I'd call SunMoonStar this evening's maid of honor, but given this episode's "quality," she might be insulted. God knows I would be. So, I think we should all just belly up to the open bar under that stripey tent out on the lawn and raise a cocktail to her instead.
Speaking of insults, I remarked earlier that Phoebe's ludicrous nuptials to Cole ranked as this series' true wedding from Hell. I lied. Read on...
Fade up on the Golden Gate Bridge, and then we're off to a mansion with a grand entrance drive surmounted by an elaborate, three-story-high portico. I feel as if I should recognize the place, and yet I don't. I also feel as if I should care about what will happen this evening, but that feeling quickly staggers face-first into the toilet when we slide into the palace grounds, and I plunge into vaguely-nauseated apathy as the camera tracks a mousy dishwater blonde with a shag cut on a stroll through the gardens with her equally mousy dishwater-blond fiancé. The mouse with the shag sort of resembles a younger Laura Innes if you removed the crutch and most of the acting ability, replaced the aura of competence and self-confidence with a whiny, grasping neediness, and strapped what was left into a lavender hoodie that has an unfortunate propensity to bunch up around random protruding body parts. The mousy fiancé looks like he auditioned for the title role in The Matthew Shepard Story and was rejected because he was too effeminate for the part. Sandy Duncan? Butcher. Bernadette Peters? A grotesque parody of stereotypical all-American masculinity compared to this guy. And it's all downhill from here, people.
The two lovebirds launch into tiresome declarations of eternal love and respect peppered with twitchy confessions of pre-wedding jitters as they coyly reveal their names to be "Allison Michaels" and "Elliot Spencer" respectively, and you know what? These "Hello, Young Lovers" plotlines always suck ass. And I'm warning you once again: This one is by far the worst of the bunch. Elliot asks Allison if she'd rather elope than go through with the elaborate ceremony his mother has planned for them. So, that sylph-like physical presence of his that's whistling the refrain of "I Once Knew A Dickless Mama's Boy" isn't enough, huh? We needed that bit of dialogue as well to ensure we know he's got a A Domineering Mommy, right? Allison guhs all, "Ohmigod! Like she'd totally let us get away with that, like, not!" And then they, like, totally kiss! Mother Elliot chooses this moment to tear across the garden path in what appears to be a bullet-proof peach satin power suit with matching pumps from the Betsy Bloomingdale Republican Hell-Bitch Collection at Neiman Marcus, along with excessive amounts of eyeliner, overly-hennaed hair, cruelly drawn lips, and a pair of nostrils so sharp that off-sea oil rigs frequently lease them to drill new exploratory wells. Mother Elliot demands to know if her son has procured the marriage license as of yet. Elliot tells her to chill; he and Allison can pick it up tomorrow after the rehearsal dinner. Mother Elliot shrieks like a banshee about leaving nothing to chance, Elliot's girlish hackles rise, and I want the three of them to SHUT UP AND DIE. NOW.