Congratulations To Frankie On His Straight Wedding, And All The Cool People Who Were Invited

Frankie's wedding looked fun, huh. Tough to avoid it if you're a Barstool fan, employee, or the former dripping pan for any juices secreted by the groom. From the pictures, it almost seemed like a company event. Almost felt like we were told to promote it because it was sponsored. Almost felt like I'd missed the dress code email for an awards show where a black t-shirt would serve as the hellish appetizer to an entrée of public downfall that would send one's parents to their estate planner to redraft a will to favor a less disgraced sibling. 

But none of that happened. Because I wasn't invited, in spite of a ROBUST history with the new Mr. Borelli. 

This is the problem with piping someone in show business: if you ever stop piping, you can't escape them. They'll be all over your timeline no matter how hard you try to Eternal Sunshine them from your brain or sand their stains from your bedside table. Sure enough, Sunday was the day to leave my phone in a river. As soon as I woke up, a forecast of pain rolled in:

All these professional, obligatory invitees were also retweeting each other's posts, so I was swept up in a social media cum-swapping vortex that spread like Canadian wildfire, engulfing the rest of us in a dark smog of FOMO. "You were there? So was I! Here's a retweet for you!" 

On and on it went. The masochist in me doom scrolled until my thumbprints were chafed and unreadable to high-end vault doors. All the while, I understood why I wasn't invited. I'm sure they talked about it. Heck, I bet the new Missus Borelli (a name I affectionately used to call Frankie) probably advocated for my inclusion on the guest list. But Frankie said no… too awkward. He probably said I'd make a scene, and not of the kind he and I used to shoot from a GoPro mounted on top of his golf ball retriever. Probably said best not to confuse me, give me false hope, or stir up that morass of feelings he buried deep, deep beneath hours of psychiatric remodeling that "fixed" his "yips." That part of me is dead, he'd lie to himself, scanning a neighboring farm through binoculars as a frothing Arabian circles, huffing and puffing, before mounting a trembling broodmare.

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I get it. I'm glad I wasn't invited. It's their day; I don't want to be a distraction. Can't have people casting nervous glances my way when the priest asks if anyone has a reason these two should not be wed. Or during the party later, we don't want the guests wondering, when Frankie disappears to the bathroom, if he's back there carving a circular hole in the stall divider for us to tease out a new stuffed crust recipe. 

I wish them a long and happy marriage. Plus, I hope that KFC, Bob Fox, Rudy, Tommy, and Jake Bass enjoy perusing their wedding registry (everyone else in that photo actually deserve to be there.) Have fun ponying up for those $250 monogrammed salad tongs, you unworthy fucks. 

PS- a walk down memory lane:

PPS- in all seriousness, these two are beautiful. Congratulations. 

PPPS- I used to check Frankie for ticks after golf. Even though he wore pants. He insisted. You know where.