Til death do us dance!

I hold my breath.

My watch ticks by my ear, taunting my lard-coated lungs like the crocodile haunting Captain Hook.

I won’t get another shot at this.

I snap the photo and become the guy in every horror film stupidly peeking through the door to meet his demise — I check the image on the back of the camera.

The bride looks like she’s crawled out of “The Exorcist,” grimacing at her new, doting mother-in-law.

A bridesmaid shape-shifted into a donkey. A groomsman, a gorilla.

The crowd, an ocean of tears and snot and sunburn — 90-degree Saturdays in the spring pulverize the foreheads and nasal cavities of unsuspecting wedding-goers.

And how in God’s name does the groom look so put together?

An Arthurian exemplar. A Grecian statue: square-jawed, shoulders back, and giving me the Zoolander-patented “Blue Steel,” tucked in behind Regan the devil-bride and the false-grinned Cryptkeeper.

I’ll fix the nuclear family in editing.

By the time most of you fine readers snatch this edition, my best friend will be married. Tied down. Took the plunge. Put a ring on it. Noozed.

I’ll be face down in his yard, sleeping off a bottle of liquor with my head in a bucket.

See, I’m down with a good matrimony. I’ve been in them, at them, around them, between them, behind them, and after them.

Have you ever wondered what makes or breaks the big day? What sends guests and the couple home thinking, “Wow, I’ve gotta get divorced so I can do that again?”

Cutting rug. Getting down. Putting on some boogey shoes and cranking that Soulja boy.

What, you thought it was the vows and all the hacky, mushy-gushy, barf content at the ceremony?

Nope.

Fundamentally, at its core, underneath all the twine and tweed, a wedding is a party. An expensive, sanctified, state-certified, drink-till-you-stink rager.

And you haven’t done it right until you earn that honeymoon massage, where even the little 4’10” lady at the parlor has to use jiu-jitsu and a sledgehammer to untangle your spasming muscles.

Once you’ve seen your otherwise reserved father-in-law, tie loosened to his belly button, joining ankles and hopping in a circle with his old college buddy, you’ve done it.

You want people throwing each other, flipping, moonwalking, and nae-naeing. People doing the worm until they’re unable to stand without flopping like a slinky.

Children b-boying with sparkling grape juice in their hand, not spilling a drop, just like grandpa used to with his “happy juice.”

I once saw a grandma twerk.

If you don’t have pandemonium, you don’t have a celebration.

So, this year, get hitched. Go all out. Tear the roof down and dance on the beams.

Forget the sparklers and the rice for the grand exit. Don’t stop till you see the sun or blue lights, mascara running down your face and a little bit of the couple’s signature drink soaking into your rental tie.

Remember: Once the cops do show up to kill the buzz, make sure they scribble “Just Married” on the back window in Disney princess cursive.

Wouldn’t want anyone to forget what it’s all about. Hell, you might not want them to remember it, either.