Tonight’s been a fucking shit show. After #35 pregaming at your spot for like six hours watching College basketball and complaining about how it's taking forever for the next season of #27 Eastbound and Down to come out, you and your bros are about to #8 roll out to the bars. Just before you walk out the door, you realize that it was going to be a sloppy night. You just took like 10 shots in a fucking row, and the concept of having thoughts was starting to leave your mind. You told that girl from Econ class with the big cans to meet you at the bar, and if you want to bang her you’re going to have to keep it together. As you and your bros stumble to the bars, you sift through the numbers in your phone to finally find #28 “Econ Slut.” You text her, “Hey – can’t wait to hang out tonight!” Foundation fucking laid. She immediately texts back and says she’ll be there in like a hour – thank God – one less hour of wasting time talking to her before Pound Town. You finally get to the bar and while the bro-hater bouncer tries to say “you’re too drunk to come in, blah blah blah, last time you were here you tried to steal the fountain soda machine, blah blah blah,” you just remind him that #14 your father could have him fired tomorrow. Scared as shit because you’re the fucking man, he finally lets you in. After entering, one of your bros has a great idea: shot contest. It doesn’t get much better than proving your manhood by drinking as many fucking shots as possible. After throwing back like five you tap out. Time to put on the charm. You turn to your boy to tell him that your slut is coming soon, but he just shakes his head at you, “What did you say?” You repeat yourself but this dumb-fuck obviously doesn’t understand English. You tell him he’s a fucking terrorist, but he just shakes his head and says, “You’re wasted man.”
Oh fuck – you’ve drank yourself into the dreaded Helen Keller alcohol coma. You can see everything going on around you but your brain has decided to call it a night. As you scream out incoherent words like you’re Mr. Holland’s son, you see her walk in. Wearing the top she probably spent an hour deciding on wearing so she could send the perfect message of “I’m only a slut for you,” you try to put yourself together. As you approach her things go black. The next morning you wake up amazed to actually be in your own bed.
You whisper to yourself: “How the fuck did I get home last night?”
“You were sooo drunk!!” some strange voice calls out.
“Who the fuck was that!?!” you scream.
“It’s me, (name not important),” as a girl emerges from underneath the covers.
It’s Econ slut – you guys banged. But wait a minute! You couldn’t even talk, much less “spit game.” How the fuck did this hot slut end up in your bed? That’s when you remember: I’m a fucking bro – by definition #83 genetically perfect in every fucking way. While other fucking losers have to do pointless shit like take girls out on #75 dates or hold doors open for them, all you have to do is smile and nod your head. Being one of the best looking people on the fucking planet will take care of the rest. God, its so good to be a fucking bro.
It’s not our fault. Ever since the third grade when like half the girls in the class passed us notes asking if we “like-like” them we knew: we are the cream of the crop. As time passed this shit grew to the point where effortless sex is just a fucking given. Now I know someone is out there, probably toggling between online dating websites and animal porn, yelling at his computer – “NYB you’re a hypocrite!! You care about how good you look just like the fucking #100 Guidos!!” First of all: fuck you – second, bros are nothing like Guidos. Unlike Guidos who have to spend five hours a day getting ready to go out, so they can hit on some “woman” who will probably die of skin cancer in like a year from all her fake tanning, bros take like 2 minutes to get ready. This is because God created us perfect. God obviously wanted bros to be the most attractive people on the pIanet because we’re the smartest and he knew our seed must survive. Unfortunately for God – we have #24 other plans.
Bros also like being tall as shit. I’m 6’4’’ and so are most of my bros. We always love making fun of all the fucking midgets that hang out with us who are only like 6 feet tall. We pretend we can’t even see them when we’re standing and any time they get angry we tell them to “take it easy, Napoleon.” I’ll never understand why they chose to be so short, but whatever, its their own fault. Fucking short losers.
Now to all you fucking haters out there calling me made up words like “shallow,” I can tell one thing about you right off the bat: you are ugly. Please – who in the world is not shallow? Outside of a ridiculously drunk bro on the worst cold streak of his life, who in his right mind would want to bang some #78 fat ugly bitch? I seriously can’t stand all those people who say, “True beauty is on the inside.” Give me a fucking break. I don’t care how “good” of a heart she has – I don’t really think she’ll be finding her Prince Charming anytime soon if she has a face that looks like one of Jigsaw’s victims.
There’s a lot of haters in the world. They hate all the things we’ve earned over our lives. Whether it’s the jobs our fathers got us, the BMW we got for graduation, or even our trust fund, society finds something wrong with it. But when society calls us “ugly” for things we say or do, we have to draw the line. Next time this happens – make sure you tell society who the real ugly one is. Because there’s only one place that true beauty matters: the outside.