An Open Letter to My New Neighbors, the Bros

Dear Bros,

A few days ago you moved in, and I gotta say I’m impressed. Yes, I’ve been watching you. Yep, from the second story window there. I’m the guy in the tighty-whities sipping bad coffee with my robe open at 2 in the afternoon. Yep, that’s me waving! Anyway, in lieu of dropping off baked goods I’ve purchased from Hy-Vee, I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.

And clear the air.

Bros, let’s just have it out in the open. You’re bros, and well, for years I defined myself in opposition to you. When you didn’t think it was cool to play ping-pong in the dorm lounge freshman year, well, I made fucking hay at that table, didn’t I?! Then all of a sudden, when the hot girls from the basketball team joined in, well, suddenly there weren’t enough paddles for me, huh?!

And remember when I kept insisting the DJ at the only club in town play “Anything, for the love of God, by Prince” and you all thought I was annoying till your girlfriends figured out Andrew W.K. sucks to make love to? Then all of a sudden, it’s fucking hi-fives and free shots for me, huh?!

Right, I’m not holding a grudge, bros. Because time is passed, and now I just want to offer my congratulations. Because, bros, I’ve never paid you that much attention. But you guys are impressive.

Seriously, bros, seriously.

First off, bros, you guys have dynamite organizational prowess. Me and my friends, whenever we want to get drunk on a boat in the river, it’s like upside-down fruitcake fest and all of a sudden we’re watching Swamp People eating Jimmy Johns arguing over who’s gonna pay. But you guys will pack the cooler, apply the sunscreen (making the ladies happy), rig up some byzantine speaker system, and you’ll own that public boat access.

Second off, bros, you guys fill out your T-shirts. I grew up in a perverse part of the country where I was told having Adrian Brody’s frame was a good thing. Well, bros, turns out it’s not. But watching your muscles ripple while you lift up those mattresses out of that dirty truck bed makes me want to search YouTube for pec-lifts or something.

Third, bros, you guys are sincere. There’s not a human emotion that comes within ten yards of me that I don’t spot out for being counterfeit. But you guys will set up a BBQ in our back alleyway, toss around the football, invite over the neighbor girls, and not puke in your mouth! I wish I had that genuineness, bros.

And lastly, bros, you guys don’t say much. And I like that. You’ve identified language as like an imposing visiting team in Tecmo Super Bowl and just relied upon a few stock phrases: “Look at that guy!” and “Whatever” and “Don’t take that shit from her, Chase!” And as a wordsmith, I envy your taciturn nature. There’s power in brevity—Hemingway, eh? Talk about manliness!

So keep on keeping on, Bros. No hard feelings. Let’s just start the summer out right. And if I ever catch you laughing at the Selena Gomez music coming out of my car again, I’ll drive straight onto your good-timing BBQ and put out the fucking fire and then some, you know what I mean?

- Dunstan McGill

(Source: thetangential.com)

PARISH FESTIVAL SECURITY SHIFT UPDATE: A tense encounter

11:20 PM. I was sitting planning the Twin Cities Daily Planet’s social media schedule for tomorrow when I heard a roadblock being kicked aside. I looked over and saw a pack of five bros sauntering up Dayton Avenue. Figured I’d better establish a presence, so put Trembling Blue Stars on pause and stood up. In my black Talking Heads hoodie, I figured I cut a fairly intimidating figure. The bros just stood there on the street in their backwards baseball caps, kicking a soccer ball around (because, you know, gotta have a ball to kick around). I considered approaching them, but I decided that I wouldn’t escalate the situation unless Parish Festival property was in imminent danger of being compromised.

While the bros broed around and I stood there looking menacing from 100 feet away in the tungsten glow of the parish school’s security light, a woman walked her bike up the street. “Got a flat tire?” one of the bros bellowed to her. She said no and kept walking while all five bros eyed her ass. A few minutes later, another woman walked by, this one in a little black dress. They said something to her that I couldn’t make out, and she gave them a curt reply.

Eventually, one of the bros called to me. “Hey, bro, what you doing?”

“Just keeping an eye on things,” I called back.

“Oh,” he replied. “That’s a good thing to do!”

“Yep.”

Cowed by my show of resolute presence, the bros retreated down the street. One of them even moved the roadblock back into position. That’s some kind of life, I thought. Swinging your dick around a quiet middle-class neighborhood in St. Paul, Minnesota.

TO BE CONTINUED

read the live-blog from the beginning