Given our constant and obsessive preoccupation with homosexuality in all its forms, I decided to go ahead and jot down a few lines imagining what we would be like if we all woke up one morning to find ourselves gay. Would we be the same? Different? Less fat and narcissistic? Or would we be even pettier and bicker more than we already do? The possibilities are both endless and intriguing to people with as little going on in their lives as us. So – wriggle into your tightest pair of Diesel jeans, shake up a nice cold Appletini, and consider this post a kind of alternate universe, where everything is the same except for our sexual orientations. (And by alternate universe, I mean five years from now.)

Alex: Would become obsessed with a guy, pursue him until he broke up with his boyfriend, and then lose all interest. Would smoke weed, get really paranoid, and wonder if he was actually straight. Would shave his chest. Would get drunk and send dirty, dirty text messages to different guys. Would spend hours each day on the phone with Saul, complaining about guys.

Noah: The gang-bangs he is so fond of would have one extra guy (meaning 4) and one less girl (meaning 0). Would finally lose interest in Tiffany, since her curvy feminine body would hold about as much sexual appeal to him as a block of marble. Would tea-bag guys even more than he already does. 

Mike: Would be exactly the same – completely asexual. Might switch cigarette brands to some sort of Slims. Would giggle and ask Courtney to get a sex change or at least a strap-on.  

Baker: Would wear lots of bright spandex on his forty-mile bike trips. Would shave his entire body. Would keep going out with his girlfriend so he could ask her about fashion tips and get her opinion on the guys he brought back. Would put his dental career on hold and move to San Francisco, explaining to his dad that he had to ‘sow his wild oats’ while he was ‘young and shapely.’ 

Max: Would quit his job at the gym, move to New York, and work at a Chelsea sauna instead. When he cuddled with his pillow at night he would call it Long Dong Steve or Big Ted instead of Tracy. Would continue to have extended periods of bitter sexual frustration, interrupted by brief drunken flings with dudes who weighed far, far more than he did. Would break up with his imaginary girlfriend and begin dating an imaginary boyfriend instead, who would also have been a dance major in college. Might eventually become a ‘bear.’  

Smalls: Would pose for all those magazines that they put high up on the top shelves at truck stops. Would look at himself in the mirror and call himself a ‘huge faggot’ and then go out and chase cock all night. Would work out even more than he does now. 

Saul: Would wear black t-shirts even tighter than the ones he currently wears. Would wear the leather pants Gabe got him constantly, rather than just at costume parties and by himself at night. Would grow a permanent pencil-thin moustache. Would spend hours at a time on the phone with Alex complaining to him about guys. Would run for president of the Dartmouth LGBTQ society and try to make Speedos and tuxedo vests mandatory attire for all members. 

Draper: Would hit on every guy with a pulse.

Gerber: Would wear tight pants, sweater-vests, and pink button-down shirts all at the same time. Would cook dinners with less carbs. His tattoos would get racier. Would pierce tongue and nipples and listen to lots of R&B. Would still continue to dance a lot. 

Tom: Would give up joints and get really into poppers instead. Would quit Canoe Club and go to work as the pool boy at the Super 8. Might paint his car lime green or Strawberry or get really into interior design. Would develop a taste for ‘clubbing’ and as a result get over his phobia of any city bigger than Enfield, NH.  

Tyler: Would move into Pappas’s bedroom and turn the extra room into a Pilates studio. Would trim his goatee, retire the hat, and use lots of hair gel instead. Might even ‘frost his tips’ while he was at it. Would open Hanover’s first all-male discothèque on the island and name it the Man Lounge or perhaps The Cockpit. Would turn the party barge into the flagship of a gay cruise line.  

Pappas: See Tyler.

Tim: Would continue to date his girlfriend just to throw everyone off. Wait a second…

      
Gabe: Would have long relationships with attractive younger guys and then go into a tailspin when they left him for someone else. Would get even more cosmetic surgery. Would quit HBO, switch to Showtime, and pitch them the male version of the L-Word. Would continue to live with Tim. Would go to Thunder Down Under on his frequent Vegas outings and tell anyone who asked that he had been at Scores. Would get even more cosmetic surgery.  

Mitch: Would move back to Hanover, sit in his hot tub, and wave at everyone who drove past while sipping a Peach Bellini and smiling from ear to ear. Would tell Caroline he never actually enjoyed the sex. Might or might not shave his beard. Might possibly get a job as a cocktail waiter or steward on Tyler’s cruise line. Would wear really short cut-off jean shorts 12 months a year.  

SK: Would immediately buy a toupee. Would move to Asia and commence a series of sweaty, sordid affairs with every teenage boy he could get his hands on, provided they wanted to make a quick buck. With that kind of love life, why come back to America at all?

Sean: Sorry, some things just wouldn’t happen. Sean being gay is one of them.

Sutton: Would hook up with TONS of dudes. Would have even bigger muscles. Would go to tanning salons when the weather was too cloudy to lounge poolside on Rip Road. Would funnel more Stoli Vanilla than any guy in town. Would ice Mike whenever Mike called him a ‘homo,’ which would be constantly.  

Mairk: Would become a promiscuous little slut. Would turn his parent’s basement and big screen TV into a makeshift movie theater – the kind where you don’t just watch the movie, if you know what I mean. We’d probably all come over, not tell any of the girls that we used to be friends with, and think it was awesome that it was a sausage-fest. 

Top Eight Alex/Saul Fights Of All Time: 

When setting out to write this novel encyclopedia post, I originally intended to compose a long-winded preamble leading up to it, or possibly transform the basic facts into a three-volume epic poem. But then I realized that everything here speaks for itself with a voice much louder and more annoying than anything I could attempt to give it. Ever since the cruel and fickle English alphabet decided to make them locker-partners throughout high school, Alex and Saul have had a relationship comparable to Mt. Vesuvius and Pompeii – they get along just fine when one of them is not in the midst of a hideous fiery eruption.

After moving in together for a year of domestic bliss in Manhattan, the bets began flying furiously as the best handicappers this side of Vegas tore their already-thinning hair out trying to set odds on which of the two ‘roommates’ would develop BWS (Battered Women Syndrome) and murder the other one in his bed first. But, somehow, they emerged just fine, assuming of course that you define “just fine” as follows: Alex had moved hundreds of miles away, they hadn’t spoken in two months, and a bizarre, spectacle-wearing, weed-smoking young fellow named Sharrif was living in Alex’s room.

 This post was not an easy one. I had to delve through town records, unpleasant memories, and conduct various oral histories trying to come up with the most memorable battles in the last ten years. But, like a diver triumphantly emerging from a sewage tank with the pearl necklace that was drunkenly dropped into the toilet at a cocktail party, I finally came up with a list that I am fully confident represents the best moments out there. And after all four major television networks rejected this pitch as a reality show, there was nothing to do but put it on a website, where it is sure to be read by all six of the people still bored and pathetic enough to actually return to our page. So, brace yourselves! And remember that when these two go at it, they make a Mairk/Rory fight look like two baby doves reclining in a bed of jasmine and lilac petals while cooing at each other. 
 

And so, with no further ado, I give you the TOP 8 ALEX/SAUL FIGHTS in history*.

*History is defined as the day in 1997 A.D. that Saul moved from the Mascoma to the Hanover school district, put on his baggiest pair of pants and his biggest silver earring, and spent a year sharing a neighboring locker with Alex, where the two didn’t say a word to each other the entire time.   

(more…)

    Rumors of Saul’s potential return to the website have been flying all over the blogosphere, so Wish We Weren’t Friends has decided to make an official announcement regarding this global issue.
    After months of bitter, stubborn stewing as a response to perceived slights, miffs, and UNvitations, members of this website have reached out to Saul in hopes of bringing him back fulltime. After all, where would we be without his epic self-deprecations, adventurous facial hair patterns, raging homoeroticism, and breathtaking gossip columns?  Don’t forget his insightful prognostications of each of our values as human beings.
    At first, locating Saul was the most difficult task. Reports came in that he was seen around the Upper Valley with “an unidentified older man”, and Pappas suggested that he had actually turned gay. Other sources indicated that he had begun to dress like an adult, donning Italian sport coats, black tee shirts and tight, dark dungarees. 
   This information fit nicely with his decision to cut off all communication with me, his 34 year-old lesbian partner. As a result he was comfortably off the grid, free to blitz his new Dartmouth friends, attend cocktail parties filled with academics and cheese trays, all the while attempting to forget that he had fully exposed himself to a stranger only a few short months ago.
    Oh how Wish We Weren’t Friends has suffered: terrible enthusiasm, unreliable posting, horrible writing. Not a Photoshopped picture to be found!   
    Fortunately for you, dear reader, Saul will make his triumphant return. Heavy coddling has successfully convinced our poet laureate to once again participate. Gone are the times of famine and stench. It is a brand new day and a brand new era for this, the best website on the planet.
    Welcome back to Wish We Weren’t Friends.

    Mike in remnants of a three-piece suit, Alex in drag, and Gabe acting “French.” Pretty standard really. Please enjoy this pathetic, embarrassing episode from our pre-pubescent period. At least mine.  Pay attention to Mike’s skinny face, Gabe’s ability to hide his birthmark even before plastic surgery, and Alex’s urge to become a tranny.

And to think we were sober!

What’s funnier than that is how low this website has stooped: to the level of middle school language video projects. Bad ones. Come on, kids, get a grip.

Remember this?

“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?”

And this?

“Tom – busy on the phone with EBA’s as he tried to order chicken sandwiches and cheesy fries – grew flustered as he tried to speak to two people at once, and could only agree with Noah wholeheartedly. The matter might have died there, had their words not been caught by the always-attentive Alex. Infuriated that he was being left out of a conversation about fat, he lost little time in confidently claiming the title for himself.”

Let’s pull it together like the Souheagan Girls Soccer team and make this thing work. Life support is a bad place to be, but it’s better than being on the same couch as Mike in a ratshit apartment in Boston.
   

        Here’s a little tidbit from Mairk, our number one Western Correspondent. Using his unique style of prose (bad spelling and grammar coupled with confusing sentence structure) he explains one of Smalls’ recent exploits.

"For your amusement, this is the business card of the 40 year old chick that Smalls had been banging for the past few weeks maybe months I’m not quite sure. He recently broke off ties with her after long debate.  How did he break off ties with her you may ask? Well he did what any of us would do, he took her up on a  free birthday dinner, got hammered on the fifth of Jack she bought him, fucked her in her kitchen, then snuck out her bedroom window and drove home shit faced."

       Thanks Mairk, you’re doing your pairt! Maybe Max would be interested in this WOMAN if she’s still single. From what I hear, he’s into "fit ladies."

If you haven’t noticed it already, Wish We Weren’t Friends is back from Spring Hiatus. Read Below for a more in-depth explanation of our recent failures to keep you informed.

        It’s been a disgusting few months, to be sure. Petty quarrels fueled by blasphemous allegations and homoerotic pride attempted to derail this Pulitzer Prize winning website. We have alienated our legions of fans who rely on our pathetic lives to get them through their own, and for that we apologize. But it must be noted that a wildly popular website based on the genuine dislike a group like ours has for one another is going to have more valleys than peaks, more gutters than strikes, more mid-afternoon ass piss than morning regularity.
         In the future, you should expect rampant unreliability fueled by overdramatic infighting and self-involved competitiveness.  This is what makes us such hot items in the dating world. Being terrible drunks helps too.
        But we’re back, hating each others’ guts now more than ever.  And we’ve got it all! Black eyes in the midst of late night, indoor Wiffle ball games. Passionate, in-depth discussion of our blatant, impending homosexuality on a lazy Sunday at Girard Field. Lunchtime domestic assaults on Main Street in Hanover after a night of sexual repression and alcohol abuse. 
        Birthday colonics, sex tours of Ohio, dickless men. Public masturbation, helicopter rides, tomato gardens. And yes, everyone’s favorite: early-onset erectile dysfunction.  You can get it all at Wish We Weren’t Friends.
        For now, we’ll promise what we always can: lots of dudes, warm, canned beer in large increments, and a plethora of insecurity and dependency issues. So the next time you’re smelling your fingers after scratching your grundle, swiping your parents credit card at a French Canadian bordello, or peeing in your own living room, think of us. God knows we’re thinking of ourselves.