Riddle me this: What is it that you can't hold in your hand, but will lend you a hand? What lights up your day, but is black as night? What lives in your heart, but can't be seen, even with an x-ray, a tube-mounted colonic camera, or a submarine full of shrunken adventurers?

Hi, I'm Erik, and I'm talking, of course, about a friend, a friend from Zambia, and a friendly invisible heartworm, respectively. The common thread? Friends. Nothing is more important than friendship. And the best kind of friends are cyber-friends. Sean and I first met in his guestbook after I posted this poem I wrote:
My Cyber Friend

I have'nt ever met you,
But I know your really their;
I click you in to reality
Like magic from the air.

You like Funhouse pinball,
And u know what? I do to;
We have so much in comon
That sometimes i think Im you.
You're always there for comfort,
Or a word of chear;
Though you are very far away,
I always have you near.

You're a very speshal freind,
Like none Iv'e ever known;
As long as your in cyberspace
I'll never b alone.
I originally wrote the poem for this picture I liked of two people fucking on a Funhouse pinball machine. But I had many of the same cyber-sentiments about Sean. The post seemed to be taking too long to save, so I hit the submit button about thirty times. Coincidentally, a few seconds later about thirty copies of my poem appeared in the guestbook. You might have wondered if there was a reason all of Sean's fan mail starts with "i'm sorry for bugging you, but..." There is. Here's his response:
Above: One half of the inspiration behind Erik's poetry. Note the enlarged photo of the inside of the uterus, lower right corner.
  • From:Erik
  • Age:
  • Homepage: http://www.oldmanmurray.com
    03-Jul-96 05:32 AM
  • My Cyber Friend

    I have'nt ever met you,
    But I know your really their;
    I click you in to reality
    Like magic from the air.

    You like Funhouse pinball,
    And u know what? I do to;
    We have so much in comon
    That sometimes i think Im you.
    You're always there for comfort,
    Or a word of chear;
    Though you are very far away,
    I always have you near.

    You're a very speshal freind,
    Like none Iv'e ever known;
    As long as your in cyberspace
    I'll never b alone.
    Listen, virgin, there's no reason you can give me that can explain away this kind of retardation. I hope for your sake you have some kind of syndrome or at least have had half your head eaten off in a bear attack. Maybe your mother thought "lamaze" meant "drinking contest" or she was in charge of tasting things that fell from space to find out if they turned unborn babies into mutants. What I'm trying to say is that there's no way a person could make something like this without something fantastically wrong with them, but no matter what medical disaster it was that got you here and in this condition, it can't be a good enough excuse for this damn poem.

    Even if a burning bush called me over and told me that St. Peter's Committee of Angelic Hilarity voted on their members' favorite divine practical joke, and your problems were it, I'd still think, "there has to be more to it than that." I'd shut that bush up with a fire extinguisher. Unless God was talking to me on a burning telephone instead; then I'd say something dramatic and hang up as hard as I could.

    I wish I had a way to respond to people like you. But since the only people like you are piles of flesh lying next to a doctor who's saying, "Oh.. my dear god. What... what could have caused this...", I have no idea how to keep you from writing back. So I'm going to give the response's final cut to Gus, a semi-professional, noncompetitive rollerskate-dance and figure enthusiast.


    Gus
    (Noncompetetive Member)

    Today's guestbook responses brought to you by
    Rollerdrome Dance and Figure Club Members


    (Note: the original website for the Rollerdrome Dance and Figure Club has been taken down. This hole in the Internet was thankfully filled by a site that shows autistic people how to make mashed potatoes.
    For the next few months, I had no contact with Sean even though I thought about killing and eating him a lot. Do you remember in Rocky 1 the way Rocky more or less accidently became an overnight contender for whatever they call the Final Boss Battle of boxing? That's how, in 1997, I became one of the top five contenders for a "one man boy band" being formed by famous boy band inventor Maurice Starr. Thanks to an uncaring God who created the luckless hobos who taught me how to operate cymbals with my knees while simultaneously playing the spoons, a moonshine jug, a banjo, and a harmonica, I got the job. Although the band, called "Erik!", tested well with hobos and people who were teenagers in the 1920s, modern teenage girls were not amused by my sexy act. After focus group surveys revealed that girls ages 12-16 would rather MTV played a secret tape of their fathers' hemorrhoid surgeries than my video, the band went through some retooling.

    Maurice Starr decided that while I was undeniably gifted in a vaudeville-before-Bob-Hope-raised-the-standards-you-needed-to-get-a-job-in-vaudeville sort of way, I was too ugly and too old to bear the weight of an entire boy band on my narrow, hunched shoulders. He decided I needed a partner who could bring to the table the two things "Erik!" was missing: talent and looks. "And a third thing: looks," he added. I told him he'd already said looks. We argued, we agreed to disagree, and then, for the first time, he hit me.

    "I thought we agreed to disagree!" I sobbed as I tore his knuckles apart with my head. It wouldn't be the last time Maurice Starr hit me - though from then on it was always by accident and not as painful.

    Two weeks later, in a shocking surprise that I'll never forget, I met my new bandmate. By now, you've probably already guessed who it was: former New Kid On The Block Jon Knight. A few minutes later, I accidently broke his neck while I was showing him how I could pop his eardrum, and Maurice Starr introduced me to Jon's replacement: none other than my arch-enemy Sean "Baby" Reiley. I braced myself for a long period of mistrust and mutual hatred that would only be resolved - after much time and maybe even some crime solving - when we finally had a fistfight which I'd just barely win by cheating in a fun, lovable way. It turned out, though, that he didn't remember who I was, even after I told him who I was and reminded him about the poem. His face didn't show any recognition when I recited it in its entirety as I'd practiced so many nights in front of the Seanbaby-shaped stack of meat I keep unrefrigerated at home.

    If he didn't like or respect me, he put up a good act. Because that afternoon, I spotted for him while he smashed the clean and jerk world's record for prettyboys, and he asked if we could become blood brothers. He slid a knife across his palm, and with a grim yet friendly look, handed it to me. I accidentally cut most of my pinky off and we found out later my blood gave Sean hepatitis, but it really helped enhance the chemistry of "Erik!" and made the inside of my arteries .08% more handsome.


    Above: indespensable boy band facts from a New Kids on the Block trading card. You can tell the New Kids really know "tough" since they've replaced the "G" at the end of "DANCING" with an apostrophe just like they do on the streets.

    Another card source lists Jonathan Knight's turn-offs as war, pollution, and racism. Something Erik learned about first-hand when he got kicked out of Jon's bed for making a joke about pollack seagulls getting their heads caught in discarded coke-rings.

    Although it took three months of hard work and a team of devoted hair stylists to produce our first album...



    ...it only took ten minutes for Sony lawyers to sue Maurice Starr out of business and right into a short prison stay. You might imagine the kind of damage that can be done to the ass of a boy-band manufacturer during even a few moments in prison, the non-consensual-ass-sex capitol of the penal system. As they say in Daikatana on the Gameboy in French...



    ...which literally means "You got some cartouches for your Ion Blaster," but, like every other string of French words, figuratively represents the phrase "such is life". Or as we figuratively represent in English, "You can't fight the moonlight."

    Continue... THE SAGA OF FRIENDSHIP EXPLODES!
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