The father of an Illinois bride collects what remains of his daughter’s tattered wedding decor while cursing to himself Sunday morning about a botched weather report that resulted in a backyard wedding riot.
“Such bullshit… it’s all… fucked…” the father grumbles to our reporter, “this was supposed to be wonderful, but our local weatherman fucked me in the ass. Hard.”
On the day before her wedding, the Illinois bride and her family watched the weather reports meticulously, deciding whether to move the forty expected guests into the lower level of the family mansion or to go through with a summer wedding under the stars.
“The weatherman was certain the weather would cooperate,” the father grunts, “we were all set.”
The morning of the wedding rolled around, and the clouds rolled in.
“We thought it would be stormy, so we let everyone know to come inside instead,” the bride tells our reporter.
Soon after the ceremony started, the sun shone brightly through the windows, irritating the cramped guests as they checked the radar on their phones. The radar revealed clear skies.
“So we figured, finish the ceremony and do cocktail hour and the rest of the reception outside… so I missed my daughters vows and first kiss while directing the catering company to quickly set everything back up outside.”
Once everything was set up, a breaking news reported tornadoes forming not an hour away.
“At that point, given his track record, I figured the weatherman was wrong again, so we… carried on,” the bride chokes through tears.
The guests grew restless, her father grew angry, and the clouds grew stormy.
“Unbelievable,” the father exhales, scooping up the saturated mess of a wedding cake vomited across the grass by Mother Nature, “we get everyone outside and now… now the weather takes a turn?!” Un-fucking-believable.”
Half the guests began to panic, hustling their way back inside. Some rushed with extra haste and trampled the smaller guests. The ushers hollered for women and children to safely enter first, but they were ignored.
“It was pandemonium,” the bride explains, “women scratching men to get out of the impending rain that hadn’t even hit yet. Half the guests just stayed outside anyways. Our fucking drunk ass cousin Terry wandered into the neighbor’s yard, took their lawn furniture and continued to drink like a pillager in the fucking apocalypse.”
And to boot, the rain never came. The wind picked up just annoyingly enough to throw the wedding cake everywhere, scatter the cards and gifts, and scare the remaining guests crammed in the back patio door frame.
“We actually had a guest throw a rock through our window and crawl through to get in, trying to stand on the flower girl’s shoulders in the process.”
As the sun came back out, guests began to fight to get back outside, causing a reverse bottleneck through the patio door.
“I don’t know why dem fuckers didn’t just stay in the house for good,” cousin Terry reports to us, “they be hootin’ and hollerin’ and here I was, sippin’ on whiskey straight out of the bottle. Fuck the rain.”
When asked about cousin Terry’s behavior, the father of the bride became extremely agitated.
“He’s a fucking imbecile; he is the skid mark on our family. Don’t talk to him. He probably thinks he’s getting paid for talking to you.”
What followed next in the order of events was horrific. In a panic, one of the guests tore the door frame off the house and began swinging, knocking over the unity candle that was carried outside in the process and setting the yard ablaze.
“A fire. A fucking fire in my backyard. On my daughter’s wedding. And fuck if I know where her groom went. Somewhere in the terror and confusion, he bolted. I don’t blame him.”
Miraculously, nobody perished in the fire. However, half of the family mansion burned but firefighters arrived in time to stop the blaze from spreading to the rest of the house.
“Half of my family home is gone. My memories; gone. Burned to the ground on my wedding day. I’ll remember this forever.”
“You wanna know the real kicker of it all?” the father of the bride tells us, shaking in anger, “it never fucking rained. Could’ve used the rain… you know, while I watched my yard and part of my house become engulfed in fire.”
Some guests we spoke to still do not know where the groom is, and we will keep you updated on that story as it progresses.
We here at ShamRag have reached out to the local Illinois weatherman responsible, but he has made himself unavailable for comment.