Mr. Hyde was married Sunday at Temple Trust Fund, Brooklyn, to the woman who very recently replaced the columnist, Sarah Rose.
The bride, still fertile, has a worthy job, holds an undergraduate degree from a lesser Ivy, and other appropriate credentials.
Mr. Hyde, known as Dr. Jekyll, is a failed journalist turned political yesman whose most recent candidate finished last in a field of oodles. His firm is funded by corporations that can’t be mentioned in polite company. You wouldn’t want your daughter dating one. Or your president.
The groom proposed in the days immediately following his ex-wife’s remarriage, fulfilling the prediction he would not last six months past her nuptials. He did not. In Washington, D.C., and New York City, several American dollars in bar bets changed hands.
“Can you say ‘till death do us part’ twice and have it be true?” asked the groom’s brother in his toast.
Mr. Hyde’s first wife, a beautiful but tragic public intellectual, could not stand him, but he could rescue her. The newest Mrs. Hyde is nothing like that. She’s not, got it? She is not chaotic, nor creative, but stable, even dull, and her eating disorder was a college thing.
“You can’t hit a home run every at bat, but you can try, and I just didn’t feel like trying that hard with my first wife,” said Mr. Hyde as the band struck up the hora. “Just kidding,” he said, bursting into tears.
The bride says she adores Mr. Hyde despite his temper and because of it. It is everyone else’s fault anyway.
Joined in holy narcissism, the Hydes have purchased a brownstone in the best school district for white children. Mrs. Hyde celebrates both the schlep to suburbia and the custody arrangement that remains indecipherable to the NSA and to each other. Also to his children.
The Hydes honeymooned on skis and ditched the birth control. Expect the sequel to look like the first; Dr. Jekyll’s inner psychopath isn’t going anywhere. Ecstatic pictures will be posted to Facebook when you aren’t convinced.
The groom will be keeping his name.