Welcome to the New Yorker Radio Hour. I'm David Remnick. The trees are all in leaf, and the birds are singing. May is right around the corner, and that music can only mean one thing.

Mr. and Mrs. Prescott invite you to travel an uncomfortable distance to drink alcohol they have paid for in honor of their daughter Willoughby, Ashley Sarah Prescott's marriage to Jared Elliott Weiner on the one summer weekend you didn't think you had a wedding to attend this year.

The ceremony will be officiated by a damp nostriled

minister and a plump female rabbi whom the bride's grandfather will call a lesbian in a bad try

at a whisper. The bride and groom are writing their own vows and will make them even more generic

than the traditional ones.

The ceremony will start late and be completely inaudible to anyone beyond the first row.

Afterward, please help us welcome Mr. Weiner and Ms. Prescott to their new life of wedded bliss,

which will be made possible by the fact that Ms. Prescott is not taking the name Weiner.

The senior Prescott's and Weeners will address this point of contention while making

humorless, borderline insulting toasts about each other's children.

Attempts at dancing will follow.

The bride and groom have registered at crate and barrel for cornholders, egg cups,

those little stirs that are used only for mint juleps, a pizza stone,

and 38 slightly different spatulas.

Every item on the registry will either be too inexpensive to be a sufficient gift in

itself or cost more than $200 for a goddamn pizza stone.

RSVP using the tiny card that is wedged somewhere between the fourth and seventh layers of tissue

paper on this invitation.

If you attend, you will be seated with a grad school roommate, it is unclear whose,

and someone you met at the bride's 16th birthday party.

She threw up at that and she'll throw up at this.

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