You guys, I’m a girl.

I was hesitant to get involved in the Brocast News blog because let me tell you a thing about men who call themselves “Bros”:  Brarf.

I tried a word association exercise with the term.

Bro:

Tank tops, flip flops, button downs, beer luges, neon Ray Bans, fist bumps, jam bands, face paint, foam fingers, video game headsets, Maxim magazine, frat houses, tube socks, sweatbands, YOLO, SOLO cups, Ryan Lochte.

It didn’t help.  I tried an acrostic poem:

Bring
Rohypnol
Over

Whoops!

Now that I’ve earned your disfavor and bitten the hand that feeds me internet space, allow me to furiously backpedal.  Think McConaughey showing off on a unicycle.  (It’s probably happened.  Save your Google queries.)

One of these guys is my twin brother with whom I shared a womb.  I’m fond of him. Another is his best friend.  Paul and I have things in common such as brown liquors and general angst.  Long ago he would offer to duel the Marine who wronged me, though I’m certain it was contrary to some honor code with an acronym.

I can disclose that they are bearish sized dweebs who love learning and superheroes and hugging.  They are good people who I like and they’ll call themselves “bros” if they want to.  Even if I think it’s gross.

They invited me here to talk about whatever I want in spite of the fact that I am a grumpy, particular type who does not like people, or colors, or sunshine to touch me.  I don’t even eat meat, which to this crowd is not only gross, it’s unconstitutional.

So there.  Thanks for having me.

Plus, I hear you guys like puns.