The other day, I started thinking about the years ahead. I expect the future to bring great things. I’m talking teleportation, smellevision, and maybe even something better than Facebook. Also in the future, I want to have a wedding. That’s crucial.

Let’s be honest here. Cake, dancing, and presents? It’s like my Bar Mitzvah, except I won’t have to memorize Torah. I got really excited about weddings. So I settled down with a pint of ice cream and watched “Wedding Crashers,” living vicariously through Owen and Vince as they ran amok, seducing women as the champagne flowed freely.

Ha-ha! Yeah right! Perhaps if this were the puny A&E section I would have merely “watched” a movie and told you all how amusing it was. But we Features writers are Spartan warriors. I shed the identity of Zach Wener-Fligner, Messenger journalist. I was Owen Wilson himself, complete with defined cheekbones, that cute little nose dimple, and the ability to play women like they was Monopoly. My friend Clifford took on the role of Vince Vaughn, who is a pretty big goober.

We headed off to the hotel district in downtown Seattle, ready to cause marital mayhem. At our first stop, we found a massive reception with at least 400 guests. Over the course of the night, we downed three bottles of champagne, consumed seventeen slices of multilayered wedding cake, and seduced eleven beautiful women, including Bristol Palin, Ginny Weasley, and Hannah Montana. Great success! The End.

I was hoping most readers would quit after that last paragraph. If you didn’t, congratulations — you’re sharp. In reality, there are not very many weddings in Seattle in November. We walked aimlessly from hotel to hotel with no success.

Finally, we staggered into the Westin. My brand new v-neck cashmere sweater was soaked from the torrential rain, and Clifford was limping due to a hammy pull about three miles in. But when the escalator dragged us up to the Grand Ballroom on the fourth floor, I felt like Ted Howard after some poor fool posts Facebook pictures of his “a little bit too much fun” weekend.

Hundreds of old tuxedo-wearing men and women sat at circular tables as waiters scurried around, bringing course after course of the chef’s finest prix-fixe creations and refilling glasses with 1938 Sauvignon Blanc. The air was rich with conversations on Mr. Harrington III’s latest stock options, or the new Caribbean island purchased by the Von Barringtons last week. These people were loaded.

Up on stage there was a man urging the high-rollers to donate to City of Hope. I’m still not really sure what City of Hope is; it’s supposed to stop cancer or end poverty or something, and I’m pretty sure they must be making bank.

I guess Clifford and I stood there watching a little bit too long, because a woman came up to us and asked, “Are you boys volunteering?”

“Yes,” I replied. This may have been a mistake. She made us go sort items from the auction. We worked for like an hour before I finally was able to get a sandwich at the volunteer snack station. I guess the mascot for City of Hope is the snitch-hawk, because when I brought my sandwich back from the snack station, security guards were waiting for us.

While crashing weddings still sounds pretty fun, I give a Messenger “thumbs down” to crashing fundraisers. All we really did was help them, and they still got mad at us. I did almost pick up this one hot chick, but I’m pretty sure she had cataracts and never actually saw me.

On the plus side, the security guards did let me finish my sandwich before they escorted us out. That made the night totally worth it. It had artisan bread and at least three types of meat.