This isn’t a marriage. It’s a cry for help!
Oh, Alec. Dear, depraved and desperate Alec. Why didn’t you wait for me?
Alec Baldwin, a ripe and bloated age 54, walked into the Basilica of Old St. Patrick’s last night, hunched over and head bowed as if attending his own firing squad. He showed up to marry 28-year-old yoga instructor Hilaria Thomas, the planet’s second-biggest numbskull after Alec himself.
Alec pretended he just wanted privacy with his bride, but we know better.
For Alec craves attention like a double-cheese pepperoni pizza. From the paparazzi. And especially from me.
Too late, big guy. You’re Hilaria’s.
I showed up prepared to crash the wedding. But common sense and a restraining order I once seriously considered obtaining against The Bloviator prevented me from kissing the bridegroom.
PHOTOS: ALEC BALDWIN’S WEDDING DAY
In the days leading to his Hilaria hitching, Alec displayed his dark side, which is his only side, by staging the world’s scariest series of hissy fits. His daughter, Ireland — whom he once called a “thoughtless little pig” in a an infamously frightening voicemail — attributed Dad’s loopiness to “pre-wedding stress.’’
Or maybe it’s wedding-day stress. On the happiest day of his life, he looked like he wanted to punch someone. As adoring fans shouted congratulations to the grumpy groom, he ignored them, instead gazing at the ground.
Now we know he was just marrying the wrong gal.
Alec walked, or rode his bike, illegally, Friday on the public sidewalks, daring photogs to take his picture, and attacking poor working stiffs half his size.
He grabbed two shutterbugs by the arms. Then the avowed liberal insulted both his own Catholic faith and African Americans, first screaming insanely at Splash shooter Brian Prahi’s face: “I know you got raped by a priest.’’
He told a black photographer: “You gotta back up there, Rodney,’’ though the lensman’s name wasn’t Rodney. Was it a mistake? Or a reminder of the late Rodney King, infamously beaten by Los Angeles police?
Alec, you really need help.
It won’t come from me.
All the way to the altar, he whined like a toddler and begged like a puppy.
He stamped his little feet. And he stalked me like an escaped convict on Twitter, once writing, “Andrea Peyser, you are as bad a writer as you are filled with self-hatred. Go back to Langan’s [a bar near The Post building] and bring a Strunk and White [a writer’s style book].”
He continued his rants while on vacation in Italy with Hilaria, telling me, his greatest frenemy, that he really cares.
Now it’s time for the honeymoon, but it’s unclear which airline will service a man so full of bile against women and people in uniform that he got booted off a flight for refusing to turn off his smartphone.
It’s barely begun. But can this marriage be saved?
If Hilaria has any sense, and that’s debatable, she’ll run for the hills with a chunk of Alec’s money. Fair payment for being stuck with an angry misogynist badly in need of medication. Or a straitjacket.
Besides, I’m taken.