Running With Scissors

We Will Always Have Vegas

For some people, marriage is an important, ritualistic milestone that everyone must go through, in which you pledge your life and love to another person until their biological functions begin to fail, resulting in death—immediately followed to a cascade of feces, as all deaths are.

Others, like Sarah McGuffin, see marriage as the equivalent of hitting yourself in the face with a brick every day and telling yourself you rather enjoy it—pointless and self-destructing. Both assessments are somewhat appropriate, with some caveats.

Philosophers have considered marriage as an institution linked to the feeling of love for ages, studying it from every possible angle, and thus have a few words to say about the whole affair: Avoid, if possible.

To them, marriage and love are illusions created by society to control and shackle human will, stripping them of every ounce of individuality until nothing is left but their ability to reproduce. We must note that almost all of the philosophers we have covered in our story lived rather isolated and loveless lives, so take their word with a pinch of salt. Unless you're member of the Slugerik race. In said case, avoid salt at all cost.

Kierkegaard asked for a woman's hand in marriage, only to immediately regret it, calling their engagement off shortly after. Schopenhauer, being the sourpuss he was, believed marriage was a tool for the fools, preferring to live as far away from human society as possible in general. Not even philosophy's power couple—Sartre and de Beauvoir—ever got married, staying in an open relationship through their whole lives.

The only exception to this phenomenon was Camus, who married twice in his lifetime. But we must also cast his opinion aside as he was an avid cheater and held no less than three girlfriends throughout several countries at all times. So maybe not do what Camus did.

But if you were to ask Peter Katz, marriage was a wonderful tool to use in a pinch. It had wonderful tax incentives, as well as having the added bonus of not having your spouse testify against you in a court of law—unless you're a bad husband. Remember: if you see something, say something!

Marriage also has one particular perk, one he intended to abuse to save his life.

"No," said Sarah. "I'm not into you. I'm not sorry about that."

"It was a rhetorical question,'' said Peter. "You have to marry me!"

"I don't have to do squat!" said Sarah. "Especially since I hate doing squats."

Peter grabbed her hand tightly, looking at her straight in the eyes. "Look, Conelly is the one promising my money to them. If we take it from him, then we get rid of the gaggle of weirdos outside the chapel."

"And how does marrying me help?" asked Sarah.

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience running thin. "Look, if you get married, your previous Will gets annulled automatically since you can't legally leave your spouse with anything less than half of your assets. Since he tricked me when he made me sign that Will, all we have to do is make it null and void."

The doors were pounding madly, supposedly by an external force, as doors don't tend to pound by themselves. Sarah took a deep breath, swallowing her pride with an audible gulp.

"Okay," whispered Sarah. "I'll marry you, under one condition."

"Name it," said Peter.

"You have to take my last name,'' said Sarah. "I'm not going to get stuck with the name Katz for the rest of my life."

"You do know we're gonna get a divorce after this, right?" said Peter. "And even if we don't, you can still keep your name."

"Mr. Katz, I promised my father that if I ever got married, I would make my husband take my name," said Sarah, crossing her arms. "Since this is the only time I plan to get married, let's make it count."