"I now pronounce you, man and wife. You may kiss your bride. Well, if you can get around that gear shift with the commemorative NASCAR shifter there."
The gal in the hand me down wedding dress squealed and lunged across the front bench seats in her new husband's "chariot", knocking it out of gear. They lurched forward, narrowly avoiding rolling into traffic. The kid in the ill-fitting tuxedo with the stain on the shirt swore, pushed her off him, and threw the shifter into reverse. He stopped an inch shy of the bumper on the car pulling in to take their place at the drive through window. His answer to the resulting honk was a defiant middle finger out the driver's side window.
After he engaged the brake and took the shambling car out of gear, he smoothed his vest and put a little more brylcreem on his comb to hold down his slicked back hair. His new wife shot back across the seats to give his tonsils a tongue bath, messily smearing her lipstick across his teeth. She had the back of his head in her hands, holding on as if he was the last source of oxygen on the planet.
That's when the officiant noticed her wedding band. Or, what passed as one as it was a nail twisted into a crude circle.