I have no idea why I'm friends with Drew Snyder.

Nor can I tell you how it started. Somewhere smack in the middle of my run in Oxford, Snyder and I became aware of one another in the bizarre way that the Ole Miss social scene works, as if we were suddenly neighbors in some local celebrity cul-de-sac. He was the guy who mowed his lawn and oversaw the homeowner's association, I was the less than reputable guy with three Mexicans working on a Chevelle in my driveway. I never cut my lawn, kept the porch light on at strange hours of the night and caused your wife to complain about lowering property values.

Somehow, and I think it was through some girl, Snyder and I met up and gained a mutual respect for one another. Writing. Ole Miss. Politics. And ultimately, pro wrestling (had I known how foreboding that would be I wouldn't have quit drinking).

In some ways since that fateful meeting I've become the black sheep that all political families hold their breath about. God love Drew, because on the rare occasion we're both in Jackson, he'll have me meet a cadre of Jackson Academy alumni, future legislators, girls who'll one day own boutiques, multiple marriages and non-biodegradable faces and other socialites who politely intone that I might have the Black Death because my parents live in Rankin County and I dropped my Southern accent years ago.

They can only wonder why Drew hangs out with the likes of me. Yessir: Roger Clinton… Billy Carter… when (not if) Snyder runs for elected office, I'll be there to screw it all up – leave powdery residue on the bathroom sink of a hotel under his name, bang some stocky thick-legged campaign aide, all that jazz.

As far as SNN, I can't say much. Honestly, I don't remember much – a lot of really self-important *$$****$ fighting with a lot of other self-important *$$****$ on some message board. I'd say you could break it down into two categories: the easily offended traditional Southern frat guy, who rather than enjoy having the piss taken out of him once in a while instead nursed a case of xenophobia so pronounced that anything (or anyone) who didn't bow down or spread their legs to the contrived glory of a set of croakies and some deck shoes was a raging communist f****t.

Then you had the other guys, a bunch of reformed grade school geeks who had the unfortunate luck of attempting the self-explorative college years in a town that makes Augusta National look like a barrio, so you start listening to crappy complaint rock, shuffling around the square in blazers and witty t-shirts and fall into that mush of reading Larry Brown and drinking brown liquor to look "distraught."

Huh. Wonder which one I was. Point is, we all figured out that most of the shit that occurred in college was pointless far too late. I don't regret being academically dismissed from Ole Miss (twice), nor do I regret a riotous bout of alcoholism. I regret not trying to sleep with more women, because at the time I thought the Oxford social structure was anything more than disposable. Given my druthers I'd hop back in time and accost everything that moved, because you never fully realize how quickly the pool will dry up in adulthood.

I also admire Drew for his moral fiber. At an age when most Americans commit their most debauched acts – sex with multiple partners, drug abuse, hitting somebody with a stop sign, Derby Days – Drew was always on the up and up. For instance, read the following sentence.

All you ****-******** ******* ******* can go **** yourself until your ******* ***** fall off.

Now, on my computer screen that works like a profane siren's song. On your screen it's probably more dashed out than morse code. I'm telling you, the man has moral ******* fiber.

My name is Steven Godfrey, I'm a 26 year-old resident of Nashville, Tennessee and I'm the Publicity Director for the world's second largest professional wrestling company, as well as a former local celebrity in Oxford, Mississippi and a self-obsessed writer. And I am friends with Drew ******* Snyder.