I, Tom, take thee Katie, in the presence of our friends and family, including that couple standing in for your parents, and the almighty Xenu, to be my friend, my lover, the mother of my children and my wife.
I vow to love you so much, like a love that’s just, wow, serious love. Yeah! Like a climb on top of this altar, back-flip kind of love!
Oh, right, sorry, not that I would do that, as I also vow to “dial it back,” as you say, and, although I don’t personally see it, to “stop scaring people.”
To have and to hold you, in public, but no more than six times per week, and not by a vice-like neck squeeze or extended bear hug that, yes, would be more appropriate from a bounty hunter, and for which I’ve apologized, like, a hundred times.
To be your faithful partner in sickness and non-chemically-enhanced health, which is not just the same as sickness, no matter what anyone says.
For richer or poorer, but not richer than the amount clearly spelled out in paragraphs six through eight of the agreement, with options to vest after year ten.
To support you in your goals, personal and professional, including any Dawson’s Creek reunion special, but only if the script calls for Joey Potter to return to spread the gospel of L. Ron Hubbard, which, I think we both now agree, was a glaring omission in the series’ five year run.
To encourage and gently instruct one another in all new endeavors and activities, including, for example, at childbirth, where one of us might have forgotten about the “no talking” rule and, definitely, the “no swearing” rule.
To get to know you as a woman, as my wife and, fingers crossed, as an Operating Thetan VIII.
And to be together, from this day forward, for all eternity, under the eye, the all-watchful eye, which will always be watching, watching you, and I, together, all eternity, watching.
I Katie, take thee Tom, in the presence of our friends and your family, God, and, uh, that Xenu guy, to be my husband, my constant friend, my faithful partner and my primary handler from this day forward.
I vow to love and stand by you, and, as agreed, at all major premiers and award shows, and various other media engagements, but definitely not on Oprah, which has sort of a scene-of-the-crime feel now.
To be there for you in sickness and in health. And also, apparently, in recurring soul-crushing bouts of untreated depression.
For richer or poorer, but, regardless, paragraph seven and those options are fully binding and non-negotiable.
To be your companion and mate, but not your co-star in some poorly conceived romantic-comedy, because look how well that turned out for Ben and J. Lo, and I’m still young and viable in this industry, so forget that.
To encourage and gently instruct one another in all new endeavors and activities, including at, say, a Washington Redskins game, where one of us might have forgotten that in football it’s not called a three-point shot, and definitely to stop shouting “and one” throughout the game, because that got really embarrassing, especially since one of us was in a football movie, like, thirty years ago.
To grow together on our journey, and to really try hard for OT VIII, but, I’m not making any promises since you know how bad I am at tests and just getting to OT II took, like, a whole year.
And to stay with you, ’til death do us part. But, to be clear, not in that thetan way. You know, where you continue to live beyond the death of the body for millions of years. Because I have NOT signed on for that.
No matter what that eye thing sees.
