Getting down on one knee would only flare up an old golfing injury.
The only ring that three months salary will get you can be found at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box.
Thinking about seeing yourself in a staged engagement photo is enough to make you punch yourself in the face.
A single two-minute, non-emotional phone call to your mother per week is sufficient. No reason to needlessly work her into hysterics.
Your first instinct for the wedding registry is “shit ton of paper plates.”
You can’t be expected to pick a wedding date without knowing what your future schedule holds, namely, how well your alma mater’s football team will be doing in two years, and you guys had a strong recruiting class this winter.
Women tend to frown upon eating Hot ‘N Readys during important date nights.
Bachelor party strippers haven’t been the same since you saw the trannies in Hangover II.
Changing your relationship status on Facebook is too much work since Zuckerberg changes the layout every nine minutes.
You’re still hugely afraid to meet her old man.
And you’re not meeting her mom until your funeral, either.
The only baby names you can think of are inspired by your favorite characters on Scrubs.
Mila Kunis is still a possibility.
A strict “in-bed-and-sleeping-by-9:00-pm” honeymoon policy sounds amazing.
Every day in your cubicle, you spend eight hours in the same box. Why spend each night doing the same?
All those women gathering for a bridal shower will attract bears to your living room.
When your buddy asked you if you’ve tied the knot, you assumed he meant a noose around your penis’ freedom.
You’re not ready for the self-esteem blow that comes with a free gym membership as a wedding gift.
Your court-ordered ban from Vegas doesn’t expire for another five years.