Last week, the fiancé and I realized that it was close enough to D-day that we should get our marriage license. Happy that one more thing could be squared away, we decided to head to the County Clerk for some good ol’ fashioned Kentucky fun.

See, the county clerk here is not what northerners would think. It isn’t merely a brown brick building or shoebox in a suburban strip mall. Nope. It’s actually a fake looking courthouse, complete with dirt yard, roaming swine and gun racks. They have a security guard that sits in a rocking chair, with a 12-guage in his left hand and a large straw hat. The day we visited, though, this fine gentleman did not have the requisite piece of straw hanging out of his mouth. But he did have all of his teeth, and an admittedly wicked Fu Manchu.

So anway…we parked on the front lawn next to the other pickups with hoods emblazened in rebel flags, and made our ways past the farm animals. We stepped inside, took a number and sat amongst the other locals. Eventually we were able to get our hands on the proper form, along with another couple there seeking the same. However, as she got up and left me on the totally comfortable wooden bench, a woman next to me leans over and says “are you all getting married?”

“Yes ma’am,” I replied.

“Oh congratulations!”

As I extended my thanks, this old geezer says, “wait…you gettin’ married to the blonde or the brunette?”

“The brunette,” I said motioning in the general direction of the front counter.

“The blonde in the blue?”

“No, the brunette. Pink shirt.”

“The blonde AND the brunette!?!”

“What? No,” I replied, now frustrated, “I’m pretty sure that’s not legal, even in this state, sir.” I politely got up and walked towards one of my two future brides before I got mistaken for also being engaged to the Indian guy in the corner.

For those that have never filled out this form, it’s nothing fancy. In fact, I would wager to guess that the original copy was done on an original Merrit typewriter and simply Xeroxed since 1929. The questions are cut and dry…name…date of birth…rank. Now, I did contemplate putting something totally wicked in the rank column…like Imperial Czar or Lord Dictator. But she wouldn’t let me. Guess I’ll save that for my next driver’s license.

Anyway, after swatting flies for the next hour and trying not to pet the dogs that kept wandering in and out, we got our big moment in the spotlight. Thankfully we were blessed with the very woman who holds the title of “World’s Slowest Typer.” Good thing, too, ‘cuz we sure weren’t tired of being there. Anything to prolong the experience was a Godsend.

As the Worlds Slowest Typer (TWST) proceeded to ask us the same questions that were pre-filled on the paper we had handed her, we quickly learned that we had indeed won the lottery. Not only were we privy to witnessing her impressive typing skills, but her sense of humor was uncontrollable. A regular riot. So as hour number four rolled around, we got to the section about number of previous marriages…well cue TWST’s biting humor: “Right hur I’ll put that yous had 21 prevyous marragez! ” Hilarious. We all had a good fake laugh. And then TWST asked us the winning question that I had waited my entire life to hear: “Are yous all reelated? Brother and sister at all?” “Uh, no,” we replied. The fiance shot me a glance, as my mouth surely was agape at what I had just been asked. “They have to ask that, I’m sure.” As if hearing the collective voices of every friend that has mocked me for moving to Kentucky, I simply replied, “Yea. You’re right. I do live in Kentucky, where I suppose this is commonplace. Sure.”

Thankfully we made it through to the final stage, which is proofing our actual marriage certificate. As the fiancé and I comparatively scanned the columns of data, suddenly her breath came up short. Just as my eyes locked on the sixth row (my information) I saw it. At first I thought TWST had simply gotten my age wrong. No. She had gotten it right for the fiancé. Indeed, I must have looked like the native Kentuckian in the relationship.

For a shining 10 minutes, I officially (in the eyes of the Kentucky government) had been married 19 previous times. Nineteen. I bit my cheek, deciding not to ask for a copy of the document so as to send to all of my friends for another ten years of comedy material.

As we strolled out of the clerk’s office, out past the goats and onto the dusty road, the sun was just setting. I knew, right then, that I was home. Home in Kentucky. Sweet Kentucky. At that moment, I could swear I heard Dualing Banjos playing somewhere off in the distance…

Ok, so the part about the physical office was pure BS…but I really, truly did have the honor of being accused of impending polygomy, asked if I was related to my future wife, and legally married almost twenty times. All in one day.

I love this state.