The invitations have been sent, and the recipients decide if they are available for this ancient institution to legally procreate. The vast majority accept, and the calendar date is circled and prioritized. Guests make their own travel plans and if the event is more than 20 miles away, motels are often reserved. The trend today, with the OWI laws, requires common sense because free alcohol is often dispensed, so $150 a night is a reason to stay the night and let a bus chauffer you around. The crowd that gathers is made up of 5 generations from both the bride and groom’s side and comingle together at the wedding with an air of caution. Only the good stories emerge from the guests so as not to threaten the sanctity of this bond. That is until the alcohol flows. The 1st generation group is the 0- to 2-year-olds. A newly married couple always shows up with a newborn in tow. They’re the door greeters who display their new creation for the guests to see and are gone in an hour because junior has no interest in this fiasco. Junior’s goal is to suck the life out of mom and all that womb kicking was to guarantee that mom’s figure from then on was going to expand exponentially. The mobile group (3 to 17) is here because the parents stuck a $100 bill in a card and want an 8-fold return on feeding their 2 kids and themselves at $200/plate. The 18- to 35-year-olds are what these parties are all about: fresh meat in extravagant packaging that includes dresses hiked up to the cleavage. The alcohol and the dancing activate the seeds and eggs like a James Bond drink: shaken, not stirred, but rather, plunged. The 36- to 59-year-olds are there to re-excite love lost but this usually results in a failure to launch. They have aborted frequently. The 60 to dead crowd just sits and smiles at the whole scenario. Their arthritic bodies don’t move, and they can’t hear a thing over the music. They know the final outcome and they remain absolutely silent. Let them learn the hard way.