Q: How can I learn to “bro out” without becoming a bro?
A:The first thing to remember in this confusing quest for brodom (brohood? broiocity?) is that you will not become a bro if you were not born a bro, if you did not emerge from the womb hollering, “That’s what she said!” and chugging a forty of cheap light beer.
Broness is not a contagious disease, although when chilling with best of the bros you should never let go of your contagious disease know-how, because germs will abound in, on and around your Solo cup. The thing to do is to think of yourself as an undercover spy, or a zoologist. Have at least three escape plans, preferably involving a drop-and-roll and a zip-line, and stick to an aloof study of the wildlife, never forgetting the civilized world from which you came.
Now for the bro-pros: The first B.P. is video games. You would get into a car with a stranger to get access to all the consoles and the latest incarnation of Guitar Hero, so how much worse is it to don your bro suit (Yale t-shirt you got for free, baseball cap with strategically destroyed rim)?
Then there’s the beer. I already disparaged forties of cheap light beer, but that’s just because you can’t see what I’m drinking right now. And while I realize that the reality of brohood is more akin to the world of “Chloe Does Yale,” I refuse to give up the illusion that to be a bro is to belong to the grand old boys’ club of “Stover at Yale.” In my nostalgically warped mind, I see myself in top hat and tails, playing pool and smoking cigars with Bogie Hungerford the third.
Moreover, there is little doubt in my mind that one day all the bros next door will be I-Bankers/the president and will be able to do things for you like I your Bank/wage a war against Canada.
But there are, of course, cons inherent to brodom of which you must be constantly wary. The first is that terrible moment (which you might miss in the blink of a beer-fogged eye), when someone proposes that the whole gang stop watching sports and start playing sports. The time has come to hide.
And since, I assume, you won’t be playing sports, you may just develop a beer gut. Beer guts are gross. So is the sticky beer film that will take up permanent residence on your floorboards. You just try to clean that up.
Perhaps the most disturbing consequence of overexposure to bros can be found if you look up “bro” on urbandictionary.com. One definition mentions something about frosted tips. Frosted tips stink: I could write a whole column about how the only advice I really want to disseminate, ethical or no, is that no one should have frosted tips (or the female equivalent, Tony the Tiger highlights).
Finally I’ll posit that there is such a thing as too much testosterone. I’m not a science major, so I have no idea what I’m talking about, but I don’t want to risk inhaling so many man-hormones that I start growing chest hair. So for every time you listen to the Dave Matthews Band (the con to trump all cons), you should probably watch “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.” You should probably watch “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” anyway.
Summary: Broland is nice to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there, or anywhere where Dave Matthews might frost your tips while you’re passed out and stuck to the floor.
Emma Allen will never, ever I your bank.