FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

WWWF is happy to announce that after a long delay it is finally getting into the magazine publishing industry. Although this news may not come as a surprise to its bored and indifferent readers, it was naturally assumed by everyone that the initial foray would be purely pornographic, aiming to entertain readers with such possible cover features such as:
  
•    Dave Does Dallas
   
•    How To (Kind of) Have Sex While Floppy

Special travel editions, such as
•    The San Fernando Valley on $5 a Day

And of course the long-awaited Bedroom Profile
•    STANDING PROUD
Corporal Max: Always Outweighed, Never Outdone

However, WWWF’s first full-length magazine series will instead focus on the lucrative smokeless tobacco market. Lacking the creativity to produce its own original format, the magazine will simply do what its contributors did in any high-school physics test and leach off its more-intelligent neighbors instead.

Thus, instead of the Wine Spectator, we give you the heavily-plagiarized but otherwise unaffiliated Dip Spectator, a magazine devoted exclusively to the kind of tobacco that makes its home between gums and lip.

Please feel free to send in ideas for articles over the coming weeks.

Out of desperation for content, Dip Spectator will cover any product at all – just so long as it is guaranteed to give its users incurable lip and mouth cancer within twenty years.

Happy reading, and happy dipping!

Same weight, double the girl.

The general reaction was “it’s about fucking time” when the bald, frumpy senior citizen that we used to know as SK moved across the world from us*, but after the initial glee at his long-awaited departure wore off, speculation on the real facts of the matter began to run rampant. What exactly happened, anyway? Is it really possible that SK is in Sydney, Australia? And more importantly, is it really possible that SK is that bald? And most importantly of all, what was going on with that female figure standing next to SK – was she, or was she not, a tranny, and either way, how much had she been paid?

Having nothing but time on our hands, WWWF turned its powerful investigative arm loose, with a demand that it get to the bottom of these utterly unimportant questions as soon as possible. Months passed, and as they did, some puzzling information began to sift back to us, until eventually, with growing disgust, we slowly pieced the pieces of this contemptible puzzle together. And the true facts of the SK Situation are, I’m afraid to say, more sordid, more pathetic, than anything anyone of us – even Mike – could have imagined.

Let’s just spit it out: SK is not in Australia any more than Max is on the moon. Instead, SK is in LYME, NEW HAMPSHIRE, and has been ever since he claimed to have left the country! That’s right, everyone!  SK has been hiding out in his parents’ basement since October, 2006.

The truth is that SK, as we all know, has never been right since the night that he overdosed on an exotic combination of mushrooms and salvia in a seedy Amsterdam hotel room, while Noah, Saul, and Sam observed his breakdown with the truly sincere pleasure that can only occur when one watches a good friend doing something that everyone else knows will have a devastatingly negative effect on him for the rest of his life. Ever since then, SK has drifted through Brown University (may I remind that the other HHS person to attend that eminent institution was Paul “Oh-I’m-So-Normal” Schminlaw) and, subsequently, life with a deeply scarred mentality, existing in a paranoid world of colorful fantasy and confused imaginings where the only true anchor he has had is the undeniable fact of his own accelerated balding.

When the time came to leave Lyme for the Eastern world that he had preached about with such annoying earnestness to his so-called friends for the last three years, SK realized, with a sickening jolt, that he was unable to bring himself to go through with it. Brain sick and fogged with the remnants of saliva, he instead spun a cunning plot to spend the next five years holed up in his parents’ house, using high-powered Photoshop technology to make him appear to be moving through a variety of foreign locales. Fueled by desperation, enveloped in a thick cocoon of shedding hair, SK might well have gotten away with the whole scheme, had not his newest post – complete with girl – finally provoked us into finding out the truth.

Realizing the controversy that this post will cause, we asked our media department to offer up a quick example of how easily deceptions like this can be carried out. The above picture is the result.

* Although “it’s about fucking time” was, as stated, a generalized response to the news of SK’s departure, we realize that not all of you feel this way, and that some of you surely dislike him enough to make this reaction sadly understated. Therefore, we encourage you to think back and send in your own comments to let the WWWF community know how you felt when you first heard that you might never see SK again.

As a different exercise, feel free to rank that day among the overall best days of your life. As an example:

1.    Day I found out Tim had a trust fund I could leech off for the rest of my life
2.    Day SK said he was moving across the world
3.    Day I lost my virginity
4.    Day Noah got fired from his EMT job for pooping on a coworker’s windshield
5.    Day I heard Max lost his virginity behind a potted plant in the lobby of a Japanese brothel 

SUPER HOMOEROTIC UPDATE: Mairk’s full photoshoot of Saul and Pierre is now available here. Unfortunately there’s no nudity, but I wouldn’t exactly call it "Safe For Work" unless you work with Noah at the GLBT outreach center.

    Well, we are happy to say that our classy little number of a website can now add “Mysterious Twins” to its list of gossip topics – a list formerly limited to such perennial favorites as “Flacidity In All Its Forms,” “Fatness: The New Thin,” “Girls – What’s That Word Again?” and “How To (Not Get Not) Sick From Whiskey.: Yup – you read correctly. The always-ready cameras of our newly-appointed Creative Director, Moustache Mairk, caught Saul’s lackluster twin brother, Pierre, as he ventured onto Hanover turf for the first time since ever.

    A little background on this disburbing revelation: As most of you probably don’t remember, Saul sidled into the hallways of Hanover High School back in 1997, fresh from serving a fifteen-to-life stint in ‘Scoma. Little did anyone know that Saul – eager to take advantage of the enhanced shoplifting that HHS’s proximity to the Co-Op provided – made his move with such haste that he left behind his maladjusted twin, Pierre, whom he cautioned never to venture beyond Route 4 for fear of discovery and subsequent disgrace. Fast-forward more years than we can count, and we have Saul – an apparently upstanding and successful member of the Dartmouth community. Little did he know, as he prepared to leave for his on-campus office last Friday, that much more than his day would be interrupted when a vengeful Pierre roared back into his life on a rusting Kawasaki motorcycle that was older than both of them combined.

    As can be seen, the two environments have had dramatically different effects on the brothers’ lives. We hope you enjoy browsing through the results – whether you prefer your vests made of cheap black leather or fine Merino wool, there should be something for everyone.    

        For all those middle school and high school English teachers who threw up their hands in disgust and said Max would never amount to anything – well, apparently you’re wrong! This former Marine proved he has brains AND brawn when he strapped on his reading glasses and sauntered down to the local bookstore last week.

Here is what Max says about his newest foray into the literary world, and I quote:

————————————————————————
dear gandolf,
          this is the description of the book i’m reading, ver batum; Felix has survived operation iraqi freedom.  being turned into a vampire, by a ravenous horde of  nymphomaniacs.  now he faces his toughest task ever- navigating the the corrupt world of los angelas politics to solve the murder of a  distinguished young surgon turned porn star. But both human and vampire  alike have reasons to want this secret to stay buried……

  perhaps next i’ll read his other nover; The Nymphos of Rocky Flats.

————————————————————————

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…)

    In retrospect I suppose I chose not to wear an undershirt for a multiplicity of reasons – and they all seemed good at the time. For one thing, I was (as always) running late, and finding the time to put on two whole shirts seemed downright impossible. Even one was pushing it, and I was grateful I had the time for that. But even had I not been so rushed, it seems safe to say that my torso would never have received an undercoating. After all, every undershirt I owned was crammed into its usual storage place – my dirty, over-filled hamper. Like more than six ounces of butter a week in times of war*, laundry has become a luxury that we cannot all enjoy as we should. Of course, I’d be the first to admit that my decision was also based on pure aesthetics. With no undershirt cramping my style, I was free to unbutton my top-shirt just as much as I pleased, thereby flashing the outside world generous amounts of my muscular upper chest – and that, I tell you all, is a luxury that I will never ration. Finally, the decision seemed just plain safe. It was cold and grey outside – how, I wondered, could moisture ever materialize in such conditions?

    As I entered the first public building on my route this morning, these innocent suppositions of mine were proven horribly false. No sooner had I walked inside than I felt a crawling down my spine as my pores opened wide as the legs of a forty-five year-old Russian hooker. Cold air or not, my back had found a way to buck the trend and was now pouring enormous portions of clammy sweat from shoulders to waist. Surprised, I stopped in my tracks and, puffing mightily, managed to reach a hand behind me in order to paw awkwardly beneath my shirt. No sooner had I done so than I jerked away, horrified. I had not been dreaming. My back was altogether quite saturated. I mopped up what I could with my shirt, and then of course the next stop was the Men’s Room to make a full diagnosis. Removing my jacket, I turned and craned my neck behind me, trying to establish just of much of my shirt was sopping wet to the point of transparency. (Like mentally-challenged people in past times, backsweat is fine provided it is kept hidden and locked away.) A jaunty young fellow walked in – just an innocent passerby with a presumably full bladder. His eyes took in my stance, then darted away in horror as he pretended to have noticed nothing. I was in no mood for this. 
    “Backsweat,” I snarled at him in response to the un-asked question. “That’s right, backsweat! That’s what I’m in here for!”
He hurriedly continued to the urinal, wanting no part of my sweat-fueled rage. I stumbled out of the bathroom, hastily donning my jacket. This would not help the problem – god no – but at least it would mask its presence, and matters had gone too far for any true repairs to be done.

*Not counting any war later than 1945

While reluctantly paying my 75 cents at a tollbooth last week, I looked across the booth and noticed that the driver going the other way was none other than an attractive female. My piercing gaze had skewered her in the very act of paying her toll. Perking up at once, I took stock in a flash: blond, early twenties, presumably hot body, quite possibly lonely and tired of being battered and disappointed by this hard-edged world we so mournfully inhabit… I suddenly realized the obvious – that no attractive woman would ever drive alone unless she was starved and desperate for the company of an obsessive, overly-possessive male with more hair on his lip than his scalp. 

I slowly ran my tongue over my chops, already thinking of how I could somehow turn this exciting situation to my advantage. Would shouting at her to give me her number work? What about throwing my cellphone through her open window and then calling it from a payphone down the road? That gesture would be sure to touch her heart – a classic mix of sexy go-getter energy fused with the impetuous romance of those sizzling CVS paperbacks. It was at this moment that she looked up, saw me, and smiled. Little did she know she might as well have held up a sign saying:
“Please Jump In My Car This Second, You Handsome Devil.”
(more…)

On Saturday night I was feeling even more social than usual, so I decided to really let it all out and go for a big night out on the town. Obviously, this meant going to Canoe Club and sitting at the bar by myself drinking PBR because it is the cheapest booze they serve. Deep into my first pint, I noticed an attractive girl sitting several seats down from me, and before long I began to feel a distinct sexual tension building. Now don’t get me wrong. I have sexual tension with attractive younger girls almost constantly, and it invariably involves me sneakily casting my lecherous gaze up and down their body while they do their best to pretend that I am the basic equivalent of your every-day houseplant. It is at this point that they usually giggle and whisper to their friends in a relatively successful attempt to make me feel uncomfortable. When this too fails, they perform what I call the ‘Pay n’ Leave,’ a treacherously clever maneuver that leaves me alone again in no time at all.

But tonight everything was different. The girl glanced in my direction; I caught her eye. I thought she smiled. We exchanged several looks as I thanked the Good Lord that I had possessed the foresight to grab my hat before leaving so as to conceal my thinning locks. By this point, it goes without saying that my brain was vigorously churning out fantasy after fantasy that involved the two of us leaving together, going back to my place, and passionately making out and getting at least partially naked before I admitted that, thanks to the grossly excessive masturbation that my day had revolved around, the chances of me getting it up were about as much as an AA meeting serving Car Bombs.

My love-interest smiled again at me and then shocked me by leaving the bar area, taking several drinks with her and not knowing that in my mind’s eye I was already way past my awkward fumbling attempts to invade her body, the post-coital (hold the coital) cuddle, and had progressed to the “Must’ve had too much to drink, first time this happened to me I swear, it usually works just fine” speech.

Her sudden departure reminded me that other people who go to bars do so with groups of people usually referred to as “friends.” Huh. I looked around more closely and realized that everyone in the room with the exception of myself was talking to at least one other person. Strange. I hurriedly look at my watch and then glanced irritably at my cellphone as though waiting for someone. Then I happened to glance up and look in the mirror. A giant moustache looked back at me, its ends slick with wax as they plunged down each side of my flushed and beefy features. I thought of the look on the girl’s face. Perhaps I had after all misread amusement as ardent desire.

And that, I hold, is the beauty and the curse of the lip-scarves that we dedicate this month to worshiping. You get the looks, the attention, even the occasional gift-bag or free beer. But fame, much like the mixed drinks I am too cheap to buy, comes at a steep price.

When real life forced the out-of-control Tim to grudgingly pull up his pants and return to New York after his four-day Ohio binge, he did so with a giant camera full of “artistic” black and white pictures documenting the weekend’s lustful liaison. Upon landing, Tim sped straight from LaGuardia Airport to the Columbia computer lab in order to develop the sordid images he had taken without delay.

We hear that after developing the pictures at the lab, Tim rushed back to his 125 Ainslie Street residence and promptly scanned them into his computer before uploading them to his other half’s Facebook account, where they can currently be viewed. Among Tim’s inner circle, the story was met with shock and disbelief before the obvious truthfulness of the torrid affair sunk in, and it is believed that as many as fourteen Colla stock-holders leaped to their deaths after guessing what financial news the market would bring. The general attitude seemed that even for this shameless sexpot this latest news is just plain too much. 

Our source tells us that Tim was heard in his room on the phone lustily muttering, “I uploaded the photos, but you have to tag them, baby.” When asked to comment, a close long-term friend of Tim’s sadly replied, “I just don’t understand. We’ve been asking Tim to develop pictures he took back in October 2006, and he does these in an hour? What did we do wrong?” Tim could not be reached for comment as he has stopped accepting non-Ohio incoming calls.

We think that Tim has to accept the fact that he is out of control and should seek help for this degenerative behavior. This weekend’s events are the most disgraceful and shameless display that Ohio has seen since the Kent State shootings in 1970.