Yeah, That'll Happen #11
They're the ones that drink with you, ball with you, laugh with you. The ones that call you out, help you out, take you out. Where would you be without your bros? You'd be fighting four guys who thought you broke their window, or missing the point of Ben Affleck's Good Will Hunting speech completely, or drinking away her memory by yourself. What, it wasn't a rhetorical question. (If you're a girl, substitute every subsequent "bro" with "girl", or "ho", or whatever it is that girls call each other.) At the risk of sounding like a Coors Light commercial, here's to bros.
Bros like to gross each other out. Like the time my roommate told me that he once vomited in the toilet while he was having beer shits, and then sat back down to finish. I don't think there ever was a more disgusting situation. Oh wait, I know. It's a little something I like to call, the time I got Epps back for putting his ass and balls on my face while I was passed out on the couch. I think there's actually a video of this on the internet.
So I've been driving around a big red minivan for the majority of the summer. My mom thinks its because I have minimal insurance. The real reason is, I have a suspended license, and I'm hoping cops don't pull over soccer moms. Not even soccer moms on a five day drinking binge. But really, I'm actually starting to like it. Reclining leather seats, numerous cup holders, large sliding door. Mark my words, the minivan will be the next bling bling thing to happen. You'll see rappers and NBA stars putting spinner rims and hydraulics and a DVD player on a tricked out Nissan Quest. I've already got them.
Friends help you move, real friends help you move bodies, bros help you move a dirty ass hot tub that's been sitting in your backyard, filled with ten years worth of decomposing leaves and dead birds. It was an extraordinary feat of strength and engineering and gag reflex control. And then we dragged it down the street and around the block with my minivan, trying to avoid the parked cars and the inquisitive stares. That was an afternoon well spent.
I hate it when people tell me things like, dude you're so drunk, or dude you reek of alcohol, or dude you're fucking wasted. I'm very aware of that, and there's a very good reason. It's a little something I like to call, I've had a lot to drink, and then I'm going to get tacos later.
Then there was the time we went to Walmart. Or more accurately, the time we walked three miles to Walmart for a case of beer and drank it on the way back because certain people think they're too cool to ride in the minivan. Clearly the highlight of the night is when we walked across the railroad tracks, jumping off at the last moment before the imaginary train hit us. It was a very Stand By Me moment.
You know what pisses me off? Free shipping on Amazon.com. That's ok, I didn't really need my Foreman Grill until about a month later anyways. I'll just cook chicken the way I've always wanted to: on the hood of my van in the middle of hot Texas summer day.
Remember the first time you were in trouble, and your bro had your back? That's an amazing feeling. When Seth was getting beat up by Luke and the water polo guys, and Ryan comes charging in? Bros. Or like the time I had to pee really bad, but the only place available was a in a stairway, and I was too shy to do it by myself. Somil came charging in and said, fuck it, we'll pee together. Midstream, some girl who lived there informed us not so nicely that there was a bathroom down the hall. Did I mention we were at an Ivy League school?
How come when you're watching movie bloopers on DVD, there's always some jackass that says, "Hey, I remember that part." You should, you just watched it 30 minutes ago.
Bros help each other study. Having trouble with your homework? You need to slide it under your professor's door in 20 minutes? Here's what you do. Go to his office, reach your hand under the door, and grab other people's homework. Then, depending on how much time you have, you either copy it yourself or change the name. How brilliant is that?
Perhaps most important of all, bros before hoes. They're your wingmen, the ones that don't have to be asked to go with you and dance with those girls. The ones that deliberately make assholes out of themselves so that you end up looking like the nice guy. The ones that remember the minor details for you when you're too drunk. "Hey dude, help me out. That chick I've been talking to for the last twenty minutes, I completely forgot her name." "That one with the popped collar? It's hot when girls do that. Oh here it is, she signed my cast that I got from when I broke my wrist riding a scooter down the street."
And finally, the real reason you need your boys: A girl you like just dumped you? That's ok. We'll go get a case of beer and hang out in my car. Should you feel the need to cry, you go ahead and cry. Should you feel the need to drunk dial or text message her, I'll talk you out of it, unless what you have to say is as good as Ben Affleck's rainy night confession in Chasing Amy. Should this night devolve into one sad drinking game, I'll let you win, because that's what bros do. And if it gets to that point, we'll go grab your guitar and I'll drive you to her house.
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