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

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.

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.    

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

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.

Anyway, I have no way to end this post.

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.   

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    Rumors of Saul’s potential return to the website have been flying all over the blogosphere, so Wish We Weren’t Friends has decided to make an official announcement regarding this global issue.
    After months of bitter, stubborn stewing as a response to perceived slights, miffs, and UNvitations, members of this website have reached out to Saul in hopes of bringing him back fulltime. After all, where would we be without his epic self-deprecations, adventurous facial hair patterns, raging homoeroticism, and breathtaking gossip columns?  Don’t forget his insightful prognostications of each of our values as human beings.
    At first, locating Saul was the most difficult task. Reports came in that he was seen around the Upper Valley with “an unidentified older man”, and Pappas suggested that he had actually turned gay. Other sources indicated that he had begun to dress like an adult, donning Italian sport coats, black tee shirts and tight, dark dungarees. 
   This information fit nicely with his decision to cut off all communication with me, his 34 year-old lesbian partner. As a result he was comfortably off the grid, free to blitz his new Dartmouth friends, attend cocktail parties filled with academics and cheese trays, all the while attempting to forget that he had fully exposed himself to a stranger only a few short months ago.
    Oh how Wish We Weren’t Friends has suffered: terrible enthusiasm, unreliable posting, horrible writing. Not a Photoshopped picture to be found!   
    Fortunately for you, dear reader, Saul will make his triumphant return. Heavy coddling has successfully convinced our poet laureate to once again participate. Gone are the times of famine and stench. It is a brand new day and a brand new era for this, the best website on the planet.
    Welcome back to Wish We Weren’t Friends.

    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.”
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