The Best of Chris Farley

Brian Alan Ellis



Skit where we contemplate your dog’s face, which is pretty much a black void with teeth and some gross tongue showing, as he jumps on my balls.

Skit that’s really just a montage of all the times I’ve found your hoop earrings behind my bed.

Skit where you win a ridiculous Crayola crayon pillow from the claw machine at our favorite shitty diner and then suffocate me with it.

Skit where we shower together and I make fun of your “Coconut Curl” shampoo by saying, “Oh, so you’ve been a Coconut Curl Girl this whole time?” but then later you shame me for leaving “old man hairs” in the tub and I die a little inside.

Skit where you let me suck your toes.

Skit where you tell me my eyes are garbage.

Skit where you Facebook instant message me childhood photos, even the ones where you look like the chubby kid from Stranger Things.

Skit where I tease you about your tattoos, like the one that’s the state of Florida, and especially the one that references a Get Up Kids song.

Skit where I eat your asshole during the closing credits of Harry and the Hendersons, which we later joke about because the closing credits remind us of that one Ah-Ha music video.

Skit where I take your dog for a walk while you’re tequila drunk and dry heaving into the toilet.

Skit where you sometimes don’t respond to my funny texts and I feel personally attacked.

Skit where I masturbate on your feet.

Skit that’s really just a montage of all the times you’ve tried to get me to watch and appreciate anime.

Skit where you tell me my tattoos look like shit and I go cry in the bathroom while spitting at my reflection in the mirror.

Skit where I shame you for eating pickles because pickles are disgusting but then apologize for pickle-shaming you, thus allowing me to experience, for the very first time, the act of pickle tolerance.

Skit where you asked to be choked and slapped during sex, which I have mixed feelings about but I do it anyway, gentle and lovingly yet still firm, because it gets you off and because I’m probably stupid enough to do whatever it takes to get you off indefinitely.

Skit where I get butt-hurt you won’t let me tag you in stupid photos you take of me while we have Sunday brunch at Applebee’s.

Skit about your Adderall prescription.

Skit where the world is too cold and I squeeze your naked body against mine, and I start kissing your chattering lips, but then you fall asleep and start dreaming of orca whales, and I start kissing your eyelids while sticking my finger inside your gaping, drooling mouth as you lightly snore, and I watch you dream about orca whales for a while, and I like it, and I wonder about all the weird shit you may or may not be doing to me when I’m asleep.

Skit that’s really just a montage off all the times you’ve kicked me out of your house and/or car.

Skit where you roll over your glasses, breaking them, as we sloppily fuck on what is essentially a bed made for a toddler and/or small dog.

Skit where you talk mad shit about my flip phone.

Skit where you’re taking weed hits from your DIY gravity bong (a modified Gatorade bottle) while I’m on your living room floor, looking through your art books, your zines and records, your back issues of Vice, and your roommate comes home from work and sees me browsing your cool shit in her fucking house and she scowls while flipping me the bird and like, seriously, what’s her goddamn deal?

Skit where you send my drunk ass home in an Uber… during a hurricane.

Skit where you attempt to hang out with people off Tinder who most likely have cooler tattoos than me.

Skit where you randomly distance yourself from me, sometimes for weeks.

Skit that’s really just a montage of me finding all the disgusting drawings you do of all our idiot friends, the ones you carelessly leave scattered around my bedroom even though they belong in the Louvre (the art, not the idiot friends).

Skit where we put on exfoliating skin cream masks and attempt to clean your bedroom while listening to chopped and screwed versions of Jimmy Eat World songs.

Skit where you ask me to come inside you while you’re on your period, which I find to be one of the most intimate and endearing acts ever because I’m fucking crazy.

Skit where the only gift I receive for my birthday is a banged-up painting of Bart Simpson I tell people you found in the trash, though you’re quick to remind them that it was actually salvaged from under proper trash shoved in the trunk of your car, which is also trash that we both agree should be set on fire and left to burn outside of a Waffle House at 4am.

Skit where you pick a fight with me while we lay in bed watching Roseanne.

Skit where we make each other feel insecure by doing very little.

Skit where I attempt to embarrass you in front of your mom by telling her how in love with you I am, even though you can sometimes be so annoying, so flakey, so frustrating to deal with, which I’m sure she already knows because you’re pretty much the worst, but still.

Skit where you randomly distance yourself from me, maybe forever.

Skit where you may or may not read this someday.

Skit where you may or may not text me again someday: “All right, all right, you dumb-dumb idiot asshole, what up?”