'sup Ballers,

            Our trip to Vegas is going to make the Hangover look like the Hangunder! But, dudes, if you're going to be a high-broller, you gotta nail some ground rules.

 

Electronics, aka "Bro and Tell":

·      What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

·      Except Facebook statuses, tweets, Instagrams, Snapchats, Foursquare check-ins, LinkedIn recommendations, and Yelp reviews.

·      Tina can't find out any details

·      Everyone swaps out his work blackberry for a pre-paid cellie this weekend.

·      You're all code names from Top Gun.

·      Chuck, sorry dude, but you're Charlie. Not everyone can be Maverick. Just be glad you didn't get Goose.

 

Alcohol, aka "End Brohibition":

·      When I walk into the suite, there better be a champagne fountain flowing. I'm talking 6 levels, Waterford crystal, 36-inch base diameter, with a current pressure of at least 102 mbar, and a single strawberry floating on top of it.

·      First one to eat the strawberry gets a free lap dance.

·      No Moët, or Veuve. I want champagne that's brewed by monks in some pastoral-as-fuck mountaintop. If the grapes weren't stomped on by nubile eunichs, singing Épernay ballads from the 14th century, I don't want that mainstream shit touching my lips.

·      Don't forget to mix in protein powder.

·      Scooter, you get a 3 level club soda fountain. Congrats on your 6th month chip, buddy!

 

The stripper, aka "Bromance":

·      I want a girl with a backstory. Maybe she's trying to pay off grad school. Or maybe she's a struggling artist. Or maybe she has, like, a troubled past and just needs a guy to get her straightened out? I want something deep and thought provoking as shit.

·      She also needs to have massive tits. Just like, huge bazookas.

·      I expect to have a stack in my hand at all times, to make it rain non-stop

·      No tens or twenties. Tina and I are paying for the wedding ourselves.

 

Attire, aka "Tuxedos and Bro-ties":

·      You should be wearing a minimum of 3 polos at all times, collars popped.

·      No lilac. If it wasn't the color of one of my highlighters from 9th grade, you can take your sorry-ass-pastel self home.

·      Look, if you're having trouble just envision a peacock. A majestic, neon-colored peacock.

·      The hotel has a pool and you're goddamn right we're going to be in it. Sammie, don't even think about bringing your water wings. Not unless you can find a pair that say "Suns out, guns out" spelled out in skulls, and designed by Ed Hardy.

 

Guys, this night is a celebration of my life before I enter into a deep emotional commitment in front of my family, fiancée, and God. You bronads better be ready to rage.

 

                                    I'm out,

                                    Brosenthal