No, I don't want to help you move. But since we're friends, I guess I have to. But you better not try to return the favor with a pizza and a sixer.

As the dog days of summer close in, leases around the country are coming to an end. And that means that any day now, The Call could come: "Hey, you free next weekend? I need help moving." And, oh by the way, it's on the 4th floor and there's no elevator.

Sometimes when I get this call, I wonder what the big deal about friendship is anyhow. I've thought about burning some bridges. If she's really your friend, she'll eventually forgive you for pulling a no-show, right?

Wrong.

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There is a section of the friendship clause which states that you will carry awkward, over-packed laundry baskets of junk up and down flights of stairs, once a year, every year, until said friend gets their sh*t together and actually stays put for awhile.

Fine, but I am adding a new clause: Little Caesar's pizza and lukewarm Schlitz is not adequate payment for this labor. (And I'm sure as heck not doing it out of the goodness of my own heart.)

Make it worth my while.
By putting me to work carrying your elliptical upstairs on my back, you've saved yourself hundreds of dollars by not hiring movers. Well, it's time to pony up.

I'm thinking that after I sprawl out on your front lawn for an hour waiting for my core temperature to drop, I'm going to shower, then meet you at a restaurant of my choosing for a proper sit-down dinner and drinks. On you.

Korean BBQ is really tasty and fun and we can all chum around and remember the good times -- like earlier in the day when I hauled around all of your earthly possessions in the blazing heat of summer.

You get what you pay for.
Remember that I am not a professional mover -- nor am I in shape. Chances are I'm going to forget to bend at the knees, drop something that has "FRAGILE" written all over it, and I'll more than likely curse at you under my breath while trying to shove that futon frame through a too-small doorway.

We all have outbursts when we are under stress, and lifting objects three times our weight doesn't help. In these situations, it would be classy of you to give me a gift certificate for a massage or perhaps a class or two of yoga in exchange for pulling every muscle in my lower back.

For the love of God, respect my time and be packed.
If I roll my butt out of bed at 9 a.m. to get over to your place on a Saturday morning (hangover optional) only to find the place half-packed, there's going to be trouble.

In cases such as these, I suggest just putting cold, hard cash in my hand if you don't want me to turn around and go straight back to bed -- or punch you square in the jaw.

WPE is a new column asking whether an opinion we have or something we've done makes us the Worst Person Ever -- a WPE. Have a suggestion for a topic? Email Brooke at bvp@lemondrop.com.
+PREVIOUSLY ON "AM I THE WPE?": I Don't Want to Be in Your Wedding.

Brooke is a comedian, writer and waitress who might help you move if the price -- or food -- is right. If you'd like to ask for her assistance -- or just read more about what she's up to -- check her out here.