Unlike other, lazier blogs who take the day off, we’re committed to continuing to feed your need for social belonging throughout the holiday season. (Although, ironically, this is the first post here in weeks.)
Most of you have tucked your tail between your legs and shacked up with your parents, and for those of you who have, enjoy having to smoke reefer by your bathroom window, enjoy drinking at the Canoe Club with people who were in middle school when we graduated, and enjoy reliving your glory days on the new field turf at HHS during the alumni match tomorrow.
If you’re striking it out on your own this Thanksgiving, let it be known in the comments where you are and what you’re up to. Your fearless admin and his girlfriend found another orphaned spirit and are pulling a three-man Thanksgiving in Evanston, IL, where we recently enjoyed our first snowfall.
PAIRT 1
A few weeks into our move to Charlestown, Draper and I discovered that Noah had been sponsoring a Save the Children boy named Dionisio Tumbo. A bright young man with all the ambition his little heart could hold. As the weeks went by and the letters from Save the Children kept arriving and Noah continued to make payments, Draper and I continued to make fun of the Noah. It wasn’t necessarily because he was sponsoring a child in need which is a great thing, it was because….you know what….he’s losing a who do you hate more vote ballot to Mike, I don’t have to explain why the hell we were making fun of him.
So one day while Noah was at work and Draper and I continued to strain the springs on our lazy boy and couch with our unemployed bodies, a light bulb went off in Tim’s mind. He put down his daily lunch of saltines, peanut butter and bacon sandwich, and Stop & Shop fruit punch mix and simply said, “We should kill Noah’s kid”. As I muted the COPS episode and sat up I replied, “Yes…..YES!!!”
The next letter to arrive was intercepted by us and as I was successful opening the envelope carefully with hopes of re-sealing it, I knew we were underway. I proceeded to research the Save the Children Company, the Mozambique area, and any letters Noah had received until this point. I put together the following letter. Enjoy….
PAIRT 2
It had been days of the letter just sitting on our coffee table and the suspense had been driving us crazy. Then one night when Max was visiting we came back from a drunken night on the town and started watching TV when Noah came out of his room saying “OH MY FUCKING GOD, MY FUCKING KID DIED!!!!” The best part was our outburst of laughter was not going to give anything away because let’s face it; that’s funny. This was the only brief laughter that came out of Noah however as the rest of his period of staying up that night was a sense of disbelief. “In the picture they sent me of him he looked so healthy!” He protested. “These things happen” we said. Before Noah went to bed Max and Tim gave him a hairtfelt hug as Noah kept saying he was so down from what had happened. “I’m so depressed I don’t think I can even go jerk off before I go to sleep” I believe were his exact words. Too bad for Noah, the worst had not passed.
A few weeks passed and I started to construct a 2nd and final letter letting Noah know the details of Dionisio’s death. The 2nd envelope I tried to open was not as easy as the first. I held it just over the stove trying to melt the glue but it almost burned it up. So I just did my best with a knife and then resealed it with a delicate application of super glue using a Q-tip.
Then Draper walked in with new mail from Save the Children. This one opened as easy as the first, and what it contained put a spin on my plans. It was a drawing from Dionisio, for Noah, of the little hut he lived in. So I thought of a new idea for this one, and put the letter with the details of the death on hold for it to be a 3rd letter. I enclosed this 2nd letter, with the drawing, and as I did with the first one, threw some little Save the Children flyer that had come to make it look more believable.
PAIRT 3
Noah was very impressed with Save the Children at this point. Their offices were doing a great job of finding out the details and keeping in touch with Noah about their progress. He started to feel a bond with Dionisio’s parents because of the fact that they wanted him to have his drawing. After a few days of letting that blow settle in to Noah, the 3rd letter was already sealed and waiting for delivery.
EPILOGUE
In closing, below should be a link for the audio I recorded on my phone. I set it on the coffee table out of view to capture Noah’s reaction to the letter. It really says it all for you. He believed every pairt. The only thing it did not capture was the look on his face when they blamed his homosexuality for Dionisio’s death. But he still believed that part too. Cheers to unemployment!
LISTEN HERE TO NOAH’S REACTION AS HE LEARNED ABOUT THE FIASCO!
I apologize if my language gets a little sloppy as I breathlessly type this post, but this news is so exciting, I just have to get it up as quickly as possible. Not so quickly that I can’t pause to point out the fact that I just said "I just have to get it up as quickly as possible." Tee hee!
Just moments ago, one of this site’s founders contacted me to ask me to work on the site. I was thrilled! It’s been more than two months since WWWF has seen new content, and we’re going to get rolling again. Sadly, this was not the case. He simply wanted me to remove all instances of his last name from the site, further distancing himself from it.
Lame.
Alex offered to pay me to not do it, but by then I already had, and it was a huge pain in the ass, and I love spite as much as the next guy, but I wasn’t about to change it all back.
In an attempt to stop the top image of the previous post from being the first thing a visitor sees when they check out the website, I though it would be an appropriate time to update everyone on the current status of things.
As I’m spending most of the summer two towns north and one town east of our old digs, Alex and Saul have been doing most of the posting themselves with relative success. Alex has a doozy in the on-deck circle right now with a bunch of (allegedly) hilarious voicemails, but sadly the MP3s he uploaded don’t work, so it’ll have to wait until he returns from Germany.
In the meantime, we’re still open to any content sent our way. Since making Noah an official author of the site, he’s contributed nothing. Awesome.
By the way, we had an LC party last night. Where was everyone? The Sage-line didn’t ring once.
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.
By: Mairk
I have now been unemployed for over two weeks. One of those weeks I spent with my mother and grandmother in Disney World only to be saved by the Willey sisters for an extended weekend.
It was somewhere in the middle of Florida that I realized that not only was Utah the weirdest state I had ever been in, but that I was starting to get the general feeling that the majority of America just blows. I finally understand why and how our Mr. George W. is our president, and why so many people have a general dislike for the U.S. of A. Everything about it from our waist lines to our servings to our borders is just way to big.
To top everything off my flight back to Utah from Tampa Bay was via Las Vegas. As we all know from my previous post, me and Las Vegas are not exactly on speaking terms at the moment and I don’t think we will ever patch up our relationship. The moment I stepped out of the runway I heard the digital noise of slot machines. For those of you who have never been to the Vegas airport let me just tell you it is just as shitty as the city. The Las Vegas Visitors Bureau has done an incredible job at portraying the character and emotion of their city in the atmosphere of their airport.
I arrived back in our little mountain town Tuesday night and by Friday afternoon I had submitted one application for a job that I don’t even want. However in feeling a sense of accomplishment we set our sites on the night and proceeded to get shitfaced. After all, it was Friday and I didn’t have a job, and I didn’t have shit to do. As usual, while pre-gaming we got more inebriated than one should before going to drink at a bar for the rest of the night. The most spirited drinker award was presented to Mr. Small, and that is where my story ends and his begins.
We embarked for our local throw-your-peanut-shells-on-the-cement-floor alcohol serving establishment. It was at this very same bar where no more than a week ago our hyper-man child decided to take a piss on that very concrete floor near the Big Buck Hunter gaming machine in the back. Not to have himself outdone by himself on this night he chose to pull the trigger right at the end of the bar.
Of course everyone working behind the bar was well acquainted with the entire Small experience. At this point Smalls was swiftly dragged out of the bar by his shoulders, shit eating grin on his face, shaking his clasped hands from left to right as a 1920’s bare knuckle prize fighter may have once done. Following not twenty feet behind was his baby sitter we had hired for the night, his younger sister. Reports from the babysitter tell us that once outside the bar, Smalls chose to take a piss in the middle of the street as well as on a nearby car, bringing up memories of the piss he took a few weeks ago on the porch of a bar only steps away from the entrance.
As per usual we didn’t leave the bar once our friend was kicked out, instead we stayed and drank more, assuming that if he was drunk enough to get kicked out of the bar he was drunk enough to find his way home. Instead he found his way to the bar across the street, where he was shockingly allowed to stay and drink till closing time. We stumbled home at staggered times from various places in solo squadrons.
The next morning, feeling as confused as a newborn as to what had happened the night before, we chose to take a trip to Wal-Mart to purchase nothing other than what any other 24-year-old would want to buy. You guessed correctly we were looking for Heelys at Wal-Mart.
With wild images running through our heads of rolling down the hill three abreast, to the bar on our heels. Being at the cement floored bar rolling around on our heels with oversized fish bowls filled with PBR. We were going to be Royalty, maybe a heely 360 to impress the ladies. To our amazement it turns out that Wal-Mart doesn’t sell them. Not to be deterred we perused the aisles of Wal-Mart, only to come upon the BB Gun section. “YES, let’s get a BB Gun!” exclaimed Smalls (if you couldn’t tell by the exclamation point).
Apparently Smalls’ parents would never let him get a BB gun as a child, and after seeing Smalls with a BB gun, I can say that his parents are incredibly intelligent people. They obviously knew the character of their child better than us asshole friends. Living in a rather residential area we weren’t comfortable walking around our canyon neighborhood armed, so we chose to set up a shooting range inside. With a spare piece of rug left on our apartment, we created a pad to “safely” shoot into and attached beer cans and targets. So with our range up and our blinds closed we spent the afternoon drinking beers and shooting the BB gun inside our apartment on a blue sky Saturday with highs in the seventies.
By the way we purchased a dog mascot head for a dollar at the thrift store.
UPDATE: I, admin, received this picture, and didn’t put it up right away. My bad. Noah grew a moustache and deserves to be recognized. Do so here, and in the Moustache March Photo Gallery.
Ah spring, a time for pelting rain, sub-freezing temperatures, continued weight gain, and false love. This voicemail from Max reminds us what inspires the excitement of the season: the chase of the elusive springtime beauty.
Moustache March is New Years Eve, and April is New Year’s Day. The former, a glorious, carefree celebration that, no matter how good, never lives up to the hype. The latter, a harsh realization of what a waste of your life that was, followed by an equally long period of lethargy, mourning and recovery. We’ll do what we can to keep things fresh in the coming weeks, but how much can you honestly expect from us? Three fifths of us are still nursing our formerly sheltered upper lips, and the other two are of weak moral fiber. We’ll eventually return to form. It will be like a danaus plexippus emerging from the cocoon. Or like that Jesus fellow.
In the meantime, we’ve got each other, and we’ve got baseball:
6:42 PM, April 4, 2007:
Aldo: april is here and its 40 and raining
Admin: It’s snowing here. But Johnny Damon can "barely walk."
Aldo: HA! what’s wrong with him?
Admin: He left the first game with cramps. (Vaginal)
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
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. (more…)
Unlike other, lazier blogs who take the day off, we’re committed to continuing to feed your need for social belonging throughout the holiday season. (Although, ironically, this is the first post here in weeks.)
Reports from the babysitter tell us that once outside the bar, Smalls chose to take a piss in the middle of the street as well as on a nearby car, bringing up memories of the piss he took a few weeks ago on the porch of a bar only steps away from the entrance.
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.
By: Mairk 
