Hell Hath No Fury

Jennifer Wilbanks, Georgia Peach and Bride-At-Large, is headed for a witch’s cauldron of trouble. Now that she has ‘fessed up to her cold-feet-induced self-kidnapping stunt, she will probably face charges for instigating the waste of taxpayer money spent on the bridehunt. That’s the least of her problems. She should plead for the safety of incarceration in the Georgia prison system, because she has been sloppy-kissed with the smooch of death.

Never mind her beau. Knowing that his betrothed abducted herself to avoid marrying his sorry ass, that fella is reduced to a quivering mound of gelatinous pus. He’ll be squatting to pee for years to come.

She needs to worry about the Posse. Fourteen angry bridesmaids.

It’s insult enough to get drafted as a bridesmaid. That means you meet the universal criteria: you are fatter and/or uglier than the bride is, preferably both. Any professionally embalmed bride glows with comparative beauty when framed in a backdrop of nasty lookin’ fat chicks. But then you have to lay out several hundred bucks for a lime green chiffon dress that makes you look like a one-woman Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Added insurance for the bride, just in case your acne clears up overnight. The only consolation is the potential for a VFW Hall restroom quickie with a blind-drunk groomsman at the reception. What happens in this toilet stays in this toilet.

Jennifer needs the Witness Protection Program more than Sammy the Bull and Joe Valacci ever needed it. La Cosa Nostra revenge is child’s play compared to the wrath of fourteen angry, ugly fat broads with 80 acres of nonreturnable chiffon.