The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Anyone who opposes someone I hate must be a great person. It’s self-evident: If you roast the politicians I loathe, or you pick a fight with my jerk neighbor Duane, who won’t leash his Doodle, I say, “Hello, friend.”
The enemy of my friend is my enemy. You can’t mess with a friend of mine and expect me to sit around sucking my thumb. I only have one friend, Bobby, so the stakes are too damn high.
The friend of my friend is my enemy. Bobby is my friend, not yours. Don’t take my one friend in life, you stinkin’ friend stealer. I know that you two have been hanging out a lot recently, and that disturbs me. I heard you even floated the idea of doing an ayahuasca retreat without me. Seriously!? I just bought two tickets for Bobby and me to see my favorite musical act—The Chemical Brothers—and you’re not invited! I will be cordial to you for appearances, but we are frenemies at best.
The frenemy of my friend’s enemy is my Yemeni barber, Samir. He’s great at cutting hair, but, man, does he hassle me for waiting too long between cuts. He says I look like Chewbacca, then he spends two full minutes running around his barber shop howling out his eerily-accurate Chewbacca impersonation. I’d see another barber, but Samir is just too good, and he hasn’t raised his prices since 2015 despite inflation!
The friend of my barber, Samir, is my massage therapist, Janet. She’s gorgeous and classy, and it’s just a coincidence that I looked her up after I saw an Instagram post of them at a barbecue. Don’t read into it.
The enemy of my massage therapist, Janet, is her husband, Ricky. That’s no coincidence. They married young when they were so naïve. They ignored their differences. She’s a devout Christian. He’s into dark, spooky stuff. She loves animals—especially her pet gerbils. He’s into huge constrictor snakes that eat gerbils. She enjoys still-life paintings of daffodils. He enjoys paintings of famous fires and explosions. Ricky will say stuff like, “Hey, babe, let’s go to that haunted house on Saturday. It has snakes.” And she’ll go, “Ricky, that doesn’t sound very Christian.” Then he’ll curse and stomp around the house, and they bicker nonstop and make each other miserable. She tells me everything while she works the knots in my shoulders, and I can feel her hot tears dripping on my bare back. It makes me feel so mad and also some other emotions I don’t understand.
The enemy of my massage therapist’s enemy is my friend. Anything you can do to hurt that dumb pudding-pop, Ricky, would be totally “friendworthy.” Just once, I’d love to see the smirk wiped off his stupid, smug face. He thinks he’s so cool with his jet-black, jacked-up GMC Sierra and his creepy snake magazines. He treats Janet like crap, and his antics have led to the death of no less than seven of her gerbils. Janet deserves better! She is an angel sent from heaven, and I care about her.
As a massage customer, I mean.
“My true enemy is anyone who ignores their heart. Cowards die the death of a thousand cuts!” That’s what Samir told me last time he trimmed my mop and–
Oh my God, I love Janet. Her tears are a beautiful SOS, and I must drive to her house, confess my love, and save her from the dastardly Ricky. I will bring Bobby as backup. He’s the best fighter I know! And Samir. He is Janet’s friend and will snip-snip right through Ricky’s stupid snakes. Hell, I bet even Duane and his Doodle will want in on this epic beatdown. I guess I have more than one friend after all.
The best friend of my enemy’s enemy is me. When you set aside fear and go after your soulmate—a beautiful, Christian massage therapist who’s married to a disgusting, snake-worshipping Satanist—that’s when you become a true friend to yourself. Seems so obvious when I say it out loud like that.