Thursday, March 12, 2009

I Love You, Bro

Bromance fever is sweeping the nation. Guys everywhere are declaring their non-sexual man-crushes on other men. Today I've got a big exclusive: an excerpt from the world's first ever bromance novel. It's the first novel in a series called The Trust Fund Douches. Here's a sneak peak:

As I stood at the bar, clutching my raspberry mojito, there he stood: my boy Jared. With his pink polo shirt and his popped collar, I realized that I was looking at the epitome of brohood. As he performed his signature handshake-hug on the bouncer he had just met, he sauntered through the smoke-filled bar over to me.

"Sup, brah?" he says.

I smirk. "Nothing, brah. Just looking for some fine-ass trim, or some tail."

He smirks back at me. "I feel you, brah, like totally. The talent in here is dope."

The silence was awkward. As Journey's Don't Stop Believing blasted over the loudspeaker, we both smirk at each other.

"Dude!" he exclaims. "This song is so horrible it's boss, like in an ironic way!"

"Totally brah!" I shoot back. "It's fun to act like we enjoy it, when in fact we're actually mocking it!"

A girl with bleach blonde hair approaches Jared. The aroma of stale gin and desperation clings to her like a monkey to a banana. I could only make out a few faint words from their conversation. She says something about her Dad, then brags about how much she had to drink that night. Before she could give Jared her number, she stumbles over towards a bar stool and vomits all over the ground.

Jared winks at me. "Totally hitting that later, brah!"

"Yeah, brah, totally," I say. "We should Eiffel Tower that shit."

As the numbers in the bar grew, Jared and I are forced to squeeze closer together. The intoxicating aroma of his Axe body spray hits me like a sharp slap in the face. Everything is perfect; his gelled up hair contrasts perfectly with the seashell necklace draped over his neck. It was like he had been pulled directly out of an Abercrombie catalog. This was a man I was lucky to be bros with.

"I tell you what, brah," he yells over the music, "I could go for a drink."

He confidently pushes his way through the crowd and to the bar. Brilliantly, he pulls a crisp $100 bill out of his pocket to lure the disgustingly pudgy bartender over to us. He orders two Long Island iced teas, but when she returned with our drinks, Jared smirks at her dismissively.

"Fill that up, bitch!" he said, as he put the benjy back into his pocket and pulled out his Daddy's American Express card.

The fat sea cow glares back at him, clearly offended. "Don't talk to me like that!" she yells.

Jared signs his check, leaving a dollar tip on a $16 tab. "Maybe if you lose some weight I'll give you a better tip next time, Chunky," he yells, flipping his pen into her face and turning his back.

Moments like this make me happy to be bros with this guy. My only regret on this night is that I cannot pop my collar higher. For once I am actually jealous of Dracula, the Prince of Darkness.

"Hey," says the bald, 300 pound bouncer. "You're grabbing the girls, and my bartender says you threw a pen in her face. Time to go."

"What's that, brah?" Jared has now been insulted. "Are you trying to step to me? Do you even know who my Dad is?" With this Jared pokes him in the chest.

"Now, come on," says the bouncer, clearly a bitch. "You touch me again, I can and will get physical. Seriously guys, you do not want this to escalate. I'm an MMA expert and I will hurt you if I have to."

Jared turns to me. For just a moment, his eyes flash an empty, defeated look at me: deep down, he knows that this dude can soundly whip both of us. He knows, in his heart of hearts, that neither one of us has ever accomplished anything on our own merit. Our entire identities are all based on our rich parents providing us with a cash flow to preserve this lie. Beneath all the frosted hair, beneath all the braggadocio, are two scared, talentless douches with no real goal or purpose in life other than to wear flip flops and get fake tans.

But Jared won't show any sign of weakness. No compromise.

"You know what, brah?" he stammers, his voice cracking. "What do you say we teach this bitch a lesson?"

I tear up myself. I know what's coming, but I nod anyway. "Whatever you say, brah. I totally got your back."

With this, Jared empties his drink on the bouncer's head.


It's four hours later. Jared and I have been beaten to a pulp and are currently resting in a pile of garbage in the dumpster out back.

I look at him and great sadness washes over me. This once proud bro has been absolutely pwned by a greater male. Can we return to the bar? Or any bar? Anywhere we go, the stink of failure will follow us. Some may question our status. Sure, they'll be impressed when we pull up in our Dad's Mercedes, but what about once we get out and they see our black eyes?

I wonder to myself if either one of us can overcome this beating of a lifetime to strut and pose our way through a sea of alcoholic sluts and douches in their mid 20's while horrible Top 40 drivel blares too loudly over a bad sound system.

Suddenly, Jared feels around in his backpocket. "Dude!" His eyes widen in excitment. "I've got two roofies left!"

I smile. "Yeah bro! Time to go mack on some talent, brah!"

We grasp each other's hands in an awkward white boy handshake-hug. These bros are back!

God I wish he would make out with me.

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