Find Big Fat Fanny Fast by Joe Bruno, Cecelia Maruffi Mogilansky, Sherry Granader

Dria told her husband.
    Sally Boy knocked down a scotch, neat. “So what? We've having this wedding in a freaking clubhouse by a softball field, for Christ's sake. Its better our people get sloshed before they even get there.”
    “But you're getting fat as a pig with all your eating and drinking. You want to give yourself a heart attack?”
    Sally Boy patted his belly. “This is just good living. Now leave me alone. I'm enjoying myself.”
    “I hope you have all your life insurance policies paid up.”
    Sally Boy took a slug of booze. “What life insurance policies? My estate is all in cash.”
    “What cash? I don't even know where you keep all your money.”
    “And it's going to stay that way. If you did know where I kept all my money, you might get ideas.”
    “I already have ideas,” Dria said. “And they're not good for you.”
    The people on the second bus were not quite as drunk as the people on Sally Boy's bus, because Richie Ratface, the buses' designated bartender, did not operate as quickly, or as efficiently as Sally Boy. And he had a much lighter hand.
    By the time the two buses arrived at the clubhouse by the Greenwood Lake softball field, some people were already slightly drunk. Others could barely make it down the steps of the bus.
    As the father of the bride, it was also Ryan O'Reilly job to pick up the tab for the wedding. Keeping true to his cheap bastard form, he spent as little as possible, so the wedding and wedding reception itself, looked more like a high school prom, with older people. In some cases, much older people.
    Tony B and Ann were married on the clubhouse stage, where just a week before, there had been a high school rendition of Damn Yankees.
    When O'Reilly's booming voice said, “And I pronounce you man and wife,” there was polite applause from the O'Reilly contingent. But Tony B's group from New York City let out a roar, like one heard in Yankee Stadium after Mickey Mantle hit a tape-measure home run.
    There was no waiter service for wedding dinner, so the attendees got their food from a buffet table, lined with trays of cold cuts, sliced bread, potato salad and a lousy cold slaw.
    Sally Boy was not amused. He turned to his wife, who was munching on a corned beef on rye. “What kind of freaking wedding is this? No pasta. No meatballs. No freaking baked ziti. Or even a platter of chicken parmigiana.”
    Dria spoke without looking up from her sandwich. “Stop complaining. I told you should have volunteered to pick up the tab for the reception.”
    Sally Boy's face turned red. “Screw that. That was the Mick bastard's job. Not mine. At least the donkey creep should have served some steak, or lobster. Or maybe even some shrimp.”
    “Shut up and eat,” she said.
    After about two hours of dancing to the four-piece Greenwood Lake Um Pa Pa Band, Tony B's group started to have a pretty good time. While the band was playing “The Beer Barrel Polka,” which sounded like every other song the band had already played, Skinny Benny decided he had had just about enough. He sauntered on shaky legs up to the bandleader, who was blowing away on his trumpet. Skinny Benny slipped him a ten spot. “You know any rock and roll? Like Elvis, or something?”
    In mid-note, the band leader silenced the band with a wave of his trumpet and started playing “Jailhouse Rock.” After a few bars, Skinny Benny grabbed the bandleader's trumpet. “Not a good idea. Some guys here might take that personal.”
    The bandleader took the cue and started playing “Don't be Cruel,” which suited Skinny Benny just fine.
    A few songs later, and Tony B was shocked to see the band was packing up their instruments.
    He hurried over to the bandleader. “What's with you guys? Why are you leaving?”
    The bandleader put his trumpet into its case. “Because O'Reilly only paid us for two hours. He said that would be enough.”
    Tony B rushed over to where Ann was sitting with Betty. He stared darts at Betty. “Your