Earthquakes Couldn’t Stop This ‘Stache
Wednesday, March 10th, 2010
Hola chicas,
Here´s what my morning might look like if I had a job.
–Mike
Author Archive
Sasquatch Sighting ‘09
Thursday, November 12th, 2009
This is how happy living THAT far away from Hanover will make a man.
In the hopes of escaping the dreadful autumn rat race of Hope, Alaska (population 137) our beloved Sean included Bend, OR with Maui and Las Vegas in his annual Autumn Barbapalooza vacanza of hippie speedballs, adventure sports and satirical American literature. He ate bacon, climbed Terrrebonne’s famed Monkey Face, and called a blind-behind-the-back-bank shot at the bar pool table in front of a gaggle of gapers.
One afternoon, between thermi of French press and his third tobacco-heavy "persie," Squatch managed to channel his inner sexual zen and use our pre-9/11 magnetic poetry to leave a lyrical musing on the Mackay/Bacon fridge.
wet fat farts whisper below
buzz chirp flow regret
stop
liquid? lie sacrifice
embrace the hot rainbow with thundering silence
like an lighting owl without a window
reach search blow dusk storm
corduroy soft
velvet despair blooms for eternity
and
as the old sparrow leaves streaming color
joy & spring die within her
he jumps
her soft silent eyes farm tears
as the slow hot breeze float as fragrant sorrow
deep dark color
surrounding us like islands in ocean
or a
pond around a tadpole
how why
&
east west
ice clouds of rain appear above her love
she reveals her heart
no air horizon reflection or livelihood
crickets cry with
every man
I almost never create a stir
sigh
Just like Kingsford Road in 10th grade.
When I returned from work, where I had made 4 gallons of blue cheese dressing from scratch with my bare hands, Sean recited his art over cocktails, much like the ones you see above. Mitch giggled and I rubbed my face, happy to once again share in a moment with our hairy, untamed friend, a rare sighting in the Lower 48.
Labor Day Baseball 2009
Tuesday, July 28th, 2009
The Cherry Popper
Wednesday, May 6th, 2009
The first time I truly got drunk – not including a few games of just the tip in Noah’s basement with Sean, a 12-pack of Coors Original, and some oregano – was at my house, sophomore year, after winter exams.
My parents had gone to inspect lava rock in the Canadian Rockies or bike across Kazakhstan or some such thing, leaving me alone on Occom Ridge with sixty bucks, Esker, and a computer that downloaded porn slower than my hand jack would have liked.
My best friend at the time, Rian Wenti, had effortlessly constructed a Power Hour Mix CD on his computer in “The Basement.” Brian’s computer had always been good to us, giving us Hellcats, AOL chatrooms, and Jenny McCarthy’s unbleached pubic hair.
For a couple of handjobs, Bom Tirner got us a 24-pack of Bud Light.
Around noon, we finished our last tests, grabbed our backpacks from our lockers on the downstairs hallway, stared at Tiffany’s tomboy boobs, and high-tailed it to my house.
Up in my room, me, Brian, and someone who I can’t remember (most likely Gabe, which is embarrassing to admit) poured beer into Mexican shot glasses, while Aerosmith, Primus, and Everclear blasted on my 3-disc changer.
60 minutes, 60 shots of beer. Every minute the song changed - in this case from Sweet Baby James to Black Hole Sun.
Brian and I had figured out, repeatedly, that:
1 shot = 1.5 oz
60 shots = 90 oz
1 beer = 12 oz
60 shots = 7.5 beers
Seven-and-a-half beers in an hour. We were assured of being drunk.
All the while, Max was supposed to come over. Yes, that’s right, this story is about Max. He was supposed to come over, but he was at Marty and Nancy’s. They were out of town too, at a furniture expo or a swingers party or something, all of which was expected by that time in our drinking careers - or lack there of. Max kept telling us on the phone that he was just going to take one more tequila shot and then he was going to come over.
After the power hour, I’m not sure exactly what happened. I know that I pulled my pants down in that closet-of-a-downstairs bathroom and Brian took a picture of my hairy ass. We forget that at 16, my ass hair was an international point of interest. I still have the Polaroid someplace in a shoebox, on top of a bunch of letters from a recovering alcoholic I consistently enabled for blacked-out sex in college.
(Do it all again in a second.)
Anyways, back in Hanover, we made our way to the bottom of my hill, where H5 used to pick me and Bill Wittinger up to go to the Ray School.
We were standing around, shitfaced, and Max came running down the hill from the direction of Webster Avenue. It was the end of January, with snow banks surrounding us, and he was wearing that stupid Mardi Gras tee shirt, his faded jeans, and some shitty pair of Asics running shoes. His face and his bare arms were bright red. His grand entrance crescendoed when he rammed face-first into a snow bank at our feet, bursting with joy and excitement from managing to get so drunk.
(Gabe) and Brian went off, probably to check in with their parents, and Max and I marched ourselves straight to EBA’s, where we managed to organize a booth. As we all can imagine, he was completely impossible to deal with. He wanted to hear nothing of him being mentally handicapped in public. He was going to be loud, and stupid, and when I didn’t play along, he was glad to start some sort of altercation to entertain himself.
Max may have gone to the salad bar after ordering, I can’t completely remember, but it makes sense. When his EBA Chicken Sandwich with everything came, he covered both sides in ketchup and carefully folded over the bun.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, as he got up from the booth, his sandwich untouched.
Soon, the waitress came.
Out on Allen Street, Max had projectile vomited all over the sidewalk. I came in time to witness a the steaming, pink trajectory splashing off the concrete onto the brown, melting snow.
“I gotta get out of here,” he said, hunched over and spitting, puke all over the front of that stupid shirt.
Later on that day, Max called me from his house.
“I walked to Ledyard Bridge and got a ride home from Hrian Bunt’s dad.
“I’m never going to drink again.”
Max May
Monday, May 4th, 2009
SK sent me this photo to end our content drought. It made me realize we could just write and talk about Max for the rest of the month and solve a lot of our "lack of creativity" problems.
Saul also suggested starting a TEXT MESSAGE OF THE WEEK box on the front page. Because he’s on his way to JOKE ERASED FROM EXISTENCE DUE TO COMPLAINT, I thought I’d just chime in with my favorite Max text from the last few months.
High school cheerleading on ESPN2
Send in your stories, texts, voicemails and suggestions to admin@wishwewerentfriends.com
Are You Ready?
Sunday, March 1st, 2009
It’s the most popular month of the Wish We Weren’t Friends year.
Rejoice! And join in the fun by submitting your pictures to admin@wishwewerentfriends.com
Don’t be a pussy. Just do it.
Please Donate Now
Monday, February 2nd, 2009
Awesome!
There were weed brownies at our super bowl party.
And 50 meat pies.
As our donation drive continues, we can’t help but mention a few real menches that have supported the website thus far:
Mairk
Mike
SK
Gabe
Samson
Alex
You can add your name to that list.
If you live in Boston and you hate your roommates, past and present, you must pay.
If you know when Max jerks off, you must pay.
If you live in a boarding house in San Francisco, you must pay.
If you live with me, you must pay.
If you are one of three girls that still talks to us, you must pay.
If you are a sketchy mom who reads this website, please don’t donate.
If you slept with Alexis, you must pay.
If you live in Alaska and have a leg hair contest with your girlfriend, you must pay.
If you have an STD from a girl you picked up on the lift, you must pay.
If you shat your pants eating lunch on Thursday (me) you must pay. (Cottage cheese.)
You both owe money.
Text messages, tonight:
Text messages, tonight:
MAX: R u in contact with saul?
ALEX: No.
MAX: Id like to set up a sit down.
ALEX: Whose side are you on
MAX: Mine
ALEX: Then ill do it
MAX: We need u and mitch to mediate and tim to serve as the ruling party
ALEX: I want my own sit down then
MAX: Ok ill mediate then
MAX: He is such a fucking dickhole
2009 WWWF Fund Drive
Wednesday, January 28th, 2009
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.
2009: Year of the Dirtbag
Monday, January 5th, 2009
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.
Recession ‘08
Friday, December 12th, 2008
The dirt on the lens is for emphasis.
I am pathetic.
Twenty-five, relatively fat (sorry Mairk), completely unemployed, highly educated, and moderately (completely) addicted to internet porn.
So fuck you. You limp-dick anti-Semites You are terrible. All of you. Completely worthless.
Saul, living at your parents’ summer house is not being a writer.
Noah, I’d rather die than have you administer any form of first aid on my helpless body. And that goes for everyone.
Gabe. Way to be anexoric. And get plastic surgery.
And that’s just the beginning. Draper, you fucking racist.
Max, if I get one more text message from you at 2 PM where you describe how you’re in the process of jerking off, I’m going to puke. Writing “Tell me how Mitch smells, slowly” was one of the funniest things I’ve ever read, however. (Gabe, I know the grammar is wrong you fucking pussy. Why don’t you cheat on your homework.)
God, you guys suck.
As you can see, Mitch has lost a lot of sleep over his portfolio the last few months.
And here I am, in Bend, Oregon. With an out of season moustache, a landline, and an uncircumsized penis. (HIGH5 Tom)
Completely unemployed – I’ve applied to literally 25 jobs. The gayest interaction occurring when I dropped my resume at the Crepe Place, where a 47 year-old blonde with fake tits tried to hide the fact that there was no way in HELL she was hiring a registered sex offender for that job.
So what do I do, you ask? Wake about around 9:45. Jerk off.
Then around noon Mitch and I go for an outing in his early 90’s Subaru Loyale. We make wild claims about how we hate the girls we are actually obsessed with, talk about buying pot, and then find ourselves in one of the area’s many fine thrift stores, eying the selection of French Press and confessing that we both have to poop.
Later on, we play cribbage, and I complain about how there aren’t any jobs in town. Mitch checks the government weather on our stolen Internet (the FBI is going to the THEIR house, not mine), hopes for snow, and psychoanalyzes me.
And man, is there a lot to psychoanalyze.
Usually around 5:15 we start a fire. Drinking commences, and we begin to slowly but methodically act out a complete hypocrisy of everything we claimed to do during daylight hours.
Two for $5
I’ve got a plan though – to sell meatpies from a Dick Clapp in the center of the action. I’m banking on Tim (whose completely pussy whipped) to move AWAY from his girlfriend (for the 4th straight year) and run the whole thing for me while I write the checks.
Plus Saul is trying to swoop in and fuck it up, like only he knows how – with platters of Dungeness Crab and steak tartar for lunch. Who would win between him and SK in a one-on-one decathlon, by the way? Poll?
Anyways, my high is fading, so I’m going to stop. Dave, nice blackout move – convince Tim to pin Mike down while you fuck him in the ass. Jesus Christ dude.
In an aside (do you know what that is Smalls, you stupid fuck?), this website is ABSOLUTE GOLD. I literally would offer it as an IPO at 10M, no less.
No one does shit. Saul is such a cock tease, and nowadays just fucks us for 15 minutes, rolls off and leaves.
Tim couldn’t care less, and actually talked about how it should be erased from existence when he was being all righteous in the Castro over Thanksgiving.
Gabe is the Acie Earl of the website – his team sucks, and he’s the worst one on it. The fact that he thinks he is some sort of influencing force is retarded – Gabe, you haven’t done anything of worth, and you’re links SUCK. Happy Birthday.
But it’s gold – gold, Jerry. It’s authentic, and original, and absolutely hilarious. And if we didn’t snort so much of Hillary’s adderall when we got together, we could make something of it.
So fuck you.
Baker, you couldn’t pay me to put your hands in my kids mouths. And if I ever catch you in the kitchen with my wife opening a bottle of Chardonnay, I’ll fucking kill both of you.
Dericious!
