It’s the #59 Chi Omega Fall formal and you’re fucking wasted. After an hour-long bus ride where you put the bathroom out of commission by taking a fucking #97 dump all over the floor, you finally made it to your destination: some old ass couple’s “event center.” When she originally booked the formal, she was probably envisioning some evening of black ties and ballroom dancing. She was wrong.
Since you realize your date might as well be wearing a fucking t-shirt saying, “One ticket to Pound Town, please!” you scan the room for girls who might be interested in a “JV game” aka a warm up banging session. Just as you throw on your conductor hat and ready the fucking Brocomotive, you see it. It’s gotta be the most expensive thing in the entire house. Dangling from the ceiling, right next to a spiral staircase it’s hanging with shitloads upon shitloads of crystals. It’s the biggest fucking chandelier you’ve ever seen in your life. You immediately know what has to be done. You run up the stairs and scream out to the entire party: “I’m motherfucking Tarzan, bitches!” As all the girls scream out in fear/get wet, all the bros start #4 chanting the shit out of your name. You let out one of those Tarzan monkey screams and fly across the room, ripping the fixture right out of the ceiling. As you and the chandelier come shattering to the ground, everything goes black.
You come to and hear bros discussing how much of a legend you would be if it turns out you’re dead. Meanwhile the bro-hater owner is screaming about how the fucking cops are coming. While this might scare some fucking #80 loser, you’re a bro, so you got this shit under control. You whip out your wallet, give her your credit card and tell her to charge that shit. Then you call her a bitch. Serves her fucking right – couldn’t she tell you’re a fucking bro – by definition one of the richest people on the planet, no cops are fucking necessary. As she cleans up her priceless family heirloom/toy you used to show people how fucking awesome you are, you realize something: while money might not buy happiness, it sure as fuck buys invincibility. Bros fucking love being rich.
Do you have to be rich to be a bro? No – but it sure as fuck helps. Bros are resourceful as shit. They’re able to have huge ass bar tabs, sick cars, and pretty much buy whatever the #90 fuck they want, all of which is accomplished without even having a summer job. Summer jobs are for fucking losers. The only jobs bros ever get during the summer involve the word “blow.” Why would bros ever need to make money? Wouldn’t that be a slap in the face to all the hard work our #14 fathers did so we could have the opportunity to enjoy the finer things - like getting drunk and spending their cash on important shit like moon bounces and dunk tanks?
I always hate people who talk about “classless social systems” and “taxing the upper class.” That’s fucking Commie bullshit. People are just fucking jealous of all we’ve accomplished. And don’t even get me started about how “society is stacked against #38 poor people.” Give me a fucking break – how can you honestly sit there and say society is worse for lower classes than it is for bros? When was the last time a homeless person got kicked out of school for #53 forcing pledges to spend a week in a coffin? Uhh, try never. “Oh, but drug addiction makes it so hard for them to get a job!” Cry me a fucking river – bros do drugs all the time, but it doesn’t stop them from getting a job at their Dad’s law firm. In all seriousness though, why is it ok for fucking poor people to tax the shit out of my trust fund, yet it’s “against the law” for me to #2 steal someone’s mailbox just to #33 burn it AS A JOKE? Yet another brocist double standard.
There’s a reason why bros are considered first class citizens – it’s because we’re the fucking best. Bros have known they were the fucking best since they were like 5 years old and the staff started calling them “Sir” at their Country Club. Knowing you’re better than everyone just because your family has a shitload of money is fucking awesome. It doesn’t get much better than getting a minimum wage worker fired for bringing you the wrong type of beer. That’s what that fucker gets for trying to dip his hand into my trust fund.
For the most part, bros are a pretty tolerant group of people. We put up with most of brocist society’s bullshit, such as closing bars down at 4 am, telling us it’s not “socially acceptable” to get #88 wasted for your little sister's 3rd grade school play, and the invention of #24 condoms. But if there’s one thing that bros won’t stand for it’s people talking shit about their parents’ money. They earned that shit with a little thing called hard work so that one day their sons might get the chance to grow up to be bros. Make them proud, bros. Make them proud.