(Note: This column originally was published in Brides magazine. Photos are from the actual wedding.)

When Holly and Jason asked me to be in their wedding, I immediately said yes. Then they asked if I would perform the ceremony.

“Is it legal?”

“It is,” Holly said.

“I’m in.”

I am not a priest. I am not a judge. I am not a ship captain, although I often wear short-sleeve dress shirts with gold stripes on the shoulder boards. But with a little paper wrangling and oath-swearing I could legally marry two amazing friends.

The truth is, I would have done it if it was illegal. I would have done it if the wedding took place on the moon. How often do you get a chance like this? I would get to fulfill my lifelong dream of being a priest and a judge and a captain of a cruise ship that’s home to romantic and comedic adventures. Father O’Malley Stubing, I would call myself.

To officiate a wedding in California you must go to the county clerk’s office, sign a few papers, pay a fee and swear an oath. Picture this scene. A man – me – stands at the front desk in a government office. Two feet to the left of this man – still me – is a line of people waiting to file property transactions. A woman – not me – asks this man – now it’s me again – to raise his right hand and repeat after her. “I swear to support and defend the Constitution of the United States and the Constitution of the State of California against all enemies, foreign and domestic.”

I discovered that when you officiate a wedding ceremony in Orange County, California, you are a representative of the government. If King George III’s band of redcoats marched down Interstate 5 during the reception, it would be up to me to grab my musket and organize a proper defense – probably behind the conga line.

When I had completed the paperwork and sworn the oath, I was designated a “Deputy Commissioner of Marriage.” I was given authority to marry Holly and Jason within county lines on a specified date, provided I did not receive compensation. As far as the state of California was concerned, the wedding was nice and legal. What’s more, a certain General Cornwallis would think twice before crashing the reception.

Among Holly and Jason’s friends, I was uniquely qualified to perform the ceremony. I am a writer. I perform improvisational and sketch comedy. I spent eight years earning baseball card money as an altar boy serving Catholic wedding masses. Also, my parents have always wanted one of their sons to become a priest. In a way, this was Holly and Jason’s big day. But in an even bigger way, this was my parents’ big day.

(Above: Mike and Carlos, of The Second Column podcast fame, think about what an awesome job I did officiating the ceremony.)

I met with Holly and Jason a few months before their wedding. They selected friends and family to perform readings and play music. They would write their own vows. The rest they would leave to me. They wanted to be a little surprised on their wedding day—a day they had been planning meticulously for more than a year.

I thought that was romantic.

I have always been dismayed by the banal nature of wedding homilies. It’s such a wasted opportunity to share the story of the couple. Your guests will include bored spouses, cousins who aren’t sure how they’re related to you and your parents’ friends who have been invited because they invited your parents to a wedding in 1986. Sharing the story of the relationship gives everyone a sense of ownership. If your goal is to make the guests feel like they are part of the celebration, let them know in detail why they’re there.

Holly and Jason were standing at the altar because they were strong enough to make a long distance Chicago–LA relationship work. The 100-plus guests seated in the brick courtyard laughed and shed a few tears as I told them about the day Jason proposed to Holly near the ocean at Dana Point, the magical role that tequila played the night they met and Holly’s belief that real love isn’t chocolates and diamonds; it’s when your boyfriend hands you flowers and a cold Diet Coke after you’ve just stepped off a 16-hour flight from Asia.

(Above: The wedding ceremony took place in black and white. The bride insisted.)

After the vows and rings were exchanged, I was ready to say the words the county clerk’s office had empowered me to say: “By the authority vested in me by the state of California, county of Orange, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Holly and Jason were happy with the ceremony and the family and friends – many of whom questioned the lack of clergy – came around. Any of my own small doubts were erased when Jason’s grandmother put her arm around me and thanked “the priest” by buying me several whiskey shots at the bar.

I guess you could call that compensation, but not a single Hessian mercenary laid a single dirty finger on the Constitution that day. I say we call it even.

(To hear Sean, Mike, Carlos, comedian Jeff Sloniker and me talk about this column on The Second Column podcast on iTunes, click here.)

I think I used to work here.

This week my brother Tom has guest-written The Joe Donatelli Column. From time to time I lend the column to loyal readers and people I share a mom with. This is a good one. - Joe

Something worth blogging about
By TOM DONATELLI

I had a day recently that should set the standard for what the average person’s daily blog should consist of at the very least.

Writing a MySpace blog about taking your dog to the vet and finding out he has worms (the dog, not the vet)? BORING. Or writing about sitting in 45 minutes of traffic to get to a menial job and then argue about American Idol finalists? BORING. Or admitting to accidentally wearing two different colored socks yet having nobody notice? BORING and a little sad.

Bloggers, use this as your benchmark. If your story is as good as this one, blog your brains out.

I was driving to work (running late thanks to the tasty breakfast I made myself, tuna salad sandwich on whole wheat – a Joe Donatelli special) when I got a phone call from my co-worker Kacie. Kacie is not her real name. Her real name is spelled differently. Kacie told me that there was no power in our entire office complex and I should hold off on coming in because it sounds like the boss is going to let us all go home for the day.

I pulled into a parking lot overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Venice Beach to wait and - if I’m lucky - maybe see a homeless guy fight a seagull for a leftover In-N-Out Burger. I’m lucky today, but not that lucky. I got the official call. No work. Yes, that is correct. I got a snow day in Southern California! Take that, Mayfield City Schools!

(Above: Typical June day in Mayfield Hts., Ohio.)

What to do now? After calling my girlfriend, Pamela Anderson, (again not her real name, but makes the story sound much cooler) I rub it in her face that she has to work while I get to have a free day of no responsibility. Taunting loved ones makes life taste so much sweeter! It’s like adding sugar AND honey to already sweetened iced-tea, and drinking that with straws made from Pixy Stix.

In situations like these, I like to seek counsel with one of the few people I trust in this world. He has been with me through the awkward stages of life and the mildly less awkward stages of life. He is my best friend and knows all of my dirty secrets without judging me. He is my 12-Year-old Self. I am a man of 30 years, but today 12-Year-Old-Self is in charge.

Twelve-Year-Old Self said, “Play video games for 3 hours.” So I did. Twelve-Year-Old Self said, “Go look at old Playboys in the bathroom.” So I did. Twelve-Year-Old Self said, “These pants are annoying. Leave them in a crumpled pile on the floor.” So I did. Twelve-Year-Old Self said, “Go for a bike ride at the beach.” So I did. Twelve-Year-Old Self said, “Eat cold pizza for lunch.” So I did.

Like most 12-year-olds though, you get tired of them after awhile. So I sent him away right around the time I heard a FIRE alarm going off somewhere in my building. This happened at exactly 2:38 PM. I know this because that was the same time I paused the Brett Favre retirement news conference on NFL Network. Thank you, DirecTV with DVR! You are the reason I wake up in the morning. You are the reason I obey laws and stay out of jail. You are the reason I got up to find the source of the fire alarm. I wanted to protect you from danger.

I heard the fire alarm and looked out my balcony to see my neighbor’s kitchen on fire. From where I was standing I could see flames on her stovetop. I yelled to see if she was in the apartment. She was. (She was on the phone with 911.)

Outside my apartment is a fire hose and fire extinguisher behind one of those windows that reads, “In Case of Emergency Break Glass.”

I assessed that this was indeed an emergency and required some glass breaking. “Wow, my big movie moment chance to finally break some glass.” I used my elbow and gave it solid a whack.

Nothing.

I could hear my 12-Year-Old Self laughing at me from inside my apartment. I took a second, harder swing that would have made Jean Claude Van Damme damn proud. I grabbed the extinguisher, ran to my neighbor’s apartment and told her to stand back. I actually said the words, “Stand back.”

I extinguished the fire.

Greatest living American hero? That title might be a bit much, but thank you. Greatest living American hero on March 6th, 2008 at 2:39 PM in Marina Del Rey, Calif.? Highly accurate.

(Above: What the world might look like right now had Tom not put out that fire.)

Building maintenance arrived and helped my neighbor take care of whatever non-heroic deeds were left to handle.

How does one celebrate saving a $30 million apartment complex and
hundreds of lives from certain catastrophic annihilation? By taking the sweetest nap of one’s life, resting comfortably under the blanket of protection which I myself unfolded. That blanket smells like Snuggle Bear.

After waking, I enjoyed the rest of my day by umpiring a Little League baseball game, eating dinner with my girlfriend. Pam Anderson made fajitas, fresh guacamole and black beans. We watched LOST together and afterwards Pam fell asleep on me.

The perfect ending…

(Twelve-Year-Old Self whispered in my ear, “Touch her boobs.” So I did.)

…to the perfect day.

(To hear Sean, Mike, Carlos and Joe talk about Tommy’s column on The Second Column podcast on iTunes, click here.)

My buddy Scot - creator of the Bargain Bin Review - breaks them down here.

This web site is hilarious. So true.