The Bro

POTUS Bro (Black Bro growed up), Bieb-Bro (Bro in training), Icing Bro and Funnel Bro

Bros – a bartender’s favorite type of customer – not. A Bro is held in such rarefied regard, that he gets his own, dedicated post.

What’s a “Bro” you ask? Bro, is short for “brother.” You can look at him as the White guy version of a Black Man’s “son.”

A Bro is a recent college grad, a retarded 5th year undergrad, or an even more retarded post-college 20-something year old loser. Bros are white guys – WASPy – usually of non-practicing Christian descent from places like (a) Ardsley, Katonah, and Dix Hills, NY (b) Randolph and Wayne, NJ and (c) various wealthy Connecticut enclaves. They make up part of the weekend NYC Bridge and Tunnel set. However, they can sometimes be found sharing a Craigslist Special, 3 or 4 in a bunch, living in certain areas of Manhattan and Brooklyn during the early stages of graduation from Bro to Douchebag (Bro’s often graduate to Douchebags with age). Their pads are sparsely furnished, fridges devoid of food (except for ketchup, WonderBread and O.J.), and the floors are littered with week-old empty pizza cartons and bugaboo-filled empty beer cans.

Oh, many groups of bros have their one token black guy – sure. But he’s only there because he’s an idiot too, one who’s parents were already Uncle Toms; they didn’t fit in but sure tried as hard as they could to assimilate into their tony neighborhoods. “Black Bro” is just following suit. He doesn’t know any better. Black Bro was raised in an one of those mostly white, crusty neighborhoods noted above. He  walks, talks, runs and dresses just like a “regular” Bro. All the other bros “lean” on him for “black advice” and for “street cred” when they’re out partying. They mistakenly believe Black Bro buys them a Ghetto Pass when they run into other black folks.

Unfortunately, Black Bro is severely disillusioned – a fish out of water in both black and white neighborhoods. He sucks at basketball but that’s OK – ’cause all his other Bros play Lacross and that’s what he’s good at. He hates Collard Greens, yams, mac-n-cheese, and fried foods.  His parents have made him accustomed to shit like (1) Free Range Pheasant (2) Brussel Sprouts and (3) Crepes. He has lost all innate ability to wax Ebonic, and as a result – is severely handicapped when he and his crew hit the City and encounter actual Black folks.

Anyways, Bros in general sport (1) a backwards, tattered Michigan baseball cap (2) over-washed, frayed jeans and (3) dirty ass t-shirts emblazoned with corporate logos. Later in life, they swap the t-shirts for button dress shirts in a vain attempt to mask their Bro’ness, and fit into Corporate a bit better. They burp and fart on cue and in public and holler at other Bros from across the bar – full volume. Bros usually drink pound MGD, Coors Light, Cranberry Vodka (whatever the fuck that is), Smirnoff Ice and shots of Jager. Any type of drinking sophistication (a fine Chianti, rare Whiskey, warm Cognac, or English Stuout) will make them barf instantly – not to mention, get them ostracized from their fellow bros for breaking rank.

They’re always trying to get you to “hook them up” with free shit. Their M.O. is to get as shitfaced as possible, as quickly and cheaply as possible. This translates into (1) unruliness (2) vomitus maximus and (3) a $3 tip on 13 drinks – while telling you how awesome a bartender you are.

 Bro Drinks of Choice

Bros come fully prepared to get all fucked up – every night. They live the “All or None” credo. They don’t know what “one or two drinks” means. A Bros arsenal for a night out includes: (1) foam beer coolers – conveniently used at even the classiest bars (2) oversized foam #1 gloves to wave around (3) a pocket full of crumpled and wet singles (4) a trunk full of 16oz red Solo cups and (5) the location of the nearest Taco Bell or White Castle for 5am drunk food. They’re also quite fond, at that hour, of Falafel stands and Taco Trucks. Contrary to popular belief, Bros do not select a D.D. Bros always drive home wasted. It’s their badge of honor. Most Bros live in the ‘burbs anyway, so they kind of have to drive.

A Random Sampling of Bro Drinking Accessories

Broskis have but four life missions: (a) chill with other Bros (b) drink themselves into a stuper or blackout state and (c) tap some [new to them] ass (d) talk endlessly about A, B and C. Bros are at your bar to play the numbers game with “Bras.” They’ll do anything for some “Strange.” They employ brute force tactics, with crude pickup lines and extremely touchy-feely hands, routinely invading personal space. In their minds, they’re far superior to other dudes in terms of endowment, kicking it to the ladies, appearance, and in just about every other category. This all affords a far greater kill ratio than the average bear – lining ‘em up and and knock ‘em down, Raw Dawg style (Bros don’t believe in protection other than pulling out – if they can remain sober enough to remember).

Not only do these overgrown kids lack character, taste and class, but they sincerely have superiority complex to the extreme. They absolutely love telling you so. They talk shit like nobody’s business – all night, every night. If they wind up passed out, in the Drunk Tank, lying in a pool of puke, crashed into a telephone pole, or best worst of all – banging a fat chick – you’ll never hear the end of it. They’ll be back the next night high-fiving every dude in sight and recounting the previous evening’s adventures until the cows come home.

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