Dudes - the moment has arrived: we need to pay to renew the site. What is everyone’s feeling? It’s been two whole 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.

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Hi Max! Hey buddy! Why didn’t you let me know that you would be coming down here to Australia for a visit? I’m a bit insulted. Well anyway, I’m still glad that I got to see you this past weekend. Even though you were too busy munching down your eucalyptus leaves to notice your old friend, I was there. I even got to pat your back - your fur is so soft! Like a carpet. And the bottom of your foot feels like a dog’s nose. By the way, I’m sorry things didn’t work out with that blonde park ranger - I saw you grasping for her hungrily, but she still gave you the cold shoulder, huh? I guess some things never change, even across continents. Alright, I’m sure you’re tired so I’ll let you go. Eat those leaves, little friend. Bye!

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 

Well, that’s about all. 

Baring it All: Ruminations on the Balding Process

By SK

I recently spent a romantic weekend with an older woman at a plush tropical resort on an idyllic island.  It was a weekend, of course, filled with all of the accoutrements we would hope for and expect from a member of our challenged crew - feelings of inadequacy, awkward Freudian slips, ejaculations so premature they should have landed in an incubator at Dartmouth-Hitchcock, followed by blowjobs so endless and unsatisfying that I could only guess at the irritation and anger roiling through this woman’s much more sexually-experienced medulla.  I sheepishly made my way off by boat on Sunday afternoon, my top-heavy pack nearly toppling me into Gulf of Thailand, weighted down with all sorts of needless gear which I had so gleefully bought only months before from various establishments in West Lebanon, New Hampshire, and had sweetly organized in Glad bags on the floor of my bedroom.

Having escaped back to Bangkok for a week of holing up in my guest house before flying out of this shame-inducing country, I felt safe and comforted for one of the few times since leaving the womb in Lyme and venturing out on the "journey of my life," for which, I have since learned, I am desperately unprepared.
 
Perched on a stool in a brightly lit internet-cafe, I happily commiserated with my comrades on WWWF and felt a little bit less lonely in my pathetic relationship to the female species.  Then I checked my email and was once again plunged into the morasse of deep, spirit-raping depression when I saw the photo pictured here.  Taken by my lady-lover, and apparently sent to me in some fit of cruel revenge for having so boyishly occupied her vagina over the past days, I retired to the bathroom where I managed to do the only thing I’m good at - clogging toilets the world over.
 
Yes, world, I am a rapidly balding 24 year-old.  I make no bones about it.  Actually, fuck that I make multiple bones about it - Why God?  Why have I been thus cursed??  Why the fuck am I going bald???
 
After passing through this initial phase of despair, I once again take refuge here with you, my undesirable yet unshakeable group of "friends."  For there are those among you, yes it’s true, who share my dark fate.  Let’s see…well I guess I’ll start closest to home.  Smalls, I fear that your receding hairline has not yet quenched its thirst for smooth, babylike hairlessness.  Good Saul, who is editing this post and who hopefully has enough integrity in journalistic freedom not to strike this sentence, yes Saul, you are thinning faster than Alex wishes that he were.  And TColla, as I no longer fear physical retribution due to our being separated by thousands of miles of ocean, I feel that I must reiterate David Spade’s age-old wisdom, as told to Michael Bolton - no matter how long it gets in the back, we all know what’s happening on top.  And Noah, sad, sad Noah, whose pride is so blinding that he just can’t for the life of him admit that he doesn’t wear a hat 23 hours a day just because he’s got a misshaped head - no, no, you do it because you’re going fucking bald.  I suppose that, as a fellow victim of early onset hair loss, I should let you in on the little secret that wearing a hat accelerates the process.  Accept who you are man!  Free yourself!  There are others among you…Draper, I sense some latent baldness inside of you; and for some reason (maybe I had some inside info) I really sense that Michael Ashley will be horribly, frighteningly bald in the near future. Of course, every group of men has to have its king among them, and it goes without any deliberation to crown that man on top of his malnourished peach locks - William Kitzmiller, we bow our heads in thanks and praise to you for making us all feel a little bit better about ourselves (and so you can put some sunblock on our bald spots, it’s real hard to see on top like that).
 
Some of you have the privilege of laughing at this story of mine.  But there are those of us who live this hell everyday, and we hate you very, very much.  To all of you, but especially to those of the group who don’t have to be careful in the shower not to rub the volume-enhancing shampoo in too hard lest it wrench a few more sprigs from their nests, honestly and truly, I wish we weren’t friends.