When this asshole named David Hasselhoff blew off an interview that his minions had requested with the Aggie, he cruelly obliterated my childhood dream of having my boobies autographed by a D-list actor. It was ’round 10 a.m. and he was reportedly drunk, so I guess everyday is Picnic Day for the Hoff. Luckily, one of my friends stepped up and vowed to boycott all future Baywatch reruns. That’s a real friend.
It’s not easy to find that level of devotion. People are always promising you things they don’t mean and trying to get you to buy ShamWows, drugs and fake diplomas stating you graduated from Stanford Med (I got called out and fired my first day in the OR. Apparently performing a triple bypass isn’t as easy as you may have heard). There are a lot of flakes, phonies, nut-jobs, creepers, close-talkers, Stage 5 Clingers, rage-aholics and general uncool people out there, so when you find someone who gets you and is down for some debauchery, hug it out, bitch. Hug. It. Out.
One of the most admirable displays of friendship I’ve witnessed thus far occurred this summer. Some friends and I were rocking some pavement up I-80 when we ran into a speeding ticket. Two guys, two girls in the car, and after the cop was gone, the other girl said, “I would have totally given the cop a blow job if it got you out of that ticket.” There was a pause, and he responded, “Thanks. You’re a good friend.” No more words were needed.
When I think about it, my friends have done a lot of nice things for me. Like going back to the arboretum to find my left shoe. You see, a friend is someone who knows you’re a loser and still chooses to be seen with you in public. Not only that, but they’ll dance right along next to you when “Don’t Stop Believin'” comes on at the Dormal. They will play pirates with you in the library (in the completely innocent sense) even though they have an 8 a.m. final and a 10:30 one after. They will tell you that you have parsley stuck between your teeth. This is perhaps the most important thing a friend can do for you above all else.
But that’s not to say I don’t pull my weight in these relationships. Freshman year, one of my friends was nice enough to accompany me to a fraternity because I was too afraid to ask for my shirt back on my own. Apparently I wasn’t too afraid to walk home sans shirt, but that’s a different story. Anyways, I would later babysit her offspring so that she could take her finals, so I’d say we’re amicably even. Just this last Saturday I crooned an epic rendition of “Time After Time” to my friend, who was drunker than the Hoff himself and making out with an enormous burrito across the table from me.
Friends are also great to have around so that someday, or perhaps the next day, you can reminisce about the dumb crap you’ve done. It’s always nice to keep around witnesses because saying, “You had to be there,” at the end of a story is just lame. Plus, they can correct inaccuracies within the storytelling and, later in life, tell your future children things about you that will make them lose any remaining respect they might have had for you. You can’t go back to the good old days, but you can laugh about them forever.
Some relationships are too peculiar for labels, but they still count. Like those people you only talk to when you’re drunk. Or the ex-bestie who dropped off the face of the earth and may reappear someday, but perhaps not. Then there are those you once poured your heart out to but now have nothing really to say to. In the end, I’d like to think there are at least a few lollygaggers who will stick around for life.
So to you people, I say thank you. Thank you for taking me to my first ever party in the woods. Thank you for making sure I didn’t have a concussion after you accidentally knocked me over in a shopping cart. Thank you for helping me start that condom water balloon fight on houseboats.
I hope you invite me to your weddings, and when we’re old I can own you at shuffleboard in Florida. Mostly, I hope you don’t forget me. Cause after all … you’re my wonderwall.
MICHELLE RICK realizes that even if you got nothing out of this column, you’re well aware that she sings frequently. Badly. Send your condolences to firstname.lastname@example.org and she’ll forward them to the folks who have to put up with it.