Why I Can’t Be Friends With You Anymore

The time has finally come.  We had a good run.  And we had a lot of fun.  But the time has finally arrived where I can’t be friends with you anymore.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m just as disappointed about it as you are.  But I was very clear when we started our friendship, lo those many years ago, in college that there were certain things that I just would not tolerate in a friendship.  And I can remember you laughing when I told you those things.  And now, 19 years later, you are finally experiencing the harsh reality first hand.

You have to admit, I let a lot of stuff go by the wayside.  Like the time when you borrowed my car to go to your church retreat.  It was hard to believe that the Devil made you drink all those shots and then take the car to that strip club where you drank even more shots and then ended up wrapping my car around that tree.  The stripper you picked up broke her leg in like six places.  They said she would never dance the same way again.  And even though I’m not religious nor do I subscribe to such things, there are a lot of things I don’t understand about religion, so who was I to say the Devil wasn’t involved.

Then there was the time you started a fight at the Sheetz station.  I certainly was surprised when I pulled the nozzle out of the gas tank and you sped off in the car.  And I never really truly understood the phrase “guilt by association,” but that biker gang sure was excited to explain it to me.  I’m not sure what you said to them, but you sure did hit a nerve.  I spent almost eight weeks in the hospital.  My job actually fired me after my sick time ran out five weeks in.  And I still have a slight limp and have enough metal pins in my legs and left arm that I set off metal detectors.  But sometimes our heart says things before our mind realizes what we’re saying.

And even though I was slightly miffed, I still didn’t get mad at you after you slept with my wife the 8th time.  I really probably should have been mad because I had politely asked you five times not to sleep with her again.  But she was really hot and really slutty when she’d had a couple beers, so it was probably my fault for letting her go drinking with you.  And you know what they say, fool me once, shame on you, fool me seven more times, shame on me.

And, boy howdy, didn’t we all learn a lesson on that hunting trip when you accidentally shot me.  The doctors said it was a miracle that I was alive.  They had never seen anyone get shot at point blank range with a shotgun and survive.  They said it was a miracle that none of the 213 pieces of buckshot they picked out of me hit any vital organs.  The worst that happened was just a lot of superficial scarring and the mental anguish any time there is a loud noise.  I’m still not sure how you mistook me for a bear, especially since I was dressed in nothing but bright day-glow orange.  But I guess you were right that a bear could kill a hunter and wear his clothes to sneak up on other unsuspecting hunters.

Given all those things, in addition to many, many more things over the years that I probably should have ended our friendship over, I haven’t.  I stood by the rules that I gave you.  But you’ve finally broken the one rule that I can’t bend on.  You shit your pants.  I don’t even care how it happened.  I don’t want to know how it happened.  All I know is I told you that if you shit your pants I couldn’t be your friend any more.  And now you’ve forced me to make good on that condition of our friendship.  I wish you well in life and I hope that your next friend can overlook you dropping a dump in your jeans.


About BatDoc

I’m a dynamic figure, often seen scaling buildings and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train and bus stations on lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention and reducing high-traffic areas. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees and write award-winning plays about pastry. I manage time efficiently. Occasionally, I make meatloaf. I have been known to woo women with my sensuous and god-like electric air-guitar playing. I can pilot riding lawnmowers up severe inclines with unflagging speed and accuracy and can cook 30-Minute Brownies in 20 minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Brazil. Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon River Basin from a horde of ferocious smaller-than-your-pinky-finger fire ants. When I’m bored, I build full size models of airplanes out of Popsicle sticks. I enjoy urban hang gliding. On Wednesdays, I repair TVs and VCRs free of charge. I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Last summer, I toured Wisconsin and Minnesota with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat 400. My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me. I can hurl coat hangers at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read War and Peace, Moby Dick, and Great Expectations in one day and still had time to repaint the exterior of my house that afternoon. Though not a narc, I have performed several covert operations with the CIA. I can recalibrate and repair gas lines with blinding speed and precision, and I don't require a face mask. I still find time to sleep eight hours a night; when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation to Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me. I balance; I weave; I dodge; I frolic; and my bills are all paid. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a jello mold and a toaster oven. I used to breed prize-winning killer dolphins. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin. I have played Hamlet, performed open-heart surgery, and have spoken with Elvis. I have been to Area 51 and seen the complex. I enjoy cake and my best friends are Edmund the Penguin and Dr. Narco the Intelligent Thermos. I tied Jose Canseco in home runs last week, and I’m mere words away from completing a New York Times crossword puzzle I started on in 1988. Volumes and volumes of written works have been produced about me, but they were all lost in the fire. I am an extrovert. I’m marginally more popular with feminist than Rush Limbaugh. I don't scrape my vegetables onto my grandmother's plate when no one is looking. Hard as it may be to believe, I have never lost a pole-vaulting competition. I was nowhere near the grassy knoll on November 22, 1963. I’ve never hit a silver-medalist in the knee with a club. I wear sensible clothing, and I did not mastermind Julius Caesar's death. That was Cassius.

Posted on July 28, 2014, in A BatDoc Original, Original Series, Short Essays and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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