What is there to say that hasn’t been said before?  I remember my first encounter with man who is the Sexpigeon: he challenged me to a duel via email claiming his friends imagined the TGS a figment of his making, and scores needed settling.  There’s a maximum occupancy for smartasses in San Francisco, and the herd needed thinning.   

With his surly build hidden lightly beneath a sweater vest, he was known around town as a scrapper.  Sure, he looked a little sleepy at times, but this only served to confound his enemies—and they were numerous—when the time came to strike. 
Should I have been nervous?  Yes: but I had been practicing, and figured I had a fighting chance.  A squirt of lemon in the eye is as good as a fistful of dirty sawdust in a bar fight, my dad always said.  “But just make sure they’re Meyer lemons, really rounds out the flavors in cocktails.”  I think my father lived here when they still put sawdust on the floor.  

Friends, nothing of the kind occurred.  Turns out we had spent time working for the same useless cause, enjoyed formative years not far away.  He’s a real top-drawer kind of fellow, his jib square and his socks clean. 
To know him is to use parts of your liver and brain that would normally under-perform; one must remember how to speak past the shrugs and mouthed emoticons that are the fashion these days. 

Yes, good ol’ Sexpigeon, we’ll miss him.  Have at him, Buffalo!  

Or was it Rochester?