Gabe, donating to the cause.

This website began on a cold November day two years ago in a laundromat in Brooklyn. I had been smoking pot, and idiotic ideas were coming to my brain faster than a cumshot on www.dumpstersluts.com.

Tim was folding his thongs, rich with money from flagrant nepotism, furiously searching for ways to spend his piles of gelt beyond bi-monthy trips to rural Ohio to nurture a toxic relationship.

Saul and I had been using our Verizon to Verizon minutes aggressively, freshly recovered from a fight over who should gain custody of the Ron Popeil after our brief marriage on Columbus Avenue.

"We’ll call it Wish We Weren’t Friend dot com!" I yelled, overjoyed and stinking of THC.

"It’s brilliant." Tim said, as he carelessly tossed me his credit card.

And so it began.

13,766 unique visits later (and counting) we sit on top of the Internet as one of the best websites ever created.

Fat contests, moustaches, gay innuendo, suicidal voicemails, faking the deaths of African youth, photoshoots in speedos and endless schadenfreude just begin to scrape the surface of the giant scrotum that is Wish We Weren’t Friends.

Max, enjoying a Wish We Weren’t Friends classic.

Two weeks ago, on the phone, Tim’s enthusiasm had dwindled.

"Ahhh….there’s a $250 charge from Bluehost on my credit card. Do you know anything about that? I checked to see if it was an leftover fee from Shemuscle.com, but it wasn’t."

And so, as we enter our 3rd full year, it’s up to you, our readers, to keep this website going.

Over the next several weeks (or until all the Jews pay, which ever comes first) we will be holding the 1st annual NPR-style fundraiser.

For every donation of $10.59, my fat, hairy, uncircumsized loaf in the top right corner of this page will gradually, and thankfully, transform into Buck Baker’s fit, handsome, viral torso - a real reward for any true fan of this site.

As the drive goes on, we will post a series of statistics, polls, and greatest hits as a reminder to why you love this site like only you can - drunkly, yearning for a better time in your life, when you were skinnier and smarter, funnier, better at sports, and sexually active.

So pull those pants up from around your ankles, throw away your semen filled sock (3 times is the limit,) forget about texting that fat girl you fucked on Halloween, and get ready to participate!

Welcome to the 2009 Wish We Weren’t Friend Fund Drive. Our goal: $250 - enough to pay for the next 2 years.

Looks to be a little too friendly for a lawyer-client relationship

When Saul heard that Mitch was heading down from Oregon on a quick California vacation to the Santa Rosa County Courthouse, and was looking for some pro bono legal representation in case things turned sour, he did what any normal friend would do: cancelled the day’s luncheons and meetings,* raced out to buy a grey three-piece suit and purple necktie, and woke up at 4:00 A.M. the next morning to research the California penal code before the big day.

                    

      Rubbing one out for good luck                             A quick spritz of Vidal Sasoon Mousse

Although able to document Mitch’s temporary transformation into an apparently upstanding citizen as he donned “business casual” attire and gave himself “a quick spritz” in the courthouse parking lot, Saul’s photojournalistic endeavors unfortunately came to a decisive end minutes later, when he was caught attempting to smuggle a digital camera through an x-ray machine and was momentarily barred from the courthouse as a result.

Once that little knot had been untangled, Saul rejoined his client in Courtroom 9 with no further trouble, and the morning proceeded uneventfully as the pair sat in the back of the courtroom, giggling about how much more fun they were having than the obese, handcuffed, wheelchair-bound woman who broke down into tears soon after being wheeled into court.

Their childish, carefree laughter unfortunately attracted the attention of a surly Hispanic prisoner, freshly delivered from the local prison system, whose very neck-tattoos seemed to quiver with dislike as he spied them from his “box” at the front of the courtroom. Although Mitch forgot to ask him the status on his steak and cheese, his glares still became so ferocious that they were noticed by a husky bailiff, who approached the chuckling pair and told them that any more “communication with the prisoners” could lead to their “immediate arrest.”

Strangely enough, the incident made Saul miss Mike for the first time in his life, as he wistfully thought about how Mike would have shot back a line such as, “Well, my grandfather was a Santa Rosa bailiff, and he says all the bailiffs around these days are faggots.”**

But by the time Docket #4: The People v. Mitchell B. was called, the confidence of the defense was again high, and Mitch faced Judge Stephanie with every intention of taking a page from Buck Baker’s book and “charming her goddamn robe off.”

Unfortunately, it didn’t take a lawyer of Saul’s formidable abilities to notice that the two didn’t seem to be hitting it off as expected, and Fair but Firm seemed to be drifting steadily towards the Firm side with every passing second. Why? We might never know. All that remains certain is that her scowl quickly grew as she caught sight of Mitch’s bushy black beard, lime-green shirt, and million-watt smile advancing towards her. Below are a few brief excerpts to illustrate the next few minutes.

JUDGE:                       What is your profession?

MITCH:                       I’m a mentor…***

JUDGE:                       So you’re telling me you work with children?

MITCH:                       Yeah.

JUDGE:                       What do you think your employers would say if they knew you had pending drug charges against you?

MITCH: (huge grin)   I don’t think they’d like it.

——————————

Judge Stephanie then went on to lecture Mitch for several minutes (with little to no visible effect) before asking him whether he preferred to receive a monetary fine or attend 20 NA meetings.

MITCH:                       I’ll go with the fine, yeah.

JUDGE:                       The fine?

MITCH:                       Yeah.

JUDGE:                       What are you saying? I can’t even understand you.

MITCH:                       Yeah.

JUDGE:                       Do you mean yes?

MITCH:                       Yeah.

JUDGE: (agitated)        Then say “yes.” Not “yeah,” but “yes.” Okay?

MITCH:                       Yes.

Although Saul was on the edge of his seat wondering whether to object to this exchange on the grounds of badgering the witness, Husky Bailiff shot him a warning look, and he restrained himself until joining his client outside the courtroom, where they agreed that it had probably been a good decision not to enter a Nolo Contrendre plea as originally planned. 

Aren’t oysters an aphrodesiac?

From there, it was a quick drive back to the first San Francisco oyster bar they could find, where they celebrated the greatest client-attorney pairing since OJ Simpson/Johnnie Cochran by sucking down oysters, crab cocktail with extra ‘Louie’ sauce, and a bottle of white wine faster than you can say not guilty.****

These are simply too good to leave out

Ms. January 2009

EDITORIAL CORRECTIONS

* Saul has actually been unemployed since August, and the last work-related meeting he has had was his Moustache March ’08 photoshoot with Mairk

** It was this line – with the words “Boston cop” substituted for “Santa Rosa bailiff” that led to Mike’s arrest in the winter of ’01

*** Technically untrue, as Mitch was laid off on New Year’s Day.

**** Mitch was actually found guilty

 

Max trying to convince Courtney that sleeping with him will make her boyfriend love her more.

     By my count I have driven home to Hanover for the Christmas holidays approximately 8 times since graduating high school. It’s scary to think about how that number, much like Alex’s ass hair and Pappas’s dry streak, will only continue to grow. And as I make the same monotonous drive up 93 and 89 North each year, staying awake by packing lippers and giving myself boners thinking of fantastical hookups that will never be, the same questions always seem to headline my thinking; which of the touch-holes I know will be around, how will I get my car home each night, and most importantly, which girl might slip up and inadvertently have sex with one of us?

    First I’d like to thank the group of Pontius Pilates’ who decided to spin their dradles somewhere else this year (Gaybe, Alex, Sk, Saul). There was also the welcomed absence of the lame duck boyfriends’ brigade, namely Tim “gayer by the day” Draper and Mike “TEFL for life” O’Donnell.

    Once I pulled into town it was time to revert into the standard problem drinker mode, which consists of not calling your parents to tell them you’re home and going to pick up Max from wherever he passed out the previous night.

Mairk is scheming.

    In an effort to find bars with an atmosphere more closely embodying a “Loutish Vulgarity” to Main Street’s “Polished Casual,” we stumbled into India Queen, where I would spend a large part of my Christmas Eve and Christmas night with various Hanover Jews and townies. No other place in Hanover offers you the option of a whiskey and coke ‘neat’, curry at all hours, and a bartender who genuinely looks like he is trying to decide whether you are real or not.

Highlights of the week include:

•    Christmas Eve drinking with Max and Eli where questions such as whose life is more pathetic, where at midnight could we go to shoot guns, and how best to talk Max out of getting a twelve-pack and drinking down at the ropes course were answered.

•    Tom vomiting in the Willey’s driveway after he was invited up for a “party” but was really just a ploy by Max to get people to come up there so he wouldn’t be drinking alone.

•    Tom subsequently passing out in T-Dick’s 6 year-old niece’s bed, covers and all (those are your uncle’s drunken shit-bag friends honey.)

•    A classic Smalls’ pairty complete with hot older girls, moving the dining room table down to the basement to play Beirut, and a late night tirade by a furious Mr. Smalls which Ryan and Jillian wholeheartedly ignored.

•    A groundbreaking weekend sexcapade carried out by Buck Baker and Ms. Richmond School ‘96 which included a dramatic bloody nose injury suffered during the initial encounter from a wayward Charchie elbow.

•    The text messaging and calling of Tom and Alex immediately following the hook up to relentlessly make fun of them for not being Baker.

•    A humdinger of a party put on by Mairk in leb-town that introduced two new ‘Scoma girls to the Hanover scene and who were promptly surrounded and accosted by members of the graduating classes of ’97 through ’99.

•    The next day when a large group of us got hammered in town following the realization that the Patriots were getting screwed out of the playoffs with an 11-5 record courtesy of another stinker by suck ass Brett Favre.

•    Later that night stumbling around downtown with Mahler, Max and some younger kid looking for a secret spot to get high and then eventually giving up and smoking a bowl right on School St.

Max and Ashley get confused while man-whoring.

And thus all of my earlier questions were answered in spades, as they always are.

    It’s somewhat comforting to know that we can still tie it on like we’re completely oblivious to the expectations society has for people in their mid-twenties (and we are.) Sure our sperm may be “lazy”, our alcohol tolerance “alarming” and our potential a little “peaked” but that doesn’t mean we’ve stopped enjoying ourselves on that glorious free fall to the unforgiving ground.

    So another Hanover holiday season comes to an end and we’re all still alive, nobody has “come out” or is serving time for killing a stripper (yet.) I say here’s to another year of questionable drinking, risky behavior and a general ambivalence towards responsibility. Who knows, maybe 2009 will be the year it all comes together for us (but it probably won’t.)

Cheers.

Saul, Max said he was willing to have a three-way mediation (anal romp) with you to mend all the rifts your deep emotional problems have created over the past few months. He wants Tim and I to be the third person.

When I found out about Dr. Baker Jr. jamming it home to my one true love I grabbed Mr. Harriman, drove to Acadia and cried like a bitch in my tent while RVZ fought raccoons outside and Gabe laughed at me.

Nantucket. Nantucket. Nantucket.