Friends, family, thank you all so much for joining Monica and me here today for our special day. I’m not the best speechmaker, and so will try to keep this short and sweet. Hey, the hard part’s over, right? I’m so happy to have found you, Monica. This really is the fourth-greatest day of my life.

I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but I’ve been lucky enough to have had a few pretty awesome days up until this one. Take my 21st birthday, for example. It’s five in the morning and I’m wandering around the Luxor in Vegas by myself after having gotten booted from Crazy Horse Too. On a drunken whim — and I was very, very, very drunk — I decide to pull out every last dollar and cent I have on me, which was my rent money, by the way, and place it on the Roulette table. Twenty-one black! Can you believe it? A little irresponsible on my part, but good God, did I win a crap-load of money! That was a pretty fine day, people. Third-best.

Now, not to bring the mood down or upset you, Monica, but I should probably also tell everyone about the time I almost died. Almost…had it not been the second-greatest day of my life! I was walking around downtown San Francisco, completely lost, looking for this massage parlor a friend had recommended to me in Chinatown. I’d only been to Chinatown a couple times, and the way he described the “service” at this particular parlor, well, I had to find this place. Anyway, so I stop this old Mexican dude, and I’m like, “Hey, hombre. Donde esta el Chinatown?” Unbeknownst to me, or this other poor bastard, a window washer’s scaffolding had broken off twenty stories directly above where we stood. Well, obviously it missed me! And I was able to get enough information out of him before he was crushed to find the massage parlor! Bonus! Talk about a happy ending.

So you might be thinking, “that had to be the greatest day of his life; what could be greater than that?” Nope. Second-greatest, folks. Second. The greatest day of my life was when I went skydiving in the Mojave Desert. That might sound fairly unremarkable to those who haven’t done it, but seriously, what a rush.

So now, before everyone here today, I proclaim proudly and without hesitation that this is by far the fourth-greatest day of my life. Yes, sir, I’m a lucky man. Not the luckiest — that would be ridiculous to suggest. People who win the lottery are generally a lot luckier than I am, if you want to split hairs about it. I mean, the odds of a guy like me finding someone as wonderful as Monica are pretty slim. But that’s nothing, and I mean NOTHING, in comparison to the odds of winning the freaking lottery. It’s something like one in 18,000,000, right? No damn way that’s happening in my lifetime. Me and Monica, though? Probably one in 150 or 160.

Speaking of whom, can you guys believe how beautiful she looks today? Way better than anybody else in attendance, for sure. I can honestly say, Monica, that I love you more than anything else in the world I have loved up to this point. There could be other things down the line I end up really enjoying or getting a kick out of, but for right now, in this moment, the highest share of my affection is reserved for you. Imagine a pie chart of the things I love — you are the largest portion of that chart. You are nearly my everything.

Sorry about the food, by the way. I know it sucks. I mean…cold soup?! It’s actually supposed to be cold? What gives? Not my idea, for the record. I won’t say whose, but not mine.

I’ll bring this to a close with a little story about the time I met Monica. It was at a company Christmas party a few years ago. Admittedly, I was a little blitzed. Like, the-bartender-had-wrestled-my-car-keys-away-from-me blitzed. At the time, Monica was working for a catering company, and as luck would have it — not like lottery luck, but pretty good luck, for sure — Monica was working our party! She looked smokin’ hot in her uniform. Anyway, she didn’t take too kindly to the kinds of advances I was making and told me I should sober up. I think I may have been on blow, too. Was I, honey? Well, long story short, the truly caring person we all know Monica to be ended up giving me a ride home that night — even walked me, a total stranger, to the door! The only thing she could have done to top that was come inside and make sure I was OK, which, in hindsight, she probably should have done, as I had pretty bad alcohol poisoning and probably should have gone to the hospital to get my stomach pumped. Which, take it from me, is no fun, for the record.

Anyway, I’ve been up on this mic long enough. Let me just say, I love you, Monic — hey, anyone see where she went? Probably the bathroom. She’s got Irritable Bowel Syndrome for those of you who don’t know. Don’t say anything, though. She’s sensitive about it.

Thanks, everyone. Enjoy!