A friend of mine whom I’ll name Randy called me up to tell me he was
getting married. The bride’s parents were rich. The wedding would be
held in the back yard at their country estate. It was a small house
to them, a mansion to anyone else.
“I wanted you to be my best man — or woman in this case,” Randy
explained. “But Missy wouldn’t go for it. All I could convince her
was for you to be a grooms man. I mean grooms woman.”
“You’re so whooped,” I replied. “I would have loved being the best
woman but I will settle for grooms woman. I hope Missy is worth it.
Do I get a tux?” 
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