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.

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!

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

Just when we though this website couldn’t get any better - Alexis circulates old photos of Gabe’s drunken face-smash that cost his family two cars and a summer home. This has nothing to do with anything other than it will create a legion of anti-Gabe commentary, therefore making the group’s collective satisfaction skyrocket.

Unlike other, lazier blogs who take the day off, we’re committed to continuing to feed your need for social belonging throughout the holiday season. (Although, ironically, this is the first post here in weeks.)

Most of you have tucked your tail between your legs and shacked up with your parents, and for those of you who have, enjoy having to smoke reefer by your bathroom window, enjoy drinking at the Canoe Club with people who were in middle school when we graduated, and enjoy reliving your glory days on the new field turf at HHS during the alumni match tomorrow.

If you’re striking it out on your own this Thanksgiving, let it be known in the comments where you are and what you’re up to. Your fearless admin and his girlfriend found another orphaned spirit and are pulling a three-man Thanksgiving in Evanston, IL, where we recently enjoyed our first snowfall.

Look forward to hearing from the rest of you,

But not really,

Happy Thanksgiving,

-WWWF.

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.

That’s the man on the left, Max. Still want to kick his ass?
   
    For all the sexual self abusers and recovering addicts out there that adore our site so very much, we wanted to shed a little light on one of our more prominent phantoms from the abundantly entertaining Wish We Weren’t Friends Comment Section. Random but effective "Handleberry" has chimed in with a few overlooked gems, only burdened by his flinty, mediocre nickname.

Here was his opening during the Alex/Saul Feuds of a Century post that no one clicked through to fully read:

His second jump into the fray was less attracitive to the peanut gallery, but upon further review seems both insightful and informative on the true nature of this online community:

"Alex,
Poppers are pills. As is “I just popped a lot of pills and my penis has ceased to function.” God, how much dick did Tim have to suck (gladly) to get you into Columbia? How did you get more than a 0 on the reading comprehension section of the SAT?"

Most recently,  in response to an email I forwarded him on the subject that Rory first mentioned about our hometown being the No. 2 rated place to live in this hairy, perverted, shameful nation, Brian once again performed admirably.

 "Also, the criteria for this year’s list have changed:
  ‘For this year’s list we focused on smaller places that offered the best combination of economic opportunity, good schools, safe streets, things to do and a real sense of community.’

Your town houses Dartmouth.  So the schools are amazing, the only thing unsafe about the streets is puddles of vomit and the "things to do" consist of a night class in the techniques of Nan bread baking and a discourse on 18th century German philosophy.  i.e. Gay, gay, gay.

Had the criteria been, "Towns where asshole banker dad’s overspend on houses so their white children can grow up hot and care-free all while enjoying one of the better sandwich shops in the universe and involving themselves in an annual rite of passage dubbed Baker’s Biker Bonanza.  Plus 2 Gazebo’s and tons of Milf-age."  Chatham is number one, "hans" down.’ "

————————————————————————

With this triptych of lingustic art I dare say this man’s talents in the art of wasting time on the internet are truly second to none. Except Rob.

Anyways, check out the comment section. Comment! It’s where all the unprotected sex happens.

Wait, you said Nan was gay? 

Hey assholes.

In an attempt to stop the top image of the previous post from being the first thing a visitor sees when they check out the website, I though it would be an appropriate time to update everyone on the current status of things.

As I’m spending most of the summer two towns north and one town east of our old digs, Alex and Saul have been doing most of the posting themselves with relative success. Alex has a doozy in the on-deck circle right now with a bunch of (allegedly) hilarious voicemails, but sadly the MP3s he uploaded don’t work, so it’ll have to wait until he returns from Germany.

In the meantime, we’re still open to any content sent our way. Since making Noah an official author of the site, he’s contributed nothing. Awesome.

By the way, we had an LC party last night. Where was everyone? The Sage-line didn’t ring once.

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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