That's right, the invitation arrived a few weeks ago. I wasn't surprised, although Pete, my mail carrier, was puzzled by the fancy calligraphy on the envelope. I told him it was probably  from one of those charities that thinks you'll be dumb enough to open the envelope if the address looks like it was handwritten.  

Why was I invited to the Royal Wedding? Well, during one of those totally pointless ceremonial trips to the US, Prince William and I happened to meet at the Home Depot in my town and, while his entourage waited in the lock and doorknob aisle, we spent the better part of an afternoon discussing the durability of linoleum tile and grit gradations of sandpaper. Say what you will about the guy, but he knows a lot about home improvement.

However, attending the wedding presents two problems. First off, what to wear? I keep trying on outfits, but every time I show an ensemble to my wife, she says, "You're going to wear that?" I know I can't wear a hoodie or flip flops -- I'm not an idiot -- but if you ask me, jeans and a nice sweater are just fine.

"You'll need a waistcoat and a top hat," she declares. "Men's Wearhouse might carry them." "Right," I reply. "And I'll stop at Wendy's first and have a caviar burger with a side of truffles."

After much debate, we finally settle on beige Dockers, a red, wrinkle-free shirt from The Gap and the white tuxedo jacket my brother wore when he was maitre d' at our local Applebees.

Second problem: what the hell kind of wedding gift would be appropriate?

Of course, as is often the case with wedding gifts, one is inevitably drawn to the blender. A blender would be perfect, especially since we happen to have two of them and I'd love to re-gift one. (No, not the one we've already used -- the puree button is stuck.)

But my wife tells me that a blender is not on the royal registry and, unfortunately, neither are chafing dishes or toasters, which were my second and third choices. So that's out. Maybe a gift certificate to Bed, Bath and Beyond? Or Ikea? Or Sur La Table? "What the hell are they going to get at Sur La Table?" my wife asks me. "I don't know," I say. "Oven mitts? You can always use extra oven mitts. People are always losing oven mitts. They just disappear, like socks."

Okay, here’s another idea: Being a royal must be difficult, what with all those idiotic rules and traditions. Who can keep track? When Prince Willie becomes King, I imagine he’ll have a tough time remembering all the protocol. For example: When a King knights someone, does he place the sword on the knightee's left shoulder first or vice versa? When does one actually wear the crown? Can you run errands in it? Are bean bag chairs appropriate palace decor? Is it proper for the King to carry an ATM card?  

So this might be just the thing: 

But in spite of the fact that such a gift could come in pretty handy, my wife says the Prince might find the title slightly insulting, plus it’s not expensive enough. "How much am I supposed to spend?" I ask. "More than $14.95," she says. "Does that include tax?" I ask.

Okay, forget that. Here’s another idea: A complete collection of Don Ho hits. Sounds perfect to me, but then my wife says they probably already have that, since it's well known that they're both devoted fans.

So I run a few other ideas past her: How about a generous gift certificate to Olive Garden? (No.) An inscribed, monogrammed bong? (No.) His-and-her beer can holders, emblazoned with their coat of arms? (No.) A Kitchen Magician? (No.) Popeel Pocket Fisherman? (No.) Tickets to the Ice Capades? (No.) Soap on a rope? (No.) A Shamwow? (No.) A set of tea cups tastefully illustrated with Disney characters? (No.)  

Unable to make up our minds, we've decided not to attend the ceremony, and instead, sell the invitation on craigslist. I think $39.95 is a fair price.