#128 Bikinis

Bros and society fucking hate each other. Outside of the glorious double-standard that makes it not only acceptable but also the social norm to bang #101 younger chicks while simultaneously labeling girls as #39 Cougars if they hook up with younger guys, there’s really not that much on which we agree. While society keeps pushing its anti-bro Nazi-like propaganda aka “Women’s Rights,” there is really little bros can get away with these days. Sadly, we live in a time where even harmless attempts at conversation can result in a fucking sexual harassment charge. Once innocent questions such as “Are you single?” “What color underwear are you wearing?” and “Do you swallow?” are now seen as “inappropriate” or “threatening.” Fucking bullshit. While society’s “Fourth Reich” continues its reign of terror on bros and the Women’s movement somehow continues to grow (hairy) legs, there’s always one thing that will remain constant. It’s something that reminds bros that women shouldn’t be running for fucking President or sitting on the Supreme Court (unless, of course, she’s ruling over “The Case of the Missing Shoes: A ‘Sex and the City’ Mystery!”) - they should be getting their tickets punched for fucking Pound Town. Obviously, I’m talking about fucking bikinis.

#127 Fake IDs

It was one of the worst moments of my entire fucking life. After a three hour drive, I had finally arrived at my destination: the beach. Just before I pulled into town I decided to stop for a 30 pack since my bros had only gotten one other case, and surely that wasn’t going to last the night with six bros straight punishing shit. As I grabbed the cube from the fridge and approached the counter, I dug into my pocket for my wallet only to realize it was fucking empty. Immediately I realized what had happened - I left my fucking wallet at my #32 Bro Pad back in Arlington. I fucking panicked. Now a bro-hater’s first reaction might be, “Never fear! You can just borrow money from your friends for food,” but I’m a fucking bro, so you better fucking believe that eating was the last thing on my mind. I needed that wallet for one thing and one thing only: getting into bars. My first thought was to immediately turn around to drive the six hour round trip, because honestly, what the fuck is there to do at the beach if you can’t get into the bars? But then I realized something – I’m a fucking bro. I’m one of the smartest people on the fucking planet. No fucking bro-hater bullshit law is getting in the way of me having a good time with my bros. Bros are above the fucking law.

Luckily for me, my younger brother and I look pretty similar, so we just had one of our bros bring his license out from inside the bar for me to use. It’s been years since my 21st #81 birthday, but as the bouncer studied my ID, I started to get the same feelings I did back when I was 19 trying to pass for a 26 year old organ donor from Long Island with a face so different I had to claim I was brutally injured in a car accident – I was fucking nervous. Now I’ve been to hundreds of bars, but the moment that bouncer gave me my fake ID back I had a rush that would rival Steve Phillips at a Star Wars convention. I was in the bar illegally – and it was one of the greatest feelings in the fucking world. Bros fucking love fake IDs.

#126 Peer Pressure

God damn, your seats are fucking amazing. Thanks to your bro’s #14 Dad, you and six of your bros are sitting in the first row down the third baseline. While the game is boring as shit due to the fact that it’s baseball, you’re a fucking bro so you know how to make anything fun: getting fucking wasted. One of your bros suggested that you guys drink a beer an inning, but everyone agreed they were trying to get drunk and not just buzzed, so you decided to go a brew every half inning. By the sixth inning, the usher has already come to your section three times to ask you guys to keep the #91 profanity, #77 heckling, and masturbation pantomimes to a minimum. Each time your bro politely informed him that “My Dad fucking owns you. Take your 3rd grade education back to where you belong inspecting tickets wiping down seats.” Needless to say, you guys are feeling fucking invincible.

As the 7th inning stretch comes around, you’re getting tired of trying to get the right field ball girl aka #“Ball Slut” to flash you. You decide you need to spice things up. Luckily Timmy is there. Timmy is the bro who is without a doubt the craziest fucking guy in your whole group – motherfucker will do anything, but he always needs the proper encouragement.

#125 Rebounds

It’s Wednesday morning and you’re hungover as shit. You just bought a breathalyzer off of eBay so obviously you and your bros were having a contest to see how #124 high you could blow. Right around the time you blew a .38, you’re mind went fucking blank. Somehow, you made it back to your bed, but even more alarming was the fact that you didn’t have to pee when you woke up. This could only mean one thing – there’s fucking #36 piss somewhere in this room. As you slowly move around the room gently touching the floor as if you’re walking through a minefield, you’re shocked – the floors are fucking clean. Satisfied with yourself, you hop back into bed, grab your laptop, and throw ESPN on your flat screen. You’re set for the next four hours.

You start fucking around on Facebook. You sift through the pointless status messages girls put up like, “Baking a cake!” or the fact that they now like ‘TO MOVE IT! MOVE IT!’ in the hopes of checking out some bikini pics, when out of nowhere you see it. As Jemele Hill makes the case in the background that Pool is a racist sport since the 8 ball is Black, the best newsfeed you could ever imagine flashes across the screen: “Allison Thomas is now listed as single.” Holy shit. Without even an explanation, you text all your bros “Fucking Dibs.” The hottest girl at the entire school just broke up with her boyfriend. She’s on the fucking rebound. You’re a bro aka motherfucking Karl Malone. You better believe you’ll be boxing out on this one. Bros fucking love rebounds.

#124 Not Being Alcoholics

I fucking hate bro-haters. It seems like they’re fucking everywhere these days trying to bring bros down. I really find it troubling that in a world where equal rights are universally accepted, bros are still persecuted on a daily basis. Honestly, why would anyone want to #24 bring a child into a world where people aren’t free to #97 take dumps in communal dryers, #2 steal giant statues of the Hamburgler from McDonald’s, or most importantly, get so wasted at a restaurant that they get #40 kicked out for #36 peeing on a gumball machine at 3pm? Bros were fucking born as bros. We are who we fucking are. We’re not changing, so society damn well better learn to accept us. While society repeatedly makes up words like “chauvinists” and “misogynists” to bring bros down, we just take that shit in stride. Bros know that the only reason they are calling us that shit is because they’re just fucking jealous. It’s not our fault you fucking #89 hipsters got a swirly every day back in grade school. If you didn’t want your head shoved in a toilet maybe you shouldn’t have chosen to be fat.

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#123 Hating Periods

It’s Saturday night and you’re fucking hammered. After a long day of bonging beers through vuvuzelas, #4 chanting U-S-A, and arguing with your bros about who was the hottest girl on “Step by Step,” you really don’t think it could get any better. That is until you see her. At the corner of the bar some hot blond chick is staring at you and quite honestly, why the fuck wouldn’t she be? You’re a fucking bro, by definition one of the #109 best looking people on the planet. It shouldn’t be any surprise that she wants buy her One-Way ticket to Pound Town.

As you make your approach and lay down your ‘A’ game aka tell her about the time you scored six goals in the #111 High School Lacrosse championship, there’s one thing that becomes immediately clear: She wants to bang you. Within five minutes you’re out the door and heading back to your #32 Bro Pad for some good old fashioned #24 unprotected sex with a stranger.

#122 Texting

Throughout the history of time, there have been certain technological and scientific advances that have benefited bros more than any other group in society. The Red Zone Channel, Internet porn, and #24 the morning after aka "murder pill" immediately come to mind. But above all these incredible innovations lies something that would have made our Great-Grandparents threaten to burn us at the stake like all those slut witches back in the day. The idea of “typing into a phone” would have sounded fucking insane just 10 years ago, but thankfully, unlike society, technological developers are dedicated to Bro Rights. Through hard work and determination and no doubt many lives lost, tech geeks put aside the fact that they will die a virgin to help out a group much-overlooked by society’s brocist reign of terror: the bros. Thank you Techie nerds for all your hard work and “holding out for marriage to avoid STDs” because bros fucking love Texting.

Texting is the fucking shit. I still remember the first time I discovered texting. I sent one to my buddy saying something really important along the lines of, “Fuck you,” or “I banged your Mom.” Over the years texting has evolved and you better fucking believe bros are taking advantage of that shit. Let’s take a look at a few of the things that bros fucking love about texting.

#121 Fighting

So it was your typical Friday night last week at Dewey Beach. After about 10 hours of drinking in the sun, doing the John Wall dance for half that time and finishing the day off by destroying a trash can and putting a hole in the wall of our rental house it was finally time to hit the bar.

As I made my way through the crowded bar, just minding my own business, I heard someone yell in my ear, “Capitals fucking suck!” At first I wondered how this douchebag actually knew I liked the Capitals, then I remembered in fact, I was wearing a Capitals shirt. Since I have been a diehard Capitals fan for the past two years aka since they've been good, I couldn’t let that shit slide.

I got into this fucker’s face trying to gain some information, “Who the fuck do you like anyways?”
“Flyers,” he yelled as he struggled to speak due to his mouth-breathing limitations.

I glanced to my right to spot my 6’3’’ 265 King Kong sized bro standing next to me. It was fucking on. As I reminded him about how much of a #26 cess-pool of a town he lives in along with the fact that the greatest sports figure his town ever had was a fake boxer, all he had for me was “You’re a faggot.” Fucking clever.

#120 Icing Bros

Today has fucking sucked. Not only are you hungover as shit from spanking Franzia bladders all night, but you didn’t even get laid last night. Apparently the girl you were going to bang didn’t really like it when you chugged half the box of wine and proceeded to #48 violently throw up all over her designer purse. You tried to convince her she could just shove her money down her cleavage like a stripper, but the fucking bitch just stormed off – probably to go buy some tampons or something. If that wasn’t bad enough, your Mom keeps calling you to make sure you are coming to your Grandmother’s wake tonight. You try to explain to her that after last night’s kamikaze-cockblock you are in no shape to be viewing any dead bodies. She reminds you that you’ll find out what type of inheritance you’re getting so you reluctantly agree to go.

After spending most of the service trying to figure out if this hot blond chick in the third row is your cousin, you spot a familiar face in the back. It’s your bro Rich. You whip out your iPhone and text him.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Just paying my respects, bro,” he quickly replies.