With our massively successful website now in its second year, I thought it would be a good moment to look back at some of our favorite posts of all-time. As SK has apparently ceased communication with all of his (non)friends, what a better way to start WWWF Classics than to remember his famous, and only, entry from February 26, 2007.  Not only does it remind us of how bald SK has become (which has probably gotten exponentially worse since this picture was taken), but by looking at the fascinatingly horrendous picture below, it also selfishly makes me feel a hell of a lot better about my deteriorating hair situation. So, read on, and remember SK. Maybe this will get him to pipe up and give us an update on his Southeast Asian So-Called Sexcapades.

Baring it All: Ruminations on the Balding Process

By SK

I recently spent a romantic weekend with an older woman at a plush tropical resort on an idyllic island.  It was a weekend, of course, filled with all of the accoutrements we would hope for and expect from a member of our challenged crew - feelings of inadequacy, awkward Freudian slips, ejaculations so premature they should have landed in an incubator at Dartmouth-Hitchcock, followed by blowjobs so endless and unsatisfying that I could only guess at the irritation and anger roiling through this woman’s much more sexually-experienced medulla.  I sheepishly made my way off by boat on Sunday afternoon, my top-heavy pack nearly toppling me into Gulf of Thailand, weighted down with all sorts of needless gear which I had so gleefully bought only months before from various establishments in West Lebanon, New Hampshire, and had sweetly organized in Glad bags on the floor of my bedroom.

Having escaped back to Bangkok for a week of holing up in my guest house before flying out of this shame-inducing country, I felt safe and comforted for one of the few times since leaving the womb in Lyme and venturing out on the "journey of my life," for which, I have since learned, I am desperately unprepared.
 
Perched on a stool in a brightly lit internet-cafe, I happily commiserated with my comrades on WWWF and felt a little bit less lonely in my pathetic relationship to the female species.  Then I checked my email and was once again plunged into the morasse of deep, spirit-raping depression when I saw the photo pictured here.  Taken by my lady-lover, and apparently sent to me in some fit of cruel revenge for having so boyishly occupied her vagina over the past days, I retired to the bathroom where I managed to do the only thing I’m good at - clogging toilets the world over.
 
Yes, world, I am a rapidly balding 24 year-old.  I make no bones about it.  Actually, fuck that I make multiple bones about it - Why God?  Why have I been thus cursed??  Why the fuck am I going bald???
 
After passing through this initial phase of despair, I once again take refuge here with you, my undesirable yet unshakeable group of "friends."  For there are those among you, yes it’s true, who share my dark fate.  Let’s see…well I guess I’ll start closest to home.  Smalls, I fear that your receding hairline has not yet quenched its thirst for smooth, babylike hairlessness.  Good Saul, who is editing this post and who hopefully has enough integrity in journalistic freedom not to strike this sentence, yes Saul, you are thinning faster than Alex wishes that he were.  And TColla, as I no longer fear physical retribution due to our being separated by thousands of miles of ocean, I feel that I must reiterate David Spade’s age-old wisdom, as told to Michael Bolton - no matter how long it gets in the back, we all know what’s happening on top.  And Noah, sad, sad Noah, whose pride is so blinding that he just can’t for the life of him admit that he doesn’t wear a hat 23 hours a day just because he’s got a misshaped head - no, no, you do it because you’re going fucking bald.  I suppose that, as a fellow victim of early onset hair loss, I should let you in on the little secret that wearing a hat accelerates the process.  Accept who you are man!  Free yourself!  There are others among you…Draper, I sense some latent baldness inside of you; and for some reason (maybe I had some inside info) I really sense that Michael Ashley will be horribly, frighteningly bald in the near future. Of course, every group of men has to have its king among them, and it goes without any deliberation to crown that man on top of his malnourished peach locks - William Kitzmiller, we bow our heads in thanks and praise to you for making us all feel a little bit better about ourselves (and so you can put some sunblock on our bald spots, it’s real hard to see on top like that).
 
Some of you have the privilege of laughing at this story of mine.  But there are those of us who live this hell everyday, and we hate you very, very much.  To all of you, but especially to those of the group who don’t have to be careful in the shower not to rub the volume-enhancing shampoo in too hard lest it wrench a few more sprigs from their nests, honestly and truly, I wish we weren’t friends. 

This came in yesterday from Rory-not-Chainsaw-Class-of-2000:

I’ve got yet another last minute submission for the 2008 Moustache Gallery.  One of my roommates and I took part in this glorious celebration of the ’stache and wanted to share the cookie dusters that had been growing here in SoHo with the rest of the world.  Of course, this became a little bit more complicated after Dr. Douchebag DDS came up with an unbelievably well done, though completely gay (who took those pictures anyway?), photo spread.  No, after seeing these shots of Baker it became clear that we needed to put some more thought into the project.  After much deliberation, American Amber Ale and Scotch Whisky the other morning we realized that it was already March 29th and we needed to act quickly lest the month slip away from us.  So we set to work putting together our audio-visual tribute to the moustache.  You will find the results attached…