You’ve wanted us ever since you let us go ahead of you in the line at the dining hall. We said, “Oh, how sweet of you!” and agreed when you asked to exchange numbers. What a nice guy, we thought to ourselves, and from that very moment, unbeknownst to your effervescent adolescent fantasies, you purchased yourself a one-way ticket to The Friend Zone. A chastening and sexually substandard position, no doubt, but a laudable one nevertheless. 

What would we do without those grudgingly platonic friends in our lives? Who would provide us with complementary drinks and only half-heartedly expect a sexually gratifying favor in return? Who would we drape ourselves over in order to deter an unsavory suitor or to spark jealousy in a suitable one? Who would we get to quiz us on our Spanish flashcards, give us back massages, and listen to our love woes, merely to tell them time and time again, “You’re such a good friend!” 

Everyone loves to believe that the underdog, the benchwarmer, will be given a chance to play in the final hour and make the winning play. The Nice Guy may cling to the hapless hope that the object of his affection will finally realize his worth/relative physical attractiveness and promote him to first string but, alas, rarely is that the Friend Zoner’s fate. The coquettish companion may occasionally engage her Nice Guy in a meaningless game of tonsil hockey when intoxicated, but once the influence has lifted, that fleeting moment of passion will become nothing more than a droll anecdote. “Remember that time we made out? LOL.” 

So here’s to you, Nice Guy. You may have thus far been condemned to a lifetime of emasculating tasks and sexual unfulfillment, but hang in there, Rudy Ruettiger. Your big break may be coming yet. Either that, or the object of your desire will finally get inebriated enough one night to let you touch her boob.