A few additions and augmentations around Wish We Weren’t Friends. Wall Street Lelchuk’s Stock Report has been updated, and the moustache gallery has a new entry courtesy of Mr. Vitt.

Enjoy.

-WWWF

mous·tache [muhs-tach, muh-stash]

1. the hair growing on the upper lip
2. such hair on men, allowed to grow without shaving, and often trimmed in any of various shapes.
3. hairs or bristles growing near the mouth of an animal.

Lack of mous·tache [lak of muhs-tach, lak of muh-stash]

1. possessing a vagina
2. A huge pussy
3. sadly, Gabe (me)

Standing naked in front of the mirror, post-shower, can be a vulnerable and humbling experience.  Usually I check out a potentially expanding love-handle, or a sprout/many sprouts of hair appearing in places where they just should not be. But today was different. Today, I stared not at my bare torso, but instead at my naked and uncovered upper-lip.
 
You see, I pussed out. I’m in the doghouse. When growing moustaches was the coolest thing since sliced bread, I was a giant uncut loaf. 

Back in February it was all “moustache this” or “moustache that” or “hey, I can’t wait until I have my MOUSTACHE.” Now, in March, it’s all “hey, nice moustache” or “check out my sick moustache” or “my name’s Tim and my name’s Alex and we are going to make a movie about our moustaches to country music” or “that hot girl at worked really liked my moustache even though I have no chance of hooking up with her. Still, she really liked my moustache.” Call me selfish, but bare-lipped Gabe can’t help but feel a little left out.

Ok, I know what’s coming: a multitude of comments from people like Noah telling me how much of a pussy I am. (Don’t worry, Noah, I’ve saved all of your homophobic comments on WWWF in a dossier and will present them to your next employer. And to your parents, Scott and Laurie: (603) 643-6493). 

So what’s the solution, you may ask?  The only logical move is to do the one thing any good Jew would do: paint a Hitler moustache on my upper lip and post it on our website for gazillions of people to see! (When I say gazillons of people, I mean a google plex minus a google plex +12).

If you, like me, are not man enough to have a non-digital moustache, please send your nude-lipped photo to admin@wishwewerentfriends.com. If you’re lucky, you might get a special moustache painted on as well! Hurry up!!

As we told you on March 1, Tim and Alex went to TOMCATS in Greenpoint Brooklyn for the opening ceremonies of Moustache March.

After a few weeks binging at various penis ice luge events, 80s tribute bands, and Jewish coming-of-age celebrations, the mulitmedia presentation has finally made its way to the web.

Thanks once again to the pleasant folks at TOMCATS , who exceeded expectations with handsome haircuts, bloody shaves, and free beer. That’s right, FREE BEER!

The pictures above expand when clicked. The video below plays when clicked.

And remember, it’s not too late to submit your Moustache March photo to WishWeWeren’tFriends. For those of you who have been holding out in hopes that your pre-pubescent facial hair will somehow mature, give it up. The time is now. Send all pictures, videos, stories, etc, to admin@wishwewerentfriends.com

As everyone knows, WWWF is run from two offices: WWWF East, and WWWF Central. (This is, of course, working under the assumption that two locations that are 270 miles apart can be considered the same office.) In general, content comes from the East, and development comes from the Central.

Recently, however, a fledgling branch has sprung up: WWWF West. Led by moustacheod hero in a viking helmet, WWWF has been responsible for quite a bit of site content, and they deserve some recognition.

This, however, is a horrendous contribution, and it took weeks of debate between the two main offices to determine whether or not it should be on the site. But Alex is going to Alaska, Gabe is lazy, and we’re all still waiting for Tim’s first post. This leaves only Saul, and while his accounts of potential romances going south are amusing, some variety is needed. (From my vantage point, Saul appears to be standing on the romantic North Pole, which explains the southern bent.)

Anyway, the following video was sent to WWWF Central with the following note:

Incase you were wondering this is what we have been up to in Utah, yes those are Courtney’s clothes.

Watch at your own risk. Again, we’re sorry. If you have a better submission (Read: ANY submission) please send it to admin@wishwewerentfriends.com

By: Mairk

We left our secluded little mountain town, pointed the car West for Salt Lake City with the intention of hitting golf balls due to the warm weather. As soon as we made it to Salt Lake City, the car as if drawn to a magnet sharply turned South on I-15 signs loomed overhead with bold letters LAS VEGAS. The "what the fuck" moment spoken by pre-fame Booger/Charles Demar in Risky Business came and went. We headed to Vegas, excitement abound (Strike 1). Where were we to stay? A simple phone call placed to one Mrs. H remedied that problem. You heard it correctly, I called my mother en route to Vegas and asked her to book me and my co-pilot a hotel room in Vegas (on her card). The stipulation being no hookers. Those were my mothers exact words, "No Hookers!" The six hour car ride was filled with joy, we spoke of what we would do, the various sexual acts we could pay for. Not once thinking we should pick some girls up at the casino, bar, street. Unfortuneately none of this happened, we couldn’t even pay a girl to hook up with us. First stop in Vegas was of course the Flying J truck stop where our grocery list included collared shirts (mine pictured above), deoderant, condoms, and a tin of skoal (Vegas Baby). We promptly made our way to the Luxor Hotel at the end of the strip and checked in to our room. It was at this moment that we bent over grabbed our ankles and assumed the position in preparation for Vegas to violently fuck us in the ass.
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Just when you thought Alex’s internship was simply a Manhattan locale for him to work on the website….it is!

But look at the perks! As these two photos show, Alex has really made his Internet mairk at The Onion, with two groundbreaking photo cameos. First, in an apropos casting job, he was depicted as a brew master hosting a New Hampshire family planning a run for the Presidency. Most recently Alex’s beard, the loin that spurned his moustache, appeared as the beard in "Mark Cuban Grows a Giant Beard to Spite David Stern." Yes, that’s right, that’s really his over-exuberant facial hair photoshopped on Cuban’s billion dollar mug.

Those three colleges really paid off, eh kids?! His parents must sleep well knowing their continued post-graduation financial support is finally helping Alex’s career launch to previously unimagined heights.

While reluctantly paying my 75 cents at a tollbooth last week, I looked across the booth and noticed that the driver going the other way was none other than an attractive female. My piercing gaze had skewered her in the very act of paying her toll. Perking up at once, I took stock in a flash: blond, early twenties, presumably hot body, quite possibly lonely and tired of being battered and disappointed by this hard-edged world we so mournfully inhabit… I suddenly realized the obvious – that no attractive woman would ever drive alone unless she was starved and desperate for the company of an obsessive, overly-possessive male with more hair on his lip than his scalp. 

I slowly ran my tongue over my chops, already thinking of how I could somehow turn this exciting situation to my advantage. Would shouting at her to give me her number work? What about throwing my cellphone through her open window and then calling it from a payphone down the road? That gesture would be sure to touch her heart – a classic mix of sexy go-getter energy fused with the impetuous romance of those sizzling CVS paperbacks. It was at this moment that she looked up, saw me, and smiled. Little did she know she might as well have held up a sign saying:
“Please Jump In My Car This Second, You Handsome Devil.”
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On Saturday night I was feeling even more social than usual, so I decided to really let it all out and go for a big night out on the town. Obviously, this meant going to Canoe Club and sitting at the bar by myself drinking PBR because it is the cheapest booze they serve. Deep into my first pint, I noticed an attractive girl sitting several seats down from me, and before long I began to feel a distinct sexual tension building. Now don’t get me wrong. I have sexual tension with attractive younger girls almost constantly, and it invariably involves me sneakily casting my lecherous gaze up and down their body while they do their best to pretend that I am the basic equivalent of your every-day houseplant. It is at this point that they usually giggle and whisper to their friends in a relatively successful attempt to make me feel uncomfortable. When this too fails, they perform what I call the ‘Pay n’ Leave,’ a treacherously clever maneuver that leaves me alone again in no time at all.

But tonight everything was different. The girl glanced in my direction; I caught her eye. I thought she smiled. We exchanged several looks as I thanked the Good Lord that I had possessed the foresight to grab my hat before leaving so as to conceal my thinning locks. By this point, it goes without saying that my brain was vigorously churning out fantasy after fantasy that involved the two of us leaving together, going back to my place, and passionately making out and getting at least partially naked before I admitted that, thanks to the grossly excessive masturbation that my day had revolved around, the chances of me getting it up were about as much as an AA meeting serving Car Bombs.

My love-interest smiled again at me and then shocked me by leaving the bar area, taking several drinks with her and not knowing that in my mind’s eye I was already way past my awkward fumbling attempts to invade her body, the post-coital (hold the coital) cuddle, and had progressed to the “Must’ve had too much to drink, first time this happened to me I swear, it usually works just fine” speech.

Her sudden departure reminded me that other people who go to bars do so with groups of people usually referred to as “friends.” Huh. I looked around more closely and realized that everyone in the room with the exception of myself was talking to at least one other person. Strange. I hurriedly look at my watch and then glanced irritably at my cellphone as though waiting for someone. Then I happened to glance up and look in the mirror. A giant moustache looked back at me, its ends slick with wax as they plunged down each side of my flushed and beefy features. I thought of the look on the girl’s face. Perhaps I had after all misread amusement as ardent desire.

And that, I hold, is the beauty and the curse of the lip-scarves that we dedicate this month to worshiping. You get the looks, the attention, even the occasional gift-bag or free beer. But fame, much like the mixed drinks I am too cheap to buy, comes at a steep price.

Ah memories. If there’s one thing Wish We Weren’t Friends loves the most its gabbing about the BAD old days. In this first installment of BLAST FROM THE PAST, we remember one of our annual hangover walks in Central Park, on a sunny winter day where the New York hosts would do just about anything to get their asshole friends out of the apartments which had been so thoroughly trashed the night before.

For Saul, freshly stomped by Morningside locals the previous evening, the outing was also an opportunity for a daring athletic exhibition in the Central Park duck ponds. The extensive video coverage below should give you ample explanation.

As an intro, please enjoy this correspondence from Alex to Marine Max (then still in Iraq) sharing the photos of the adventure.

hey buddy

hope all is as well as it can be

here’s a link to awesome pictures from NYC when you came to visit

(see gallery)

notice the throwup start and saul’s mangled face

UNH graduation this weekend, pretty fun, AJ showed with some "party favors" and everyone acted completely idiotic

rory and mark got into a fight, and willy threw a sheet cake in mike’s face

ALSO! mike and courtney hooked up in the woods out back, literally rolling around in the mud, she told t-colla that her and mike were "meant to be together"

noah was supposed to go to ireland with his family yesterday as a graduation present but lost his passport
what a fucking idiot

love alex

I write to you, the fine gentlemen of Wish We Weren’t Friends so that I may head off any unsubstantiated rumors before Gabe’s devious and homoerotic mind can begin to twist them and spin them to everyone he knows. Before I begin however I will say this, I got my come-uppins and then some this weekend.

Saturday night four of our group (Chainsaw, Mike, Gerber, myself) decided to attend a social function in Allston. And by social function I of course mean a college party. And by college I of course mean an institution that some of us have been out of for quite some time. Did we let the fact that we were a group of overweight, undersexed 20- something creeps in an underage Wentworth party stop us from having a good time? You know the answer to that. Would we ruin a lot of college kids’ good time before everything was said and done? Obviously, yes.

As per usual Hanover standing orders, we found a nice little corner of the apartment to call our own and made no attempt to converse with anyone from the outside. Once sequestered, we proceeded to talk shit about everyone else at the party as well as the over-sweetened "jungle juice" that we had commandeered and weren’t letting anyone else drink. (Except for hot girls, and surprisingly none approached us.) This, friends is the last thing I remember.

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