Oldskool Wednesday

It’s been eventful.  I just moved.  And for the record, except for my girlfriend (and let’s be honest, she doesn’t count), I didn’t inconvenience any of my friends in the process.  I hope you’re taking notes, Franco.

Anyway, my new place is the heatness; I will soon post pictures of it and a backlog of stories:

a) Why I moved.
b) How I almost banged Oliva Munn
c) How a snowboard trip turned into a bar brawl, which turned into my friend getting stitches.

But in the spirit of Oldskool Wednesday, here’s an old post from when Franco’s bitchass moved for the umpteenth time.

WHY FRANCO AND I WON’T BE FRIENDS – MARCH 22, 2007

Franco and I have been friends since I nearly threw him off of a fire escape during our freshman year in high school.  It’s a bit of a long story, but the moral is, even if you’re three stories above the sawgee, you don’t spit on him without severe and uncompromising consequences.

At any rate, we’ve been chummy ever since.  However, despite over a decade of friendship, our “bromance” is about to come to a bitter end this weekend.  The cause: television.  Allow me to explain.

It’s not that I have anything against television.  After all, I make my living writing for it.  It’s just that Franco owns a really fucking big TV.  And it’s not that I have anything against Franco owning a massive, motherfucking piece of home theater entertainment.  It’s just that Franco is moving this weekend.

And I’m not carrying that thing.

Not to play the race card, but my ancestors did more than their fair share of uncompensated manual labor.  And so, I’ve paid my dues in that respect.  Besides, this will mark the third time Franco’s bitchass has moved, and I’m done lugging that idiot box up and down the stairs.

This television is the reason why Franco and I will no longer be friends.

Consider this picture to be fifteen reasons why Franco and I will no longer be friends – the stairs leading to his apartment.

For scale, I included Franco and myself in the photograph.  Notice how awesome my sneakers are.  Also, notice how happy he appears as he anticipates enslaving me for an entire weekend.  Racist.

I included a picture of Franco’s Final Fantasy videogame for scale, and to demonstrate the fact that Franco is a giant tool who plays Final Fantasy videogames.

I grabbed a few of his refrigerator magnets for the same reason.

One more for good measure.

Well, Franco, we’ve had some good times.  But if being your friend entails carrying that goddamn television one more time, then I suppose I’ll be sending out one less Christmas card this year.  I hope your HBO is worth it.  Racist.