It’s separation time. All of you fucking bro wannabes who are living at home with Mommy and Daddy or much worse – with your girlfriend/wife, time to change the website. Go ahead, go back to TMZ and find out what Brangelina is up to. You gone? Good. Now it’s time to talk about the staple of any bro’s life. His fucking pad. “Oh this post is about bachelor pads!” If you just said that to yourself, get the fuck out of here, better yet, go pull a “Carradine.” The difference between bachelors and bros is that bachelors plan to marry. Bros on the other hand are smart enough to recognize that marriage is a violent crime against nature and it will not be tolerated. There are three defining characteristics to any solid bro pad, and guess what? I’m about to fucking write about them.
The Name – Back in the 80’s bros would name their cars. These days their prized possession has become the house they rent. Back in college I lived in “The Yellow House” which was actually brown (how ridiculous is that?!?!) and the Funeral Home, which was named that because it actually used to be a funeral home. You could still see the red stains on the blood drains in the basement/embalming room/beer pong room. The conversation which actually sparked this website came from what we should call our house. There was some banter back and forth between me and my two bro-mates, Ginger Bro and Brony. We strongly considered "Hot Guys Who Like to Fuck house" but we thought that might have too many bad connotations. We finally figured it out. The Brotel. Since then, our other bros in Arlington have renamed their houses the Brostel and the Brolaggio. Obviously, we contend that the Brotel is better than any of these shitty houses and call them the Bro Roof Inn and the Brocono Lodge, respectively. But anyways, the point is, bros fucking love giving their place a title.
Guests – Most people my age wake up on Sunday morning to go for a run or to go get a paper and read about what’s going on in the world. Bros, on the other hand, wake up to see who was too fucked up to make it home last night. We have three couches in our living room and if it’s a good night aka every night we go out to get fucked up they will be filled. Bros will then immediately start calling/texting their other bros to tell them just how many bros stayed at their place. They will also add, “What can I say bro, we fucking threw down last night!” If you are ever able to honestly say that you have over ten bros crashing at your house, you have the potential to become the Bro Mahal.
Destruction – Much like Black people have a tough time getting a cab, Bros suffer bro-cism from renters. For some reason, owners of nice houses don’t want to rent to a group of young men. This is because the owners are smart. If for some reason the owners actually agree to rent to bros, they will be sorry. Bros like to treat the bro pad like a fun house, destroying everything in sight. No one did this better than my Fordham bros. They lived in a classic bro pad their senior year only in the Bronx. Pretty rough neighborhood but that didn’t stop them from pissing on their neighbors doors. Anyways, they decided the grass in their backyard wasn’t good enough so they cut a chunk out of the 50 yard line of the artificial turf football field and put it back there. That was nice, but not as nice as their moving out party. For the party they brought in a hose and covered the apartment with water, presumably trying to make an indoor pool. It didn’t work, instead, they just had to settle for a slip and slide. At this point they also had quite the build up of dirty dishes. But why would you clean them if you were just going to move out? Instead they just threw all the dirty dishes in the backyard, along with any trash they might have. By move out day there were some new pet rats hanging out in the backyard. The day after they left their bro-pad it was condemned. Bros are the shit.