from the inside. To the horror of all five senses, especially the sixth one, which unmistakably told me - don't! Come up with something! Cut the veins, they will heal sooner than you will recover from the wedding!
Throw some firecrackers around some foreign embassy, they'll bring you in on November 29 and you'll know in black and white that you were prevented from coming! Travel to Guinea and Sierra Leone, Ebola is a song compared to what you will listen to at a wedding! There is no master of words or metaphors to describe what is played and sung there, and it is a real miracle that at least the membranes of the innocent speakers have not rebelled so far.
At one of the weddings, I seriously threatened the singer when we met at the toilet sink, during the one and only break that pleased at least two-thirds of the guests.
The conversation went like this!
- Ah, there you are, brother! - I hissed, looking at him in the mirror with the gaze of the late Bin Laden when he was sending one of his fatwas to America.
He kept quiet and washed his hands.
- Do you know that because of you, I don't go to weddings without a twit?
He was silent and wiped his hands.
- My idea is to cut those speaker wires, but now I thought of a better and more far-reaching solution...!
Eh, if he was lucky, if he kept silent like this, there wouldn't even be a conversation.
- I could, instead of the worse plastic ones, rip out your vocal cords and finish the job, so that these unfortunates can talk to each other!
He ran up the stairs as far as his legs could carry him, I thought he wouldn't stop until Prijepolje, but he was already at the microphone and asked a certain girl "is she hot now, like she used to be hot".
Admittedly, he no longer walked between the tables as a precaution, he emerged from behind the accordionist to locate me, but I was already, admitting defeat, leaving the hall and going outside. It was possible because it was summer, but winter weddings - and 90 percent of all four that I attended took place in the north of Montenegro - are updated hell. Outside, usually minus 20 Celsius, inside plus 90 decibels! In both cases, the ears fall off!
First I'm startled by car horns, then finished off by a certain "Gotsy band", or whatever they're called, pretending to be musicians, provided I don't get run over by some guy whose windshield is covered in towels and his mirrors are covered in shirts - what kind of them? GPS leads to the hotel as obnevidele, that I know? Or I won't be shot by a gunman who is celebrating the best day in the life of his relative (relatives).
I was a living witness, alive only thanks to the fact that I stopped in time (thank you JNA on the atomic left, Captain Zeka said nicely that he would need it one day) when a madman, with a bottle in his left and a gun in his right, fired a full burst in the crowd that pressed in front of the municipal building.
Soon a patrol of the people's militia appeared and just when I thought that at least this combat shooting would get in the way, they pulled out of that bottle and left. Looks like they came to help, if they ran out of ammunition!
The other horrible thing that I'm already shuddering about while I'm fiddling with the damn tie at a safe distance of 372 km is meeting at least 28 profusely sweaty cousins deeply susceptible to maligans. Each of them, in the sweat of his face, will leave the circle when he sees me dressed like that at the table, to hug and kiss me, after which not even the tablecloth is enough to absorb those outpourings of tenderness!
One of them, at the last wedding, after leaving me as a victim of the spring Kolubara, rushed down some stairs, so they took him to the hospital.
In principle, an ambulance crew should be attached to each wedding procession, because God knows how many of those unfortunate women who were weighed down in too-tight skirts and put on 25-centimeter high heels broke their legs or, at least, sprained their ankles. Or how many grandmothers, in the ecstasy of the wedding, touched the horse's hip; how many of them got alcohol poisoning; some, I heard, were killed by "Knjaz Miloš" - they fell as victims of carbon dioxide from acid water, not to mention stray bullets. The average Serbian wedding, therefore, has the same potential danger coefficient as the average humanitarian American aerial intervention.
In addition, ambulances are a key argument for the presence of an ambulance. What a mermaid they have!
