Worst Wedding Grand Entrance Songs—And Yes, These Really Happened (Part Two)
Just when you think you’ve heard the worst possible grand entrance songs, Part Two shows up and says, “Hold my drink.” In this second part of my “Worst Grand Entrance Songs” series I recall more musical mayhem—because apparently, some couples are determined to enter their reception like a breakup montage or a villain reveal. All true stories, all hilariously terrible.
October 5, 2025
In Part One of this series, we talked about how the wrong grand entrance song can turn a room full of cheering guests into a sea of confused faces—and how even beloved hits like “Bad Romance” and “She Will Be Loved” can send the completely wrong message when you actually listen to the lyrics. Now, in Part Two, we’re cranking things up a notch. This is where we leave the realm of “mildly awkward” and enter the world of truly catastrophic choices: songs so misguided they left guests speechless, offended, or in tears. From the lyrical dumpster fire that is “My Humps” to a Paul McCartney deep cut that managed to reopen old wounds in front of an entire ballroom, these are grand entrance songs that never should have made it past the planning meeting. As a wedding DJ who has watched all of this play out live, I’m here to walk you through what happened—so you’ll never make the same mistakes.
"My Humps" by Black-Eyed Peas
Questionable Lyrics: "Whatcha gon' do with all that junk / All that junk inside that trunk? / I'ma get, get, get, get you drunk / Get you love drunk off my hump / Whatcha gon' do with all that ass / All that ass inside them jeans? / I'ma make, make, make, make you scream / Make you scream, make you scream / 'Cause of my hump (hump), my hump, my hump, my hump (what?) / My hump, my hump, my hump (hump), my lovely lady lumps / Check it out / I met a girl down at the disco / She said, "Hey, hey, hey, yeah, let's go" / I could be ya baby, you could be my honey / Let's spend time not money / And mix your milk with my coco puff / Milky, milky coco / Mix your milk with my coco puff / Milky, milky."
It’s hard to say exactly when we hit "Peak" Fergie. Was it when her lyrics included spelling out “tasty”… but misspelling it “t-to-the-a-to-the-s-t-e-y”? Was it her modern twist on London Bridge, turning it into a sexual metaphor? Or was it “My Humps,” a track named “Worst Song of All-Time” by The Guardian, The A.V. Club, Consequence of Sound, Stereophile, Buzzfeed, Pitchfork, Rolling Stone readers, and yours truly?
It’s hard to imagine today, but the Black Eyed Peas were once respected hip-hop artists and critical darlings. Then they added Fergie. Suddenly they were wearing bizarre futuristic clothing, and achieving massive radio play with party-hearty songs like “Let’s Get It Started” and “I Gotta Feeling.” But nothing they’ve done before or since can match “My Humps” in its lowest-common-denominator idiocy or mindless, robotic commercialism. This has got to be the least sexy song ever written, with Fergie, in an asinine call-and-response with Will.i.am, referring to her butt as her “hump” and her “lovely lady lump.” Fergie later complicates things by also using humps/lumps to refer to her breasts. (Ooh, a double meaning!) And even more embarrassing than Fergie’s singing with her ritual invocations of her favorite brands, is Will.i.am’s rapping, which includes such enticing come-ons as his offer to “Mix your milk with my cocoa puffs / Milky, milky cocoa puffs.” The song also features an elaborate and sophisticated chorus—“My hump. My hump. My hump. My hump, my hump, my hump. My lovely lady lumps." [Note: When you have to repeat the same word six times in order to fill a beat, maybe you should try investing in a thesaurus.]
As a piece of music, “My Humps” is a stunning assemblage of awful ideas. The song’s playful pogo and coke-thin, ring-tone synth line samples Sexual Harassment’s 1982 left-field electro hit, “I Need A Freak“. But where the original trafficked in something icky, sinister, and darkly sexual, the Peas’ call-and-response courtship fails to titillate—in fact, it’s enough to convince one to never, ever ogle again. The “humps” in question belong to Fergie, who brandishes her “lovely lady lumps” for the purpose of procuring various gifts from men who, one would assume, find the prospect of “lumps” very exciting—one lump begetting another lump, if you will.
“What you gon’ do with all that ass / All that ass inside them jeans? … What you gon’ do with all that breast?/ All that breast inside that shirt?” Yes, rapper Will.I.Am uses the singular "breast"—not breasts, plural—which further confuses. I thought the lovely lady hump referred to "all that ass inside them jeans" and the lovely lady lumps suggested two breasts "inside that shirt." It is easy to become befuddled when listening to this one as it shifts relentlessly. The agreement in number—from singular to plural and back again—is a grammar nightmare. (The song genuinely makes me angry. No, it leaves me enraged—again, it is the English teacher in me). "My Humps" is a song that tries to evoke a coquettish nudge and wink, but head-butts and bloodies the target instead. It isolates sectors of the female anatomy that obsessive young men have been inventing language for since their skulls fused, and yet it emerges only with “humps” and “lumps”—at least Kelis's “Milkshake” sounded delicious.
Who else remembers when the word “hump”—as it applied to the female body—called up images of old crones with osteoporosis, and “lumps”—in reference to breasts—made the general public think of self exam cards and mastectomies?
Despite all of this, "My Humps" ranks third on the list of best-selling singles of the 00’s, which is sad. Very, very SAD. It is somehow one of the most popular hit singles in history. But it is also proof that a song can be so bad as to veer toward evil. It’s not Awesomely Bad; it’s Horrifically Bad. The Peas receive no bonus points for a noble missing-of-the-mark or misguided ambition. “My Humps” reminds us that categories such as “good” and “bad” still matter. There are bad songs that offend our sensibilities but can still be enjoyed, and then there are the songs that are just really bad—transcendentally bad, objectively bad.
...but this did not stop one bride—for reasons I still can not fathom—from insisting on using this dumpster fire for her grand entrance! She told me repeatedly how much she loved—L-O-V-E-D!— this lyrical masterpiece, this trainwreck, this sh**show that includes such Shakespearean gems as “I'ma get, get, get, get you drunk / Get you love drunk off my hump”" and a chorus that feels like it was written by a sentient toaster with a vocabulary of twelve words. She said it was “fun, flirty, and empowering,” which I suppose is one interpretation if you’ve never heard the song. Ever.
In the realm of worst wedding songs, this one should share space under locked glass with the doll Annabelle. The cautionary note on the doll's case—"Positively Do Not Open"—would be the most fitting warning label for this song ever used because with each play, it clearly conjures evil forces.
So how did it go, you ask?
When the doors swung open and the first “What you gon’ do with all that junk?” blasted across the ballroom, the entire room reacted like someone had just dropped a live ferret into the punch bowl. Every guest froze mid-cheer. The bridesmaids were strutting seductively, flaunting their lovely lady parts, oblivious to the fact that everyone's ears were bleeding. The groomsmen, however, looked like they were trying to calculate how fast they could flee without making a scene. To a one, the faces of the couple's oldest guests immediately contorted—scrunched up tightly, noses wrinkling sharply as their upper lips curled instinctively, like they had just walked into an invisible wall of pure stench. (It was quite comical, really.) Meanwhile, the teenage boys in the room were cheering loudly as they watched the bridesmaids jiggle confidently to emphasize their own humps and lumps. Everyone else seemed lost in bewilderment. They weren’t clapping—they were staring at each other, silently asking, “Is this… allowed?” And, the song continued to assault the room with references to “humps,” “lumps,” and “junk in the trunk,” turning the reception into what felt like an accidental halftime show at a very confused football game.
But the true comedy came when the bride proudly sauntered into the room. The guests collectively realized that they had no idea how to react. Do you dance? Do you clap? Do you pretend your ears aren’t hearing the words “I’ll make you scream, make you scream”? It was social chaos. The DJ booth felt like ground zero of a cultural meltdown. An older gentleman covered his face with both hands to hide his laughter as the woman to his left mouthed the words, “Why would she PICK this?” A group of coworkers from the bride’s office stared at their table décor with intense interest, desperate to avoid the visuals implied by the lyrics. By the time the couple reached the head table, the applause was so weak and scattered it sounded like a round of golf claps performed by ghosts. The room didn’t just lose energy—it lost hope. And that, dear reader, is the dangerous power of choosing a wedding grand entrance song that celebrates… lumps. Lovely ones, sure—but still lumps.
"Temporary Secretary" by Paul McCartney
Questionable Lyrics: "Mister Marks, can you find for me / Someone strong and sweet, fitting on my knee? / She can keep her job if she gets it wrong / Ah, but Mister Marks, I won't need her long / All I need is help for a little while / Who can take dictation and learn to smile / And a temporary secretary is what I need for to do the job / I need a Temporary Secretary."
Paul McCartney was just 23 years old when he recorded "Yesterday,” one of the most recorded songs of all time. He gave us us “Hey Jude,” “Eleanor Rigby,” “Let It Be,” “Band on the Run,” “Maybe I’m Amazed,” and “Venus and Mars.” I could write an entire blog praising his musical legacy. Without question, Macca wrote some of the greatest songs in music history, but…he also wrote a few of the very worst. It is always so painful when one of my favorite artists missteps. I have a long list of Terrible Songs by Otherwise Great Artists, and, sadly, McCartney features prominently on that list. I would be hard pressed to name any legendary artist who has recorded as many stinkers. “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” “Spies Like Us,” “Wonderful Christmastime.” There are so many. But chief among these howlers is “Temporary Secretary,” a track that has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. None. It's lyrically abysmal and thematically questionable, and the instrumentation is an obnoxious synth with offbeat drums that sounds like a dog stepped on a few random preloaded beats on a Casio keyboard.
The third single from his 1980 album McCartney II, “Temporary Secretary” doesn't even give you time to prepare for the auditory onslaught. It immediately launches into the short synth bar and repeats it at a tempo that is headache inducing. Seriously, it is akin to an alarm clock jarring you out of your deepest hangover, leaving you wildly slapping at the nightstand. Then we get a guitar riff (if you can call it that) and a blown-out drum sample, both playing basically at random. There isn't even a rhythm to potentially enjoy. And, somehow, the song only gets worse. Singing in an atrocious American accent, McCartney sounds like he is plagued with the worst sinus infection of his life, and much like the beat itself, the notes of his vocals vary little and repeat sooner and more often than they should. And what he sings is just creepy. He wants a temporary secretary who will be sweet and sit on his knee. And she can be a belly dancer, too. Enough said.
I assume Paul’s intent was to create something quirky, but the track is bereft of charm. It is undeniably and unforgettably painful. At only three minutes and thirteen seconds long, it feels So. Much. Longer. Its pace and its torturous intonation are exhausting. The track is grating, over the top, and indefensible. The thing should be buried in the desert. Seriously. Its one saving grace is that people have largely forgotten the song exists. And for more than twenty years spinning tunes, nobody ever asked that I play it.
But then, it happened. Eight years ago. In a meeting with a couple that was very sweet, but very odd. This couple booked me last minute after their previous DJ bailed on them for reasons they never shared. They informed me matter-of-factly—straight-faced, no hint of irony—that they wanted “Temporary Secretary” as their grand entrance song. I actually dropped my laptop to the floor as I stared at them wide-eyed, words escaping me. It was like my Dell had burst into flames; my hands were not working (or more to the point, my brain was not working and therefore unable to move my hands in any attempt to catch it. I can still hear the crash landing as it hit the Starbucks floorboards). I smiled politely, the way a seasoned wedding DJ does when someone suggests something truly unhinged, and gently asked if they had perhaps listened to the song recently…like, with their actual ears. They assured me they had, and then launched into the most misguided explanation I’d ever heard, claiming the track had “quirky tech-vibes,” “fun office energy,” and would make guests “laugh and cheer as we enter like adorable newlywed boss babes.” I blinked several times, trying to process how they had turned one of the most bizarre, borderline-mechanical songs ever recorded—basically Paul McCartney yelling about urgently needing clerical help and demanding eye candy to fill the vacancy—into a romantic statement. I carefully suggested alternatives that didn’t sound like a fax machine having a panic attack, but they were steadfast. They insisted the repetitive, frantic chorus was “catchy in a cool retro way,” completely ignoring the fact that it sounds like a malfunctioning alarm clock begging for mercy. I told them I fully respected their creativity, all while silently wondering how on earth their guests would react to a song that screams “URGENT STAFFING PROBLEM” instead of “newlywed glow.” In the end, I nodded and wrote it down, still questioning every career choice that had led me to a moment where my primary job was preventing a grand entrance from sounding like a 1980s HR emergency hotline.
The day of the wedding, I cued the song and waited in anticipation to see how their guests would react. When the couple burst through the doors, guests froze mid-sip, their eyebrows leaping so high they nearly detached and floated toward the chandelier. The beat kicked in—that relentless wonk-wonk-wonk-wonk—and half the room instinctively checked their phones. The other half looked around wildly, trying to determine if this was to be some kind of flash-mob satire. A gentleman sitting close to the DJ booth began patting his pockets, convinced his pacemaker had switched to dubstep. Nobody was head-bopping oR clapping along. It is impossible to move rhythmically to the sound of a keyboard being assaulted by a caffeinated squirrel. The newlyweds strutted in beaming, completely unaware that 150 people were silently recalibrating their entire understanding of what music is. And as the song droned on—repeating the words "temporary" and "secretary" ad nauseam—I thought to myself, This marriage better be permanent, because the entrance isn't.
When “Temporary Secretary” blasted through the speakers and the newlyweds strode proudly into their reception, the room reacted with shock, confusion, and mild horror. I was still processing the moment myself—still amused, still baffled, still convinced I’d just witnessed one of the strangest grand entrance choices of my 28-year DJ career. I thought the worst part of the moment was the guests’ bewildered faces. I thought the comedy was the story. I had absolutely no idea how wrong I was. When the bride and groom had explained their reasons for choosing "Temporary Secretary," they left out some very important details. As it turned out, their song selection had nothing to do with an eclectic taste in music. The explanation they had given me—claiming the track had “quirky tech-vibes,” “fun office energy,” and would make guests “laugh and cheer as we enter like adorable newlywed boss babes"—was a ruse.
At table #1, two teenagers sat alone—quiet, withdrawn, and utterly still as the chaotic, mechanical beat pulsed around them. They didn’t laugh. They didn’t cringe. They didn’t even turn to each other. The boy stared straight ahead, frozen, while the girl fought desperately to keep herself together. At first, I assumed she hated the song as much as I did. But then her face crumpled—not with embarrassment, but with a deeper pain I didn’t yet understand. Her shoulders shook. Her breath hitched. And then she broke. The tears came in violent waves, her chest heaving in sharp, uncontrollable spasms as she tried to hide her face. When she finally stood up—knocking her chair to the ground—it wasn’t clumsiness. It was the panic of a heart too full to stay in the room for one more second. She fled the hall, sobbing so hard it felt like the sound echoed across the dance floor. The teenage boy bolted after her, calling her name.
I didn’t know who they were. I didn’t know why the song had shattered them. All I knew was that everyone else’s confusion suddenly felt irrelevant. Something was deeply wrong.
It wasn’t until much later that I learned the truth: these were the groom’s children.
This was the groom’s second marriage. Eight months earlier, his bride—the woman now beaming and waving to the crowd—had been hired as his brand-new secretary. At the time, he had been married for nineteen years. His wife, the mother of those two teens, had no reason to suspect anything was wrong…until the day she decided to surprise him at work with lunch. She walked into his office smiling, holding a bag of takeout, only to find her husband and his secretary having sex on his desk. The moment detonated her entire world.
She begged him to try counseling. To talk. To think of the kids. But his mind was made up. He told her he didn’t love her anymore—and that he wanted a life with the secretary instead. The divorce was rushed, sloppy, and painful. And before the ink was even dry, he had proposed to the woman he'd been having an affair with. They were engaged for two months before his first marriage legally ended.
And now here they were—this new couple—choosing “Temporary Secretary” as their grand entrance song. A song celebrating the exact title, the exact role, and the exact situation that had torn these two kids’ family apart. A cruel reminder delivered with a dance beat.
When the teens ran out of the hall, they didn’t hide in the bathroom or sit in the hallway. They called their mom.
She came immediately.
When she arrived, she approached her children with open arms, gathering them into a trembling embrace. But the groom—seeing his ex-wife taking the kids—stormed toward them, furious. In front of the guests, in front of his new bride, in front of staff and photographers and me, he began shouting. At her. At them. At the situation he had created.
He yelled that the kids were “pains in the ass” and that they were “ruining the best day of his life.” The words rang out across the room, sharp enough to draw gasps. His ex-wife, shaking with emotion, told him he had no right to blame them for the consequences of his actions. The argument escalated—loud, vicious, impossible to ignore—until finally she slapped him. Hard. The crack of it echoed through the banquet hall like a gunshot.
Silence followed. Horrible silence.
Guests stared at the floor. No one knew where to look. No one knew what to say. Embarrassment radiated off every table like heat from pavement.
When the ex-wife left with the kids, the guests began making their excuses—bathrooms to visit, phone calls to make, babysitters to relieve, headaches to nurse. But they weren’t coming back. They slipped out one by one, embarrassed and shaken, until the room held only a handful of people scattered like abandoned props.
Dinner hadn’t even been served.
A coordinator eventually approached me quietly and said, “You can go ahead and start tearing down.”
I nodded, unplugged my gear, and began packing cables in silence. The bride and groom sat alone at the head table, untouched plates in front of them, the centerpieces flickering in a room that suddenly felt cold and cavernous.
As I wheeled my speakers out the side door, I couldn’t help thinking about those two kids—the ones who hadn’t laughed, hadn’t cringed, hadn’t reacted like everyone else when the song played. The ones who had carried more pain into that room than anyone realized.
It was supposed to be a grand entrance. Instead, it became the ending to a story that never should have been written.
___________________________________
That wedding—with its disastrous use of “Temporary Secretary”—was the night I stopped underestimating just how deeply a “funny” or “quirky” song choice can cut. It wasn’t about taste anymore; it was about pain, history, and the emotional landmines hiding inside certain tracks. And as heavy as that story is, it’s not the only time a grand entrance song left a mark that no one in the room would ever forget. In Part Three of this series, we’ll look at even more real-life examples, ranging from breakup anthems and rock epics to a Kanye West hit that nearly sparked a full-scale family meltdown before dinner was even served. If you’ve stuck with me this far, you already know that lyrics matter more than most couples realize. In the final installment, you’ll see just how high the stakes can get—and how to make sure your own grand entrance becomes a moment of joy instead of regret.