Eleven years ago, Jason and I got hitched for better or worse in the Hillsborough courthouse in front of a jail cell by one Mr. Cleatus A. Marmaduke III. He had bug eyes, wore a blue and white checked polyester suit and moved and talked like he existed in a vat of molasses (pronounced MOE-lasses for you uninitiated). One of our witnesses made the comment that the setting and the justice of the peace looked like something out of a bad Southern movie you'd find on Lifetime. I was roughly th...