I'm recording the events of this weekend for posterity. I think Brett could someday write a best-selling book about his DJ experiences.
Take a moment to imagine the scene:
Mild spring sunshine filters through the trees into the wedding garden. A crisply whitewashed gazebo awaits the arrival of the happy bride and groom. Guests have begun to arrive and find their seats on white folding chairs festooned with bunting. Family members, ushers, and bridesmaids gather behind the scenes, anxious to receive their last-minute instructions.
The minister, a very round woman in her early forties, arrives on the scene just moments before the ceremony is scheduled to begin. Our hero, the brave and intrepid DJ, approaches the portly minister with the lapel microphone which she will be wearing for the occasion. He quickly briefs her on the operation of the mic and suggests she clip the small receiver-box somewhere inconspicuous. She chooses the elastic waistband of her ample skirt.
Alas, the weight of the small box is too much for the elastic to hold. The receiver crashes to the cement below. Without thinking, the minister opens her mouth and and cries, "OH F***!!"
Mouths gape. Heads turn. The elderly wince and adults scramble to cover children's' ears. The minister looks up and says, "I probably shouldn't have said that. I, uh, I am the minister after all." Twenty heads with mouths agape nod their silent agreement.
Brett retrieves his lapel mic from the ground near the minister's feet. With utmost professionalism, he says, "That didn't seem to work so well. It might work better to have it clipped to your bra."
Completely unfazed, the minister replies, "I'm not wearing one."