Blorld, meet Freddy. You could practically call him my best dude-friend, if that's not weird for you. There are superior pictures of The Fred on Facebook, but they're inappropriate (seductive poses and the like). I'll spare you.
Freddy is a beast.
He runs marathons and takes the best time for his age group.
Freddy prefers everything with PCP. Fittingly, he will be serving a two-year mission in Columbia; the drug-capitol won't know what it's been hit with. There was a period of about three months when every time he came over for a lunch party, we'd serve him up on the teeny tiny plate because all the other dishes were in use (lunch parties are ginormous) and nobody else wanted it. We called it his Portion Control Plate. He loved the idea. We didn't find out until three months later that he really had never heard of PCP before and thought the whole thing was rather innocent.
(In case there are other innocent souls out there, PCP is a the street name for a hallucinogenic drug.)
 |
| PCP and PCC |
When we speak of stalker Freddy, we speak of Frederick. One time he stalked my roommate and I. It all worked out in the end: we ran together at 6:00 every morning for seven months straight and won the above pictured shirts. This is why we keep feeding him-- for the free shirt benefits he forces us into, and also for those days when he has $80 left on his Cannon card and takes us to eat our weight in pizza and salad.
I think this was a ploy to force us to listen to his sexist jokes for an hour.
Oh well, as long as I'm not paying for it.
I think this was a ploy to force us to listen to his sexist jokes for an hour.
Oh well, as long as I'm not paying for it.
Freddy is witty. Freddy made a blog. I suggested he call it Bill, or Doug, or Goodski, or Fred Nye the Science Guy. He rejected these names and stuck with something more "practical."
(If anyone needs help coming up with a blog title, you know who to come to, or not to come to. But if you know who not to come to, that person had better not be me.)
I'd link you up, but I haven't asked his permission.
(If anyone needs help coming up with a blog title, you know who to come to, or not to come to. But if you know who not to come to, that person had better not be me.)
I'd link you up, but I haven't asked his permission.
(May I request the pants-ripping story you texted me for your next entry?)
I wrote this post because he cried for it. Yes, cried. Like a child who dropped his ice-cream on his birthday. Oh ya, and happy birthday dude-friend.
I could have won the war right here, but I held back for you today.