As the ceremony begins, Michael and Jim's brothers and Dwight exchange signals. The organ stops, a radio starts, and suddenly the wedding turns into that obnoxious YouTube video. You know the one, with the wedding party dancing up the aisle. Pam's sister apologizes to Pam, saying she begged them not to, but Pam tells her to go ahead and take her turn. Yes, Pam is cool with it. And it proceeds from there. Except that as the song plays, and the Scrantonites dance up the aisle together in twos and threes (Andy with a walker, and Dwight doing a high kick that connects with Isabel's face), there are clips of Jim and Pam boarding the Maid of the Mist, the boat that goes out to the falls so tourists can see them close up and also get spattered with them. Out near the falls, they take off their provided rain ponchos and tap on the door of the pilothouse, and the captain marries them right there on deck. And then I guess they had enough time to get dried off and cleaned up before coming back for the official ceremony.
Afterward, Jim says, "I bought those boat tickets the day I saw that YouTube video. I knew we'd need a backup plan." Wise man. "The boat was actually plan C, the church was plan B, and plan A was marrying her a long, long time ago. Pretty much the day I met her." They look out over the falls, wet, bedraggled, and thoroughly happy. The end.
Except the tag. Kevin walks back to the vending machine room, telling us what a great time he had and how he got six numbers. "One more would have been a complete telephone number," he says excitedly. He adds that his Kleenex shoes were a big hit, but now his feet are so sore that he sticks them in the ice machine and swishes them around. How's that for a safety issue, Mr. Hotel Manager? And as if this weren't horrifying enough, the camera pans up the hall, to where Pam's mom is inviting Michael into her hotel room. Oh, Pam just got a whole new nightmare and she doesn't even know it yet.
Wow, can you believe I got through this whole weecap without once using the word "bridezilla?" Oh, shit.
M. Giant is a Minneapolis-based writer with a wife, a son, and a number of cats that seems to have settled at around two. Learn waaaay too much about him at Velcrometer, follow him on Twitter , or just e-mail him at m.giant[at]gmail.com.