The Only Bro's For Me Are The Awesome Ones

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I spent my teen years in Vermont partying around a bonfire in fields, attending a high school with a severe drug problem and organized on a semi-democratic system.

Of course, I read On the Road.

Kerouac and his literary legacy were sacred to most of my wide eyed, Marx-ing, vegetarian school mates.
For the energetic, experimental twenty somethings of the time, the beats ushered them into adulthood. Kind of.

Sadly relevant, On the Bro'd is a translation of Kerouac's American classic that speaks to a much more recent generation of highfives and popped collars with references to The Situation, Oasis, Wild Wings, Facebook, flip cup, and Hustler mags.

But then they strutted down the streets like total pimps, and I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after bros who interest me, because the only bros for me are the awesome ones, the ones who are mad to chug, mad to party, mad to bone, mad to get hammered, desirous of all the chicks at Buffalo Wild Wings, the ones who never turn down a Bud Light Lime, but chug, chug, chug like fucking awesome players exploding like spiders across an Ed Hardy shirt and in the middle you see the silver skull pop and everybody goes “Awww!”

Akin to I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell, you will experience the same disbelief and vindictive humor you got from imitating My New Haircut, or trolling Walmart with your picture phone. On the Bro'd is fantastically adapted leaving you with sore cheeks, a little bit sick and a craving for Natty Ice.

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