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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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.

I am disgusted to announce that after a week in rehab I am back – more shaken, skittish, and unconfident than ever before. After becoming the first person in history to seek psychiatric assistance in quitting his friends, I found I was somehow unable to kick the habit and felt compelled to crawl back to this hideous website.

I will take a moment to address the various rumors that have been swirling around the site concerning last Sunday night.

Was it the worst night of my life? Yes, absolutely, and without a doubt.

Did my eye sockets encounter parts of Noah that I had sworn many times they would never see? Sadly, the answer to that is also – allegedly – a resounding ‘yes.’

Did I smoke? Of course not. People who testified to this were confused by my strange habit of pretending to take giant rips while Alex vigorously blew smoke in my ear.

(more…)

WishWeWerentFriends Co-Founder, Stockmaster, Gossip Spreader, and Chief Enthusiast Saul has been off the grid since Monday, February 19th. He was last heard from in a raspy, disoriented voicemail saying “something horrible happened.” Said voicemail was stupidly erased by its slightly pudgy, hairy, recipient.

Saul’s disappearance is most certainly linked to a string of embarrassing episodes that occurred early Monday morning in various rooms at Becca’s house during “Becca Party: Everyone Gets Shitfaced Volume 11″. The major highlights of these episodes are described in detail below.

PAWS: There are many telltale signs of a fast-approaching Saul Black Out, including favorites such as glassed over eyes, rhythm-less swaying, close proximity of fat girls with skyrocketing confidence, and increased use of self-deprecating ethnic slurs. At Becca’s, Saul combined all of these with his go-to move: the gradual emergence of raptor-like claws in the latter stages of consciousness. Arms close to the body, elbows bent, hands flailing to and fro, Saul suddenly appeared like a red-faced gay man with severe carpel tunnel syndrome.

HELMET: Once the Paws are out, all bets are off, and this past weekend was no exception. Post- hot tub, where Saul enjoyed the company of an impressively sculpted Coach Dave and the “never-say-never/we-woke-up-butt-naked-in-a-sixty-nine once” couple of Noah and Becca, Saul refused to re-clothe his hulking upper body for the comfort of the group. The situation quickly deteriorated when Ru, Becca’s oblivious, cosmopolitan house guest, happened upon Saul in the kitchen, nude from the waste down, pants in hand, dignity in hot tub.

“It was like penis all over the kitchen,” Ru would later say.

TEABAG: Saul would not have the last laugh on this fateful night, however. After giving Becca the San Francisco Treat for what probably amounted to a few lustful minutes, Noah went looking for fun, strutting around the house in post-coital parade. He happened upon our Saul horizontal, confused, and unconscious. With Max as his homoerotic audience, Noah carefully dropped his supple scrotum from his still nude, freshly sexed body, piece in hand, into Saul’s innocent eye-sockets.

The bandit struck again! That marks his third victim!

Noah didn’t stop there, and returned for one more drop, just for good measure, before calling it quits.

Since then, Saul has gone AWOL. No phone calls, no text messages, no emails, no homing pigeons, no telegrams. No visitors, no deliveries!

If you or anyone you know can give us more information about the whereabouts of Saul, please contact us as soon as possible.