If you're getting married in Jacksonville, FL, and have heard about the beautiful beach-side weddings available through the MWR and the Officer's Club, allow me to warn you away before your very special day is obliterated by dick-swinging, incompetence, inflamed egos, no guests at your wedding, and tears.
My sister-in-law called YodaMan a year and a half ago to announce her long-time boyfriend had proposed. They'd set the wedding for June of this year. We didn't understand why the hell she was waiting a fucking year and a half to get married, but it turns out everyone and their maid of honor wants to get married at NS Mayport. The waiting list is that long.
Having seen how they work, I do not understand why.
YodaMan sponsored my SIL and her fiance so they could have a bit more freedom (and a discount). She purchased a permit so she could access the base without jumping through extra hoops every time she had an appointment or -and this is important- get access to the O club early on the day of the wedding. She paid for an extra security guard to stand at the gate specifically to cover the wedding party's size. She checked and double-checked with the MWR coordinator for weddings to make sure there would be no hiccups.
Here's where shit went south: she didn't take note the nature of a Navy base and, which is often full of suck and cock, especially when you're a civilian who's poured good money into the sailors' MWR fund.
First the coordinator went on vacay the week of SIL's wedding and left her Number One (henceforth referred to as Number Two because of the way that fucking cuntnugget acted). Second, the head of the gate security munches crunchy asshole for breakfast and shits the remains on anyone who comes through his pearly white jizz-stained gate.
Can you tell these two fuckbuckets pissed me off? And trust me when I say Someone Will Get a Letter, probably the base CO.
We show up the day before the wedding, prepared to do the rehearsal with the wedding party, the wedding coordinator, and the photographer, as agreed in writing with the MWR coordinator. SIL even had printed e-mails with all this information because she's very organized and likes to have all ducks ordered and beribboned. She was in the lead car and arrived first at the front gate. My MIL was in the lane behind her. YodaMan and I chose a different lane and were a few cars from entry when we got a frantic phone call from SIL.
The guard told my SIL the he wasn't about to waste his time checking in everyone in the wedding party. He said he never received shitballs for a list from the MWR coordinator, and her wedding rehearsal would have to take place somewhere else. Then he said he would turn away every. Fucking. Wedding. Attendee the next day if they arrived before the appointed wedding time, and she should just prepare for the onslaught.
I am, of course exaggerating the delivery. I am not exaggerating the content of his message. I am also not exaggerating the tone and utter lack of professionalism.
My SIL pulled up, as she had that delicious tag she'd bought, and freaked out. YodaMan told her to stand by, pull ahead out of the way, and we'd take care of it. Then the phone rang again. We were one car from entry at this point. It was his mom.
The shit stain of a Napoleonic weenis-swinging taint muncher had the nerve to insult my MIL and, though my MIL afterward declared she couldn't remember what he said (I think this was an attempt to smooth the waves kicked up in this whole fucking brouhaha), apparently told her he didn't "give a shit" - he wasn't letting anyone else in the wedding party on the base.
And, there you go, he started turning people around and telling them to get the fuck out.
By the time we made it to the gate, DH was confused and not a little upset. He explained to the guard (a different dude than the Sir Weenis of Buggeryfuck, who btw is a motherfucking civilian loaf of asscheese) who we were, that he'd heard there was an issue, and that he wanted to help resolve it.
Our guard, a sailor, acted like he'd seen this song and dance before* and pulled out a list of guests. He showed us they had it, and he assured us there was no problem. Then Sir Weenis headed our way, gave the sailor a look of clear displeasure, and proceeded to start a tussle with YodaMan. It ended with the directive that YodaMan would have to check in the wedding party...by driving up fifty feet, parking on the side of the road, and marking down all the guests after they'd already been let onto base.
Does this make sense to you? Me neither. After all, what the fuck is the gate guard's fucking job if not to vet all entrants and help ensure the security of the base?
One thing YodaMan is good at is politics. He comes from a long line of politicians. He did his best to accommodate the bullshit, for his sister's sake. But after he heard what was said to his mom, and after he was treated like a furry ballsack by Sir Weenis, he decided he was going to speak to the security office. He'd served in Afghanistan with a guy who, last he'd heard, was senior cheese in security at Mayport. Alas, the guy left two weeks prior to this incident.
So when he went into the office to find out what the ever sucking fuck had happened, behold his surprise at finding Sir Weenis in charge.
That. Civilian. Piece of shit. Motherfucker. Is. In. Charge.
Sir Weenis explained nothing to YodaMan, only repeated his threats that tomorrow would be holy hell for SIL. Then, because YodaMan had the audacity to enter his domain in search of explanation (at least and punishment at best), he explained in a very clearly not-so-veiled threat that he'd make sure he was the one manning the official wedding lane. He'd be watching for the early arrivals (which, sayeth he, cannot happen, and fuck your expensive wedding), he'd be watching for guests, and he'd make sure guests could only enter the gate at 3pm. In other words, at the time the invitation said the wedding would start. In other words, folks who arrived at 2:40 in order to make sure they were parked in seat for a 3pm wedding would not even be allowed to approach the High Holy Gate of Mayport-Style Penisry until 3pm. Also, wedding party, baker, photographer, wedding coordinator, etc. would not be allowed entry until 3pm.
YodaMan had gotten the name and number of Number Two, by the way, and during this exchange, he told Sir Weenis that the agreed and contracted schedule and entry and yadda had the approval of Number Two. SIL even spoke to Number Two to ensure all was right with the world.
Number Two told Sir Weenis she had no idea what they were talking about, and he should deny entry to the wedding party and early arrivals if he so chose. Oh, yes she did.
YodaMan also made the point that SIL had paid for another gate guard to be there, and Sir Weenis informed YodaMan that it meant nothing. It was his gate, and all would suffer his wrath.
Keep in mind there are time limits on the rental. We would be kicked out at a certain point, and the timing was critical enough that SIL had even scheduled the reception down to the minute in order to ensure things went smoothly and on MWR's schedule.
I assume the man has crabs, boils on his asshole, a screaming yeast infection in his peenhole, a bladder infection, and a mutant Amazonian wart-covered poison arrow frog/piranha hybrid living in his colon. Nothing else explains why he had such a hard-on for making this wedding miserable**.
So now we had the story from the fuckmunch's mouth. He intended to make her wedding start late, her to ensure her wedding party was unable to access the base until the wedding started, and to evoke as much angst and stress as he could.
The next day, YodaMan showed up in his fucking uniform to make sure he could do whatever task was required of him by Sir Weenis of Let Me Stick My Metaphorical Undersized Cock In Your Puckered Brown Star and I Promise You Won't Feel It Because Have I Mentioned It's Quite Wee. Drama ensued. There were tears. There was angst. And Number Two, who changed her mind about rolling on SIL at some point between meeting with MIL and meeting with YodaMan, ended up standing at the gate to ensure Sir Weenis did not fuck over this wedding.
When she left, the head chef, who was then in charge, let us know that this happens Every. Fucking. Weekend.
You read that right. This. This clusterfuck. This was how shit rolled. And the chef let us know it was always Sir Weenis at the ready to make everyone's lives a living fucking hell for the duration of their pre-wedding.
Needless to say, I was furious. As a side note, I was also furious with the wedding photographer after she was rude, presumptive, and generally unprofessional. Allow me to recommend you *not* employ a Jacksonville photographer with the business initials of AMP***. She was rude to me personally, was rude to my MIL, did not even fucking ask me or YodaMan before she took my younger sprog outside with a cupcake to photograph him (and meanwhile, I'm all OH FUCK WHERE IS YOUNGER SPROG?!), and has not yet produced a photo album or the ability to order photos though it has now been close to three months since the wedding. End side note.
I will be writing a letter to someone at NS Mayport. I'm not yet sure whom I will contact, but I guaran-fucking-tee someone will feel the wrath. After all:
- People pay into the MWR fund to use Mayport's facilities. They have contracts. And they are regularly fucked over for that pleasure. They are supporting the morale of our sailors, and yet they are shit on .
- What the FUCK is a menthol-coated porn star's codpiece like Sir Weenis doing heading up gate security? Why the fuck is a civilian given that much power and leeway, especially when he is known to abuse that power and leeway?
- How the fuck does this treatment help the public's perception of the military? There's already a chasm between civilian and military that would be bottomless but for the piles of excrement that will cushion your fall. Why pull shit like this that only adds to the distance, near-resentment, and lack of empathy the civilian world often feels toward the military world?
I think MWR rocks. I love it. But I don't think it's right that sailors' happiness and fun-time is funded by this kind of assmunchery.
And because it's fun to say: Sir Weenis is a douche canoe.
*Probably because he had.
**Though I did wonder at some point if this is his hobby, considering. If I could speak to the man again, I'd recommend he take up some self-love with oil-based lube, as well as yoga so he can learn enough flexibility to self-fellate.
***E-mail me if you have someone with these initials in mind, especially if the first name is Alex, and I will offer a personal warning with further details so you can decide on your own whether her lack of professionalism jives with your desperation for a half-decent photographer.