Humpday Hate: Dearly Beloved, You Are *Such* Assholes.

It is not odd or foreign to be able to appreciate the beauty in sad things—the carcass of a rose bathed in moonlight on the pavement.  A final goodbye between old lovers.  The ever-present hunger of homelessness.

Wait, what?

It must be pretty cool to be rich, removed, and privileged enough to theme your wedding after something that was actually really effing terrible.  Isn’t that right, couple who had recently had a “Depression-era hobo” ceremony?

Seriously, wtf is wrong with people?  When is the first Auschwitz themed wedding?  Did we miss that one yet?  How’d that go?  Bride & groom arrive by railcar?  Guests forcibly separated and numbered at the entrance?  Emaciated wait staff?  Nuptials in a replica gas chamber?  Orphan tear cocktails?  OH, THAT’S JUST DARLING.

Like, I kind of know what you were going for here (I think?), but come on.  At least try to not be an asshole.  Call it something else.  Call it a 1930s rustic country wedding or something.  Depression hobo?!  Way to trivialize.  Hobos weren’t just caricatures; they were actual people with actual lives and LOTS of problems thanks to one of the toughest economic times in American history.  That dude on your cute little party favor?  He had a name.  Maybe it was Steve.  Why not have a Steve-themed wedding, with complimentary copies of Main Street, because Steve loved Sinclaire Lewis.  He fucking loved him.


And I’ll tell you what else.  If you ARE going to insist on and commit to being a pretentious jerk and having a “Depression hobo” wedding, go all in.  Be accurate.  Mini flasks of “moonshine” (depression induced alcoholism!  How quaint!) and bindle sticks are just lazy.  There are other things you could have done to lend authenticity, like:

  • Require that your guests arrive starving, then make them stand in a bread line for hours at the reception.
  • During the ceremony, stage a crazy-as-balls dust storm in the parking lot outside.  Do not stop until your guests’ cars are covered.
  • Don’t invite any black people.  You know, because segregation was still a thing.  Actually, it looks like ya’ll had that part down.
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Brokey McPoverty, aka Tracy Clayton, is a writer and humorist from Louisville, KY. You can find her writing at Uptown Magazine, ranting about hair at Natural Hair Problems, teaching the babies what The Man doesn’t want you to know at Little Known Black History Facts, and working endlessly to remind you that your favorite song probably sucks at Splackavellie Central. Oh, yeah. And on Twitter.

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