It’s 6 days until my wedding and someone I met once in college a few years ago just messaged me and asked where the wedding is, because she and her boyfriend would like to come. I think I spoke with her once, and I’ve never met her boyfriend. What should I do?
Tell your moronic onetime lady-mate in no uncertain terms that her boyfriend is already attending your wedding. He's the groom. He's who you're marrying.
Inform her that you and he have been conducting innumerable steamy and illicit dalliances. For years. At first, the two of you had been ever so careful and clandestine. You'd both been determined to keep GF in the dark. For this friggin' femme-chump surely doesn't confine her blockheaded self-centred-ness to her habit of inviting herself to weddings. She's this oafish all the time. It's hideous!
In fact, the only reason that her BF, your fiancé, even got together with you in the first place, was that she routinely vrooms about town with BF in tow, spies out the wedding receptions of total strangers, and gatecrashes whichever she suspects rocks particularly superb cocktail selections, which despite their titillating title contain neither cock nor tail, and that's a gastronomic blunder you're sure-as-dagnabbit rectifying at your own imminent wedding.
Turns out you bartended at her latest conjugal target. In GF charges, into your wedding reception venue, hauling BF in her wake like she's the shark from Jaws and he's a harpoon-gun-barrel-doohickey dragging behind in a futile attempt to exhaust her. At the first opportune moment, BF slumps frazzled against your bar. He pours out his heart to you re his romantic woes.
Turns out he's a sweetheart! And a charmer! You two hit it off fast.
But alas: three minutes later, GF stomps up to you both, now swaying and gunked with vodka. She announces she's blowing this loser-joint, and let's go, BF! You discover to your astonishment that GF had just nabbed and guzzled all those 84 Black Russians you'd just spent the last six hours mixing and stacking into a 1-3-6-10-15-21-28 triangular pyramid, seven levels high. Seriously. 84 cocktail glasses. All drained. This friggin' harpy somehow downed the lot in three minutes without even unstacking them. In complete silence.
She guffaws at your perplexity, glances over your shoulder, freezes, and then damn near breaks the sound barrier charging for the exit, BF in tow. You're so astounded at not merely (1) GF's alcoholic sorceries, but rather more importantly, (2) BF's irresistible and delightful attractions, that you don't even notice the occasion's Bride now in Hot Pursuit and matching GF's sprint-y retreat velocities in six-inch heels. Bride is snarling and brandishing a vast novelty champagne bottle over her head like a gorgeous sledgehammer, attempting to brain this sinister boozy interloper like Bride is launching her like a ship. Hah. Good riddance. You and BF have been a secret Item ever since.
At first you'd both been ever so careful and clandestine, as mentioned prior. But you both discover pronto that GF, once sozzled on Black Russians, remains an oblivious moron. You two could and do hump directly in front of her, for hours, blocking her view of the telly, and all she'll do is loudly slur her scorn for Antiques Roadshow's latest Herculean efforts to win back elderly Somali lesbians, and she reckons she could scissor superior in her goddamn sleep. And occasionally? She actually does. Good lord. That's nine Sunday evenings you ain't getting back.
So yeah. Message your ex-college ex-friend exactly that, plus a PS: the only reason GF even knows about your wedding is that you and BF are horrific cheapskates, and together you'd reasoned he could save a few pennies on transport costs by getting her to drive him there. And if she's a Good Girl, and Follows Instructions, then maybe there'll be another 84 Black Russian cocktails, these sporting actual cocks and actual tail unlike some fraudsters you could mention, all mixed and waiting for her. Maybe.