Everyone must have a go to toast in their back pocket…And if you’re a halfway decent bartender with any gumption at all then you’ll have at least two good ones in your repertoire ready to blast out at a moment’s notice.

The above toast is my go to and there’s only one half assed other I’ve used in the past at the restaurant…Let’s just say it went over with the lukewarm miasmatic appeal of a taco fart in church.

“Never was a fig plucker nor a fig plucker’s son, but I’ll pluck all the figs ’til the fig pluckens done.” Yeah, some crickets chirped after that one, even the super drunk people looked at me like dogs that had just heard a series of high pitched mysterious noises.

The origin of my favorite is from way back in the day, and came from the lips of my old dumb ass buddy Sano during my tenure growing up in the Green Mountain State. The stage: His big brother’s shotgun wedding at the Basin Harbor Club in Panton, Vermont. A choice joint overlooking majestic Lake Champlain. A gorgeous sparkling summer day. We were all under 20, and Adam was younger even than all of us. The dunce. The ding dong. A weed dealing red headed skate rat, a total ruffian already covered in cheap tattoos. He had graduated high school early and worked as a pizza cook at Mr. Mike’s Pizza in Burlington on the corner of Main and South Winooski Ave.

There we were, a rag tag bunch of kids decked out in ill fitting, cheap clothing, dirty sneakers, and thick wrinkled ties hanging around our scrawny necks. A procession of red rimmed, watery, bloodshot eyes. The unmistakable lingering aura of weed upon us, baked into the fibers of our clothing. The wedding crowd itself a mixed bag with the majority of the procession occupied by my friend’s future wife’s family, a bunch of serious looking ex-military type numbers…Lots of jar headed men with their faces locked into perpetual “turd caught sideways” grimaces as they scanned us on the other side–a mangy gathering of drunken pot smoking scoundrels.

The bachelor party had been a sordid affair in a barn in Ferrisburg. A keg and all the boys. I seem to recall two haggard strippers being escorted in by a tall freckled man with a giant silver 45 long barreled revolver on his hip. Yeah, a fucking hand cannon, a beacon telling us all there would be no shenanigans. A live band played all the hits and I seem to remember an old man, maybe someone’s step father, performing some sort of electric boogaloo like a gangly, ultra hammered marionette, the strings expertly manipulated by a smiling Dionysus himself.

The wedding itself wasn’t much different…Sans strippers…There was no wet bar but it didn’t stop any of us, even being underage. The other side of the family shot looks of disgruntled judgment…The approval rating of the whole matrimony between the two being quite low and all. You see, my buddy was marrying up and there was already a bun cooking in the oven, a big old bump underneath that white dress below the sparkling smile of his beautiful bride to be.

For weeks Sano had told us he had been preparing an eloquent speech for his big bro but as the date approached, he had grown more and more nervous at the prospect of speaking in front of a hundred people or so, and kept asking us more and more in the days leading up, “What should I say?” Yes, a tough prospect for the lad considering his hollow head was designed for other things like being a brilliant carpenter…An eventual future for the bright and future king…But at that point in his life, the hammer, nails, and saw of his destiny were far far away.

During the ceremony, Sano’s inevitable speech didn’t cross my mind at all, but then after all the rigmarole, after we all sat down and had food, and all the others did their speech thing, a particular fork rang upon a glass and Sano, in his purple velvet tuxedo, stood tall amidst the crowd of critical eyes to bestow his blessing. Ah, here it was, the moment when time halted, his chance to send his big brother onto the next chapter.

Now, if he had simply said, “Cyrus, Jill, I love you guys and hope you have a great life together,” it would have been sufficient, but no. He stood up, raised his glass, and said “Cyrus, Jill” (massive pause) “May all your ups and downs be between the sheets!” That was it. He raised his glass and smiled for the toast. To the left, his brother shook his head in a practiced movement somewhere between annoyance and deep love. We all erupted into a series of guffaws like drunken pirates deep into the rum cups at port. On the bride’s side there was only silence, a sea of disappointed faces carved from stone.

But, the winds of time smooth even the craggiest bluffs. As the day progressed, even the more conservative side had enough alcohol and prime rib in their collective digestive systems to perhaps emit a snicker or two at the ridiculousness of the whole odd cortege the young groom had mustered. At least he, the brand spanking new hubbie, had the sand to make an honest woman out of Jill. Once the initial steam of nervosa is let out of any such event, the outcome is often filled with genuine smiles and claps on the back. Sano was even welcomed into the fold. The little brother! He was just younger and stupider than any of us. A fool, yes, but one of pure idiocy with no malice attached. And alcohol, the great bringer together as well as the great divider, did its job in full force that fine day as the great socially lubricating substance which eventually turned the tide and brought the two sides together. Aye, Dionysus was happy that fine day and sent his blessings.

And all these years later…Jill and Cyrus are still together…A couple of fine boys and some serious good fortune. They’re doing quite fine for themselves. Sano? Well, he’s still that boy in the velvet tux.