Bros love Sports. Bros love #1 getting fucked up. Bros love taking slam pieces to Pound Town. In a perfect world, bros would be going to games, getting blackout drunk, and taking home some random girl you met waiting in line for the bathroom named “#28 Toilet Slut” every fucking day of the year. Unfortunately, we are not yet to the point of bro-quality with society so we have to settle on a few days in Spring to get us by. Race days. Bros fucking love Horse Racing because it combines three of the most bro pastimes, gambling, drunkenness, and sluttiness, and brings them together into the perfect Saturday package.
Bros love horse races because it gives them a chance to get fucked up outdoors all day and bang slam pieces wearing sundresses. While they may love horse racing, bros don’t give a shit about getting a good seat in the grandstand or how horse racing is “so cruel.” To be honest, outside of making bets on the horses, bros don’t give a fuck about the actual races at all. Being able to honestly say you never once saw a horse at a horse race is about as bro as it fucking gets.
For "a day at the races" some bros, typically Southern Preppy ones, will dress up in bowties, seersucker suits, top siders, and croakies, but most will wear whatever the fuck they want. Bros aren’t there to impress anyone – being a fucking bro is impressive enough. Girls on the other hand eat that shit up. Girls fucking love wearing those bigass hats, not so much because it’s a tradition, but more because they saw fucking Kendra wearing one in an episode of “The Girls Next Door.” Much like little kids love to play “make believe” by dressing up like a firefighter, slam pieces love dressing classy to pretend they deserve respect.
Sure, bros can place bets any fucking time they want on their iPhone with their Bodog account, but betting on the ponies at the track is still fun as shit. Bros know everything there is to fucking know about betting on horses. Bros love talking about how they made like 2 grand on a $4 bet last year, then blew it all at the bar that night. Bros also love making fun of anyone who doesn’t know horse racing betting lingo. By calling someone a dumb fuck retard for not knowing what a Superfecta box is, not only do you look smart as shit, but you’re guaranteed to get dome from any girl that hears. Fucking sluts.
Even though many claim the main attraction at a Horse Race is the racing horses, bros realize what it’s really all about – getting fucking hammered. The great thing about most races is that they’re BYOB events, meaning bros are lugging like six 30 packs and a case of #43 red bull with them. While many horse races across the country will try to compete, nothing will ever compare to a bro event so huge, it can only be described as Woodstock, the Super Bowl, and the World Cup all rolled into one. Of course I’m talking about the BYOB Preakness. I’m proud to report that I was able to attend two of these, and I can honestly say that at these events I’ve never been more proud to be a bro. Only good things can come from tens of thousands of people on a hot day drinking as much as humanly possible with no laws whatsoever.
As bros would race on top of port-o-potties with full beer cans being thrown at them as hard as possible from every angle, I truly discovered what it means to be a hero. You’d see bros doing belly flops into baby pools filled will beer cans. You’d see a bro, with blood (probably from a fight) streaming down his face, pounding a beer bong and screaming “PREAKNESS!!” You’d see a girl flashing a shit load of bros just because they #4 chanted the three magic words to any true slam piece’s heart: “Show your tits.” The Preakness infield had it all. It stood for everything pure in this world. It was a playground for bros to be bros. Unfortunately, society won’t even allow bros one day a year in a caged in area to flourish.
While Preakness is bringing back the all you can drink – they have disallowed BYOB. Sure, it’s great to drink as much as you want, but honestly – what the fuck are we supposed to throw at guys running across Port-o-Potties? Are they just supposed to run their races without any obstacles? Where’s the fucking challenge in that? Fucking Bullshit.
The start of the Triple Crown means a time for Bros to celebrate. After surviving a long rough winter it’s time to head down to the racetrack for boozing, gambling, and some old fashion slam piece pounding. If you think that sundress looks good on that girl just wait until you see it lying on your bedroom floor. After all, even if their Trifectas and Superfectas all come up empty, there’s always one box that bros are guaranteed to hit: a slam piece’s.