Some nights, even Bros strike out. I know, it’s hard to believe, but it’s fucking true. Combining our #109 good looks, killer game, and the fact that we’re by definition, the smartest fucking people on the planet, you’d think every night would be a lay-up line. Well, to be honest, it usually is, except every so often bros become Patrick Ewing in Game 7 and we fucking blow that shit. But unlike the Knicks, we don’t go home crying with our fucking tails between our legs blaming Reggie Miller for all our problems. No, instead we’ve got our failsafe. Our rock. Our booty call.
Over the years, the booty call has evolved. These days it’s not so much of a “call” as it is a couple of drunken words strung together via #122 text, BBM or facebook chat. In fact, who even makes phone calls anymore period? It’s a fucking waste of time. I can’t even imagine life before cell phones when you’d actually have to call girls to see what they were doing/get them to have sex with you when you’re #142 blacked out. Like how would that conversation go at 2am? “Hi, uhh, just calling to chat, you know, wanted to see how your night went…uh huh, uh, huh, shut up for a second - I know you’re about to go to sleep, but you wanna come hang out, maybe watch some TV or something? Oh you would, GREAT! The door’s open, and tell the cab driver to just idle outside, this shit won’t take long.” Fortunately, these days all those fucking bullshit pleasantries are out the window so we can conserve our precious time.
One of the greatest parts of today’s booty calls is that you can be so fucking hammered, but as long as you can spell out “Hey, what are you up to?” she’ll have no fucking idea that there’s a 85% chance you’ll be #36 pissing the bed tonight. Every girl knows what it means to get that text: an invitation to throw some coal on that Pound Town Express boiler. I know all the fucking #133 feminists out there are screaming, “WHAT TYPE OF GIRL WOULD EVER HAVE SEX WITH SOMEONE WHO TEXTS AT 2 AM???” Fucking slam pieces that’s who. And for those of you who say you’ve got “too much respect for yourself to ever answer a booty call,” I’m pretty sure we all know what that really means: you’ve never fucking gotten one because YOU UGLY, yeah, yeah, YOU UGLY. Fucking jealous bitch. You see, bros are like velociraptors, we hunt out weaknesses and exploit that shit. If we know there’s a girl who’ll come over and bang us when we’re beyond wasted, you better believe we’ll keep hitting her up like fucking clockwork. Sure, eventually she might get the picture that this isn’t going anywhere, mostly because we make her leave after the deed is done so we can sleep alone in our bed, but never fear, with every slam piece’s death comes new life.
Naturally bros get a shitload of numbers every time we hit the bar, but what percentage do we actually call? Honestly, unless she’s a fucking 10, I probably won’t call the girl. I mean, what the fuck are we gonna do? Go out on a #75 date? That sounds worse than AIDS. And not the Magic Johnson AIDS either – fucking poor people AIDS. If she didn’t bang me #169 on the first night when we were wasted, why should I think she will after going to a fucking movie SOBER? Bros don’t do work to get laid, but we can use those numbers to our advantage. In order to properly identify your future booty call, you have to do some 007-research. Say you’re coming back from the bar hammered and looking for some strange, but don’t have that booty call locked down. Fucking fire away 10 texts to 10 of those random numbers you’ve got in your phone usually labeled by their God given #28 names such as “Starboard Slut” or “Nice Body, Average Face.” Scientific research has proven that if you text 10 girls at 2 am looking for sex, at least 2 will respond. Just like that, boom – you’ve got your new booty calls. It’s the fucking Circle of Life.
The Military. Sports Teams. Fuck, even Broadway Productions. What do they all have in common? They all keep reserves, just in case the first string players go down. Bros are the fucking same. The minute we find out our First Stringer won’t be able to go at it that night, we reach into our pocket and text out those five magical words that no slam piece in her right mind could ever resist: “What are you up to?”
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Thursday, October 6, 2011
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8 comments:
YES. True shit bro, gotta have your go to chick, and then a few second stringers, or what me and my bros call the "farm team," to back them up in case of an injury or even worse, a no reply.
"not Magic Johnson AIDS either - fucking poor people AIDS"
Beautiful
Nothing wrong with bringing up a highly-motivated AAA'er
The best is getting through the booty call just calling her "girl" cuz her name in ur phone is "shawarma whore"
Brotip - save a template booty call 2am text on your phone, then just hit the send button.
No clumsy texting needed.
"Worst than sitting in the same sauna with Jim Henson, Magic and Arthur Ashe's corpse while 10, 000 mosquitos are flying around you."
Never thought I would see the day that the Bro's post included "Reggie Miller." Reggie is a bro (divorced his wife and bangs strange on the road as an average TNT analyst) and has a sweet long-range jumper.
My game has advanced to the point that I don't even have to make booty calls. I have a stable of 3-4 slams at any given time who will call ME at 2AM wanting some pound town action. Not that I always accept their invites. I still like a challenge and will attempt to slay a bitch in the field first and foremost (bartender, married chick, Jaeger promo girl, etc). But even the greatest Bros like myself don't always score on 3rd down, so like coach Dan Devine in "Rudy" I have to give in and indulge one of the reserve slams who are begging me for some playing time.
One time I was so fucked up that I responded in the affirmative to Slam A's text but ended up going to Slam B's house by mistake (it's hard to keep track of these ho's). Slam B was confused (I still fucked her that night) and Slam A was pissed (I still fucked her later that week), but I don't give a shit either way.
Bro Life.
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