Facebook MAY have its disadvantages, like the willingness of it users to aid Big Brother in his Orwellian endeavor, but one of its most interesting facets is its offered use of the word “friend”. In Webster’s online dictionary, a friend is defined as “one attached to another by affection or esteem; one that is not hostile; a favored companion.” As my father has defined it, a friend is someone whom you would trust behind your back with a loaded gun… a little grave, sure, but he was raised in a time when men weren’t pussies.
My definition of a friend, I suppose, is fairly strict, as well, in that it starts with an inherent loyalty, and implies a kinship. Don’t get me wrong: I’ve certainly, over the course of my whole life, been a shit-ass to some of my friends; in turn, there have been several occasions during which I wasn’t all that impressed with my friends’ level of chumminess towards me. However, you live, you learn, and unless you’re one of Darwin’s fatalities, you improve.
I do have a Facebook account, and I do have several FB “friends”, most of whom actually do know me (i.e., they could pick me out of a line-up on a clear day if they aren’t too drunk), and just a few actual friends that would die for me, or at least try to encourage the gunman to shoot to wound, not kill.
Among the former group of “friends”, narrowly defined as such because FB doesn’t have an “Acquaintance” category is an ex-girlfriend we’ll call, for the sake of brevity and libel laws, Floppy-Tits. (If you need an explanation as to how she emplaced the effigy to earn this pseudonym, I can only assume you have to periodically remind yourself to breath.)
Floppy-Tits I dated as a senior in high school; she had big tits. She also had impressive bras that actually molded the fluidity of those gelatin sacks into something that looked fun. Not to be a complete dick to her, though, she was silly, and fun, and was the first girl I’d ever gone down on and did the 69 with.
However, silly and fun only lasted so long, and this girl quickly grew boring, clingy, and into a major drama queen. Not only did she more or less abandon all of her friends in order to focus on me (something I not only discouraged, but also did NOT reciprocate), she made it pretty fucking hard to enjoy time with her. (I couldn’t even tease her about her huge tits without her getting all in a tizzy: I once made a joke about her jogging and coming home with black eyes. What’s the deal? I would love it folks made jokes about how huge my cock is, and perhaps suggesting that my balls could be loaned out to knock buildings over, etc…)
At any rate, she fucked me, so I stayed with her for about six months. (In addition to my father’s insights about friendship, he also ejaculated this pearl of wisdom: “She’s not the only woman with a pussy, son.” (Somehow, that sentiment seemed so much more eloquent than the written word can do justice, which is a shame, because although I understood the wisdom, I didn’t grasp it until years later.)) Unfortunately for her, in addition to being a complete moron in the book smarts arena (she graduated high school in the winter before the rest of her class, but don’t be fooled: summer school teachers will pass even the most imbecilic of students to get it over with and start drinking), she also failed to realize what I thought about friends. To wit, it was the 4th of July, and instead of spending time with her, I thought that spending time with friends, drinking beer and blowing shit up would be time better spent.
Floppy-Tits disagreed, and with gusto!, showing up in her nice, shiny-black Mazda 626, pulling in front of Martin’s house yet refusing to get out of her car. (The sight of my drunken droogs and me having fun may well have made her forget diplomacy and decorum, but the fact was, in recent months, she hadn’t exactly ingratiated herself among our lot; largely melodramatic and very much her father’s little girl, her antics, which she found amusing or which amused her, had started to lose even me in that cocked-dog-head-curiosity.)
Long story short: She wanted me to choose between her and Martin. Now, I’m no gay, nor am I necessarily a “bros before hoes”-type fellow, but I am autonomous and willful (read “cheeky and defiant”), and this twit of a twat had just about run her course. The conversation went like this:
Her: “Me or him?”
Me: (laugh) “See you later.”
(Of course, we fucked later that night, and she told me that it was the best sex she’d ever had; I didn’t know at the time that, during the last sex you’re having with a woman, she’s supposed to let you put it up her ass. This may not be a commonly known ploy, but I can only come up with two reasons for a woman letting you make her backwards-shit during the last time she ever fucks you: Either she wants to show you the awesomeness that is the Stench Trench and forever make you long for that wondrous colon-hug, or she wants you to episiotomy her asshole so horribly that she never wants to see you again, hence, no broken heart. Whatever the reason, Floppy-Tits never gave me her farewell asshole (although we were one time enjoying the miracle of Kentucky Jelly when I overdrew and re-slammed it home right in her ass; dirty bitch let me put it back in her cooze without so much as a wipe-off).)
So Floppy-Tits is done, right? Not by a long shot.
Before cell phones were commonplace and a welcome monthly expense of, in some cases, $100, people carried pagers. Now, why anyone would carry a pager now at all is beyond me, but when I was 18 years old and it was a $7 expense, it was a perfect means of communication, and through the use of the phone’s numbers and their letter equivalents, messages of about 25 letters or less could be sent.
This was how she made my life Hell. I couldn’t answer a pager the way I can a cell phone, and I certainly didn’t call her home phone or pager back, but it was her relentless and non-encouraged electronic pursuit (I didn’t even discourage her; I gave her NO feedback) that started to initially irritate me, eventually exasperate me, and finally drove me into a mild fury.
I would be out with my friends… “381”, meaning “Three words, eight letters, one meaning”, or “I love you.”
I would be in a class: “2774653” (Asshole)
Taking a shit: “2255-63-753273” (Call me please)
Trying to fuck another girl: “3825-968-2774653” (You figure it out, Reader.)
This went on for months. MONTHS. We were both 18, and should’ve been out fucking and drinking and partying into a wild frenzy, and instead, this dastardly cunt kept calling. (Question: Is it still alliteration if you have two hard c’s and a k?) Fuck it: This corrupt cunt continued calling. We had broken up, and she still kept tabs on me through a complicated network of subterfuge and social engineering: Her best friend MaBelle talked to one of my “close friends”, Douche.
(Note: “Douche” and I are still on friendly terms to this day, but if you’ve ever seen that show on MTV where the guys have a way too over-inflated ego for their offerings, you would see why he’s kind of earned this name. (Remind me sometime to cover Douche’s Destiny.))
(Note 2: I was 18 and liked to party; Douche was and did, as well. While he doesn’t fit my strict definition of “friend”, now or then, we did have hobbies in common.)
Now, this was before Facebook and MySpace and all the internet sites that enable stalking from the comfort of your own home, so Douche and MaBelle (Floppy-Tits’ best friend, so named for her conduit of information or shape… you pick!) ran a pretty effective communications chain / rumor mill for no other reason than, they were bored and fairly pathetic at that time. Therefore, Floppy-Tits heard quite a bit about my goings-on, and, as if to close the circuit, would page me things like:
“343-968-3825-437” (Did you fuck her?)
“2774653” (Asshole)
“3825-968” (Did you get it, Reader?)
“384--968-273-3862” (DUI? You are dumb) (So, one night, Douche and I were out drinking, went to a movie (Last Man Standing; we were only 18 and had no clear idea where to scavenge for pussy on a Tuesday night) and pissed in the corners of the theater; we then went looking for a titty-club, then a whorehouse, and wound up getting pulled over. DUI. Great. Since then, I’ve learned my lesson, and Douche has had two or three DUIs.)
“4-5683-968” (I love you) (I would get this one sent to me several times a day. Wow. A NOTE FOR WOMEN 1: Do NOT be this woman; there’s a reason behind the saying, “If they didn’t have that hole, there’d be a bounty on them”… and this is it.)
One night, Douche and I are out eating at our favorite franchise, enjoying half-priced appetizers and the like, and the now ominous buzz of a pager goes off. My heart rate immediately goes up; I don’t even want to check it. I was sick and tired of THREE MONTHS of pages. Let me give you an idea of how much I’d endured at this point:
My monthly pager bill was supposed to be $7 for 300 or 350 pages throughout the month, or around 10-12 pages a day. This lonely yet audaciously tenacious bitch had paged me so much that my bills were cresting well beyond $30 for each of the three months since I’d dumped her. I don’t know what the phone/pager company charged for each page over, but if the rates were consistent, I was getting well over 20 pages a day from her. No encouragement whatsoever, and I was still being “381”-ed to death.
I was officially done. Perhaps a wiser man would have let this continue until it petered out and she found a new cock to pole-vault, or be wiser still and kill her. Me, being 18 and cheap and at the end of my rope, went to the grocery store with Douche.
(Legal disclaimer: This next line in no way has anything to do with this story.)
Eggs were bought; a shiny black Mazda 626 got it sunny-side up.
The next day: “968-273-3323” (You are dead); “3825-968” (Fuck you; did you get it, Reader?)
As fate would have it, I didn’t die the next day, nor did she send me any pages of love or enchantment. She did page me throughout the day, though, and as many militant philosophers past might concur, the tides of war, once unleashed, are hard to stop.
To wit, two days or so after the egging, there was a horrible snow storm in the area; Douche and I were hanging out, and I got a page. From Floppy-Tits. The snowstorm was entirely too bad for anything other than foolhardy 18-year-old boys to drive in. Somehow, a shiny black Mazda 626 was egged a full 15 miles from where Douche and I were.
Perhaps Floppy-Tits had another fan base. Nevertheless, she blamed me, and a police report was filed. It amused me, actually, that this poor woman of only 18 years, having already gone through so, so much, (the boyfriend she had before me, according to her, beat her; somehow, I doubt that, and if I’m wrong, she probably deserved it anyway) was turning the coppers onto me over what is none other than a childish response to an awful and tormenting onslaught of ritualistic harassment. (I have a friend that’s a cop that one time arrested a woman after she was hit by her husband; when asked why he hit her, she responded, “Because I hit him.” Did you get that, feminists? You want equality; you got it.)
(TANGENT 1: I actually have no issue with women being equal, and being treated like men; what I hold in contempt is the tendency of “feminists” to cherry-pick what they want from a man’s plight. I’m not too manly to change a diaper; she better not be too feminine to pick up a fucking check. Capiche? (Feminism is NOT strictly about EQUALITY.))
And, so, I had to lawyer up again. (DUIs are expensive, but fighting them can be downright bankrupting; a diversion later, and that was expedited well enough. Perhaps I should tell you about me and my buddy Grant’s pal “Steve” from Washington State, whom we announced dead at an AA meeting. Some nice alcoholic tried to console me, mistaking my tears of laughter and aching stomach muscles for sobbing uncontrollably. Shit, my friends and I are assholes.) My lawyer was actually a friend of the family, a neighbor, and he must have been a little disappointed to see me not once, but twice, in the same three-month period, for drinking and vandalism. (NOTE 3: Just because I’m telling this story doesn’t make me all-out proud of it; remember, this is an observation on friendship, not propriety.)
However, a no-contest plea to a DUI criminal case is quickly and easily expedited; a civil case that is being taken to trial is slow, and it wasn’t until about 10 months later that I got my day in court. But of relevance to this story is what occurred during that 10 months.
MaBelle, Floppy-Tits’ “best friend” (there’s that word again: friend), and I started hanging out. A lot. No, I never fucked her, but I’m sure she’d’ve let me take a toss if I wanted to. We started doing everything together, her, Douche and I. Drinking, bullshitting, talking on the phone. There was a lot we did, and while Douche and MaBelle aren’t exactly what I’d call friends, because they were both, after all, social piranhas and cannibals, we did develop a kinship, of sorts, and MaBelle, really a pretty girl, modeled as a big women’s model, and would always have me around these good-looking women. (Had I not called one a cunt after she bit me a little too hard on the back (seems women HATE that word!), I’d probably have bedded her right proper.) (NOTE 4: Read “The Truth about Cunts”, by Alison Kooistra. That will help clarify the etymology of the word, ladies, and possibly help you to not be cunts any longer.)
(TANGENT 2: The first time my mother found out I used the word “cunt” against my sisters, she was disgusted. It is soooo funny to think back to her chiding me, stating sharply (as if it spoke for itself), “To speak of cunts!” HILARIOUS! (I have since outgrown use of the word, and reserve it solely for my wife, and, even then, only when she needs to be put back into her cubby, next to religion and engine degreaser.))
So MaBelle is now feeding me information on Floppy-Tits. Could I be sure she wasn’t running info on me back to Floppy? No, of course not, which is why I continually and ardently stuck to my story of having been nowhere even in the vicinity of Flop’s house during the Great Egging of the 90s. (NOTE 5: A true friend is someone you can tell everything to, with the exception of the wife: You can tell her almost everything, except for the things that you put into other women and strippers. If you want to stay friends with her, learn how to suck it up, shut the fuck up, and handle your own guilt, shitbag.) Here’s the kicker: Douche told me that MaBelle was starting to have a crush on me. Well, no shit. That was kind of the point the whole time; I wasn’t being much of a friend either, because of that agenda.
Also during that 10 months, Floppy came by my work to see me, and we talked for a bit. I just wanted to get her to knock her bullshit court case off, and maybe get some head. She invited me to her territory, where she worked retail at some Akia-centric universe that guys just don’t give a fuck about; on the night I went to try to finagle her into dropping her charges against me, who should be there except her mother Lardass and her father Thimble. It was almost amusing, Thimble coming up to me, threatening to rip my head off and shit down my throat, for what I did to “[his] little girl”; truth be told, I was more daunted by Lardass. The female is the deadlier of the species, and not only does this apply to humans, it certainly applied to this behemoth. Shit, was she a big ‘un! Needless to say, after Thimble huffed his little way out of the Akia-mart, there was no way Floppy-Tits could back down.
It was nice, though, that first time in court, Flop coming in with her mother Lardass (those big bags of tit came from somewhere; sadly for Floppy, those big tanks of ass were also en route) for support. My support group was not so small; I had three witnesses: Douche and my sister for an alibi, and MaBelle as a character witness against her best friend! (Jerry Springer missed the ball on this one.) This was when I realized MaBelle hadn’t said anything about her acquaintanceship with me to Floppy: Floppy and Lardass both gave plastic smiles that said, “I don’t know what else to do, so I’ll just sit here smiling.”
So here were the damages: Paint damage to the tune $2000; damage to the driveway to the tune of $3000. (I don’t know how fast you’d have to throw an egg to damage a concrete driveway, but I would bet that the little white fucker’d have to be hard-boiled.) The trial (the word “trial” sounds too formal for what this debacle really was) was set for a couple of weeks later: Neither of us was going to opt out at this point.
Two weeks comes and goes without much to-do; I drink, I fuck, I party. La-dee-da. Then the big day comes, and who should appear with Floppy in court but MaBelle’s ex-boyfriend! He looks me over like he intended to do something, but, really, he was just there as an intimidation factor, and he failed miserably; in fact, his presence was so uninspiring that I can’t even devise a name for him.
I won’t bore you with the details of the trial (since this is a writing on friendship, and not due process), (except that MaBelle’s testimony was an integral blow to the prosecutor’s case; she testified that Floppy-Tits had said that, in the snowstorm, she couldn’t really make out who was throwing the eggs, or from where; if I were a big enough asshole to say, “BURN!”, here’s where I’d say it…) but the last thing the judge said was something akin to, “… And while I won’t say that [Gentleman Dick] is innocent, there’s not enough to deliver any verdict other than not guilty.”
So that, as they say, was that. I moved away to college and the rest of my life a few days later.
Which brings me to modern day and Facebook, and friends. It’s amusing, and a little shameful, I guess, that I have as “friends” on my account both Floppy-Tits and MaBelle; Douche is on there, too. What I find absolutely staggering is that Floppy and MaBelle are ALSO friends on Facebook, and that when I once made a comment about Floppy’s place being in the home, MaBelle chimed in with the comment, “Gee, [Floppy-Tits], it seems to be a good thing that you and [Gentleman Dick] never got married!”
Like it all never happened, the betraying testimony, the eggs, the pager stalking. *Poof!* All gone.
I suppose that the word “friend” has a lot of different meanings to a lot of different people; I can count the number of friends I’ve got, true friends, on one hand, and although I may put people onto my “friends” list on some social site, that doesn’t mean I’d pull a knife out of your back or piss on you to put you out.
Fact is, I was curious when I maliciously friend-requested Floppy, but even then I’m not so sure she didn’t friend-request me first; I don’t recall. What I do know is, she’s not apt to piss on me anytime soon.
But she also won’t be calling me. Which is what I wanted in the first place.
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