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.
While I was doing my best “Rocky” impression by holding one hand in the air and screaming, “Getting Strong Now!!” one of the guy’s 5’7’’ friends tried to get in my 6’4’’ grill. I pushed him away telling him to “go back to sucking off Papa Smurf.” That’s when they threw in the fucking towel aka when one of their girlfriends got involved. “Why don’t you just walk away!” she said with a sound in her voice that made me knew she was still dealing with the emotional after-effects of her most recent #24 abortion. I told her what I thought of her – that she was a whore, and told her that maybe her fucking boyfriend shouldn’t have started shit. At this point my big guy was pushing me away, letting me know that they had been defeated, and I agreed. Although no punches were thrown, I had won the fucking fight. And more importantly, my t-shirt’s honor was safe. Bros fucking love fights.
Fighting is the motherfucking shit, although before everyone jumps on me saying bullshit, like “Fighting is #100 Guido!!” or “Bros are peaceful!!” let’s make a clarification. Guidos go out with the pure intention of starting fights just because someone stepped on their $300 shoes or ruined their hair by touching it. Bros fight about important shit – like whose High school, College, Fraternity, or Sports Team is better. Bros fight for honor – like fucking Samurais. Let’s take a look at some of the reasons bros love fights.
Watching a Fight Unfold – Much like #69 fake tits, bros just have a sixth sense for a developing fight. Anytime there is even a hint of a fight nearby, you better fucking believe that bros are going to want to watch that shit. Bros fucking love starting “Fight! Fight! Fight!” #4 chants and then #77 heckling the fuck out of any bro-hater bouncer who tries to break that shit up.
The Rush – If anyone has ever been in a fight, you know what I’m fucking talking about. It really doesn’t get any better that finding a weakness and exploiting the shit out of until your opponent has to submit and agree with you that, in fact Honey Nut Cheerios are better than that Apple Cinnamon bullshit. After winning a fight, you feel like you can do anything. You’re fucking invincible. So what do bros do? They go start punching tickets in the bar for the final destination: Pound Town.
It Turns Girls On – Have you ever seen how fucking impressed girls are with the winner of a fight? You’re like a fucking hero. Anytime there is a fight at a bar the bartenders should put up those “Caution: Wet Floor” signs just to deal with all the excess moisture. Anytime a bro gets into a fight, he immediately has like ten girls surrounding him begging him to protect them…with his dick.
While girls use primitive techniques such as talking it out, using a mediator, or sleeping with their enemy’s boyfriend, bro do the responsible thing to settle disputes. Whether its over the starting pitching rotation for the ’92 Braves or when you get to rack for #6 Beer Pong, the point is there are important issues amongst the bromunnity that need to be settled and need to be settled that minute. Thank God we have fights. Thank God we have bros.