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!

Who said we here at WWWF need to have mature rebuttals?

Are those the famous paws we see?

You know it’s a good Saturday morning when you wake up butt naked in Tim’s bed, the last text in your sent items folder is “the thought of you coming makes me go nuts” and you’re selecting gems from Mairk’s homoerotic photoshoot staged at the Brook Hollow recycling area.
 
YUP! That’s a good Saturday! And, to top it all off, your alcoholic friends have united against your arch nemesis in his quest to be the biggest LaRouche in the Upper Valley by completely separating himself from a website HE founded and erasing it from his past like the land monster from Tim’s chemistry class. Next thing you know he’ll be go on a diet, start wearing sport coats, and teach at Dartmouth.

Well in celebration of this wonderful day, and the renewed calls for activity on our world-renowned website, we give you “Saul: A Poolside Photoshoot. With Appearances By Alex”

Saul specifically asked me to not put these pictures up on the site, but now that he refuses to talk to me until counseling, has been banned from my apartment by my female roommate and has no idea how to make changes to the site (even after being instructed on numerous occasions), there’s nothing he can do short of filing a lawsuit or committing a felony - both of which are well within the realm of possibility.

Enjoy, and hide your boners!

Saul Summer Photo Gallery

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…)

    Mike in remnants of a three-piece suit, Alex in drag, and Gabe acting “French.” Pretty standard really. Please enjoy this pathetic, embarrassing episode from our pre-pubescent period. At least mine.  Pay attention to Mike’s skinny face, Gabe’s ability to hide his birthmark even before plastic surgery, and Alex’s urge to become a tranny.

And to think we were sober!

What’s funnier than that is how low this website has stooped: to the level of middle school language video projects. Bad ones. Come on, kids, get a grip.

Remember this?

“Did we let the fact that we were a group of overweight, undersexed 20- something creeps in an underage Wentworth party stop us from having a good time?”

And this?

“Tom – busy on the phone with EBA’s as he tried to order chicken sandwiches and cheesy fries – grew flustered as he tried to speak to two people at once, and could only agree with Noah wholeheartedly. The matter might have died there, had their words not been caught by the always-attentive Alex. Infuriated that he was being left out of a conversation about fat, he lost little time in confidently claiming the title for himself.”

Let’s pull it together like the Souheagan Girls Soccer team and make this thing work. Life support is a bad place to be, but it’s better than being on the same couch as Mike in a ratshit apartment in Boston.
   

(more…)

As we told you on March 1, Tim and Alex went to TOMCATS in Greenpoint Brooklyn for the opening ceremonies of Moustache March.

After a few weeks binging at various penis ice luge events, 80s tribute bands, and Jewish coming-of-age celebrations, the mulitmedia presentation has finally made its way to the web.

Thanks once again to the pleasant folks at TOMCATS , who exceeded expectations with handsome haircuts, bloody shaves, and free beer. That’s right, FREE BEER!

The pictures above expand when clicked. The video below plays when clicked.

And remember, it’s not too late to submit your Moustache March photo to WishWeWeren’tFriends. For those of you who have been holding out in hopes that your pre-pubescent facial hair will somehow mature, give it up. The time is now. Send all pictures, videos, stories, etc, to admin@wishwewerentfriends.com

Just when you thought Alex’s internship was simply a Manhattan locale for him to work on the website….it is!

But look at the perks! As these two photos show, Alex has really made his Internet mairk at The Onion, with two groundbreaking photo cameos. First, in an apropos casting job, he was depicted as a brew master hosting a New Hampshire family planning a run for the Presidency. Most recently Alex’s beard, the loin that spurned his moustache, appeared as the beard in "Mark Cuban Grows a Giant Beard to Spite David Stern." Yes, that’s right, that’s really his over-exuberant facial hair photoshopped on Cuban’s billion dollar mug.

Those three colleges really paid off, eh kids?! His parents must sleep well knowing their continued post-graduation financial support is finally helping Alex’s career launch to previously unimagined heights.

It was a normal night at 125 Ainslie St in Brooklyn. Tim, Anya and I were sitting around the TV, and of course ALEX was there. Sweet. He had invited himself over again (he has his own keys now…a scary thought, I know) and had initiated some sort of fart or poop discussion. Here’s how it went down (all 100% true):

Alex: When I poop I’ve been wiping blood a lot

Tim: Awesome!

Gabe: I have a huge penis.

Anya (apparently a hemorrhoids expert): That means you have hemorrhoids!

Alex: It usually comes on my 21st-27th wipe of the day.

Gabe: That’s disgusting. I have a huge penis.

Tim: I’m really bad at contributing to this website.

Anya (a definite hemorrhoids expert): It comes from straining. You have hemorrhoids, Alex.

Alex: Shit.

Gabe: That sucks. I have a huge penis.

So there you have it folks. Make your own conclusions, but it seems our friend Aldo is taking a little ride on the Hemorrhoids Express. Here’s to a long voyage!