Remember that time you were at throwing a party and you were dominating your eighth round of beer pong. You were fucking unstoppable. Bros were falling down into drunken heaps of vomit and shit all around you. You were God.
But then that weird, shady dude who “brought his own saki” came downstairs after he finished having a conversation about “Proust” (whatever the fuck that is) with your queer roommates. Nobody likes this dude, nobody invited him to the party, but he still thinks he’s so much better than everyone, and shits all over your parade.
You tell him to fuck off. Things get heated. Push comes to shove, and dude ends up knocking you back into your regulation pong table, breaking the fucking thing. You’re pissed, but before you get a chance to knock him on his ass, he bolts.
Ten years later, you’re pulling in 6 figs as a junior account exec at Goldman Sachs (sweet gig, bro) and you’re taking your fiancé to some fruity art exhibit at some museum called Momma or something. And there he is, working the coat check. After 10 fucking years, you fucking found that saki-sipping pussy. You tell yourself that it was a long time ago, but it doesn’t keep the rage from building in your guts. You might both be grown men, but you had to dip into your trust fund to get that pong table fixed. You feel your fists clench. He hands you your coat check ticket, and without saying a word, you lay him the fuck out.
Now imagine that happening on a national scale. Obama got it fucking done this week. Mad props.
Yo Tim dawg! Just checked out your new book, bro. Tight stuff. Tight tight tight. Tight! Myself, I’d been doing the Body By Jake thing all these years (my moms gave it to me as a 12th birthday present), and while I think I could put a serious hurt on those GTL pussies (I’m starting with you, Ronnie, you psychopath), I thought could probably stand to up my game a little bit so I picked up your book the last time I swung through the Atlanta Airport (Delta 4 Evah!).
Bro, this book’s gonna change things for all of us.
First off, it turns out I’ve been doing it all wrong. ”Undermuscled?” you write, “Try ginger and sauerkraut.” Damn dude! I’d been on a lemongrass and merguez tip all this time! I can’t wait to see my sick new abs.
Secondly, your tips on “changing your [my] head game to get out of your [my] head” has really changed the way I approach my head game. You could definitely say it’s more of an outside game now for Brorack, head-wise.
I’m not gonna give away too many more hot tips, because I want all the bros out there to go out an pick up your book (invest, bros!). Suffice it to say all I eat now is Brazil nuts, raw almonds and capsules of fermented cod-liver oil and butterfat.
Also, bro, it gave me a new motto to live by: “I was able facilitate orgasms in every woman who was a test subject.”
So, bro, there you are. In a bar. Probably at Brother Jimmy’s. Maybe you’re meeting your bros there to catch a Chargers game (go San Diego!) and you’re a little late. No biggie. You are a grown bro, it’s cool to show up late.
Hey, look! There are your bros, they’ve got a table towards the back. You throw a chin nod their way — what uuuuuuuuup! — and stop at the bar first to grab a brewski, dude. Sweet! The bartender’s totally hot! Nice rack, etc. You tip her two dollars.
Time to join your broheims. Damn, this spot is crowded. You’ve got a tight squeeze going on here. No worries, bro. You turn sideways, elbows and beer up, and just slide on throu—
HOLY FUCKING SHIT!
SHIT, DUDE! YOUR JUNK JUST BRUSHED AGAINST THAT DUDE’S ASS! THAT DUDE RIGHT THERE, SITTING ON THE STOOL CHECKING OUT THE BARTENDER AND YOUR JUNK TOUCHED HIS ASS! YOUR BALLS! HIS BUTT! CONTACT!
OK. Remain calm. It’s cool, this kind of thing just happens sometimes, bro. It doesn’t mean you’re gay (unless you are already gay, which is totally cool, bro). It’s just a thing. Keep moving, don’t spill a drop, you can do this. Check out the bartender again, it’s okay.
And now you’re through, headed to your brotable. Chargers just scored. Everything’s going to be okay. And oh, hey, you just won the Danger Close Badge.
From time to time, a bro of yours will misplace his nuts and get all whiny and nervous about something “difficult” he has to do like change his tampon or attend his mom’s funeral or confront his long-time girlfriend because he caught her cheating on him or whatever.
But you’re a charitable dude, so instead of (or in addition to) telling him to grow a pair of balls, you show up with a copy of Mario Kart and a case of Natural Light and you get him good and numb before sending him out to face his “problems.”
For good measure, make sure to give him a real solid punch to the arm so that pussy knows what it actually feels like to be in pain.
You know how sometimes a bro you know will be all sad and boring because his dog died or his grandma got eaten by sharks or whatever? And you have to be, like, all … like, you can’t just talk about normal shit because your bro is all, “I can’t stop whining right now because my dog fell in a cement mixer and now he’s just this fucked up statue of a dead dog or whatever”?
And you have to be like … you have to, like, scrunch up your face and get this, like, intense look in your eyes, and you have to pause for, like a long time, like you’re thinking about it, and then you have to be like, “Dude. That sucks.” With a real emphasis on the “sucks,” like it actually does suck in, like, a Sad way instead of just being this bullshit that is ruining your afternoon?
Sadbro: “Yo, I’m all fucked up because my dumb grandma got eaten by sharks or whatever.”
You: “Dude. That sucks.”
That’s called being “Empathetical,” and you’re it. Congratulations. Try not to cry too hard while you’re accepting this badge, you sniveling princess.
If anyone asks who your favorite bands are, you don’t hesitate to answer with “Sabbath, Bon Jovi, Skynyrd,” and your iTunes library proves it.
However, in the privacy of your car or shower, you belt out Taylor Swift at the top of your lungs. You know every part to “One Day More” from Les Mis and even sing along to the Eponine parts. And if anyone gets you drunk enough at a karaoke bar, you inexplicably never need to look at the screen while performing a spot-on rendition of Prince’s “Raspberry Beret.”
You’ve got a lot of deep-seeded shame issues to deal with, but dealing with issues is for girls. Push them down, and keep on denying that you’ve ever heard a Justin Bieber song.
Remember the last time you were out shopping with your bros and one of them asked you to carry their purse for them? You better fucking hope you answered “no” to that question, you pussy.
Now think about any time you were tricked into shopping with your girlfriend. Chances are you ended up hefting around boxes and bags full of shoes or Skittles or whatever it is girls shop for. If that’s the case, then you’ve earned the Pack Mule Badge.
Seriously ladies, are your arms broken?
Bro 1: Dude.
Bro 2: Duuuude.
Bro 1: Big night last night, bro. Big night. Feel like bro-tal shit. I think my brain is bro-ken.
Bro 2: Aw, poor little dude.
Bro 1: No, seriously. I’m all sensitive today. I banged all these babes last night and totally got my bro on, but now I don’t know what’s up. I, like, I feel sad and self-protective and seriously, seriously hungover, bro.
Bro 2: Wow, dude. Tell it to your bro-gina. You’re crying out of your bro-varies.
Bro 1: Huh wut?
Bro 2: You just won the Hungovary Badge.
Some of you bros may not have heard of Julian Assange because he doesn’t even play any sports, but this dude keeps coming across my brodar™ this week, and for good reason! For those of you who don’t know, Julian Assange took the international media by storm recently after secret cables leaked to the press about how he had sex with all these Swedish chicks without using a condom. Holy shit! They should call this dude Brolian Assange as far as this bro is concerned!
Assange’s amazing condomless exploits have been dubbed the “Wikileaks” controversy by reporters. This makes more sense when you realize that in Sweden they apparently call your dong your “Wiki” (that’s right - Bro Scouts are here to educate as well as entertain!)
For his noble (bro-ble?) endeavors to introduce his Wiki to a bunch of hot-ass Swedish lady-bros, it is our great honor to award Julian Assange with the title of Honorary Bro Scout. May your Wiki leak for many years to come, my friend. The Bro Scouts salute you, Julian Assange.
Yo dude, congrats! I am congratsing you on drinking alcohol. More specifically, my good bro, for drinking alcohol past the point of mere memory loss, past the point of getting gaysted, and dude, even past the point of passing out. You became unconscious, dude, yes, and then you did something beautiful: You puked. You vommed. You barfed. You made your lunch visible to the outside world. You painted a toilet bowl. You blew chunks. You hurled buffalos. You tossed up your tummy secrets. You got tickets for your stomach acids aboard the Throat-n-Mouth Express, and it arrived on time at Toilet Bowl Central. Today, dude, today you are no longer a boy, not yet a man: You are a bro. And you fucking got Throw-Up Drunk. We are so motherfucking proud of you, bro.