With sincere apologies to Garrison Keillor:
*****
It's been a quiet week in Lake Brobegon, Minnesota, my home town. Out there on the edge of the prairie, the town has begun its transition into the post-Yule Tide, post-BCS portion of winter. Now that the distraction of religious obligation and bowl games is past us, the Bros can wholly focus their attention on raging hard. Dudes band together in the winter, their hearts full of youthful cheer and their CamelBaks full of Canadian malt liquor.
Winter is a joyous time in Lake Brobegon, particularly since the word "snow" is so conducive to puns. Bro-boarding. Bro White and the Seven Dwarfs. Stopping by Woods on a Bro-wy Evening. Icy precipitation is pun efficient and indisputable visual evidence that Bro-bal warming needs to be stopped at any cost, if only for the wordplay.
On Sunday afternoon at the Our Lady of Perpetual Methodism church, Pastor Ingqvist gave his annual winter sermon, reminding the congregation about the great Bro-Fall of 1997. After a victory at an impromptu snow ball fight, a group of five dudes decide to chant "Frat! Frat! Frat!" all the way home. But with the last syllable, the sound reverberated throughout the canyon and triggered an avalanche. While the bros survived, they had to huddle together for warmth, which was in no way awesome. And in no way homo. The good pastor's moral is simple: Please rage responsibly, lest you become another victim of acoustic phenomenon.
Randy Tollofson has preemptively given himself the nickname "Mr. Plow," a proud declaration of how much ass he's going to get this winter. The young lad even bought some eggnog flavored condoms from McGillicutty's General Store down on Spring Street. The novelty prophylactic is one of the town's greatest traditions, ever since Old Man McGillicutty mistakenly received a shipment of pine condoms instead of pine cones. The town got a good chuckle out of that, so each year the store "accidentally" orders another economy-sized box of holiday rubbers in flavors as diverse as gingerbread and reindeer.
This isn't to say that the winter is a carefree ice beach. The backwards baseball cap is grossly impractical in cold weather. What is a bro supposed to wear, a knit cap? Shit hasn't been fashionable since Colin Farrell was in S.W.A.T.. Sub-zero temperatures also mean you have to spend even longer during your bullshit warm-up set at the gym and keeps you away from the squat rack. No clue how Rocky managed to train in the U.S.S.R. in part IV. Dude must be cold blooded or something.
Yet even scarier than the threat of ear muffs and cardio is the undeniable fact that women tend to wear more layers during the cold months. This is detrimental and potentially hazardous when attempting to get a chick naked. She's wearing goggles, long underwear, gloves, another thermal top, and a down vest (all of which is available from Eddie Bauer this season). You get her back to your place and she's a Russian nesting doll, you have no idea when you've peeled off the last layer. All the while, this provides her more time with which to change her mind. Gore-Tex is the natural enemy of the disrobing bro.
Even more difficult: It is hard to judge a body's righteousness when there is so much inherent padding and extra garments. Under that puffy coat could either be a 10 or a 2. Winter acts as some sort of anti-onion, adding layers and preventing you from seeing what's really important about a person: their figure. It forces you to play Russian Roulette and focus on her personality with no indication of her body type. And that, my fellow bros, might be winter's iciest chill yet.
And that's the news from Lake Brobegon, where all the chicks are hot, the children are born athletes, and the dudes are freaking awesome.
*******
*****
It's been a quiet week in Lake Brobegon, Minnesota, my home town. Out there on the edge of the prairie, the town has begun its transition into the post-Yule Tide, post-BCS portion of winter. Now that the distraction of religious obligation and bowl games is past us, the Bros can wholly focus their attention on raging hard. Dudes band together in the winter, their hearts full of youthful cheer and their CamelBaks full of Canadian malt liquor.
Winter is a joyous time in Lake Brobegon, particularly since the word "snow" is so conducive to puns. Bro-boarding. Bro White and the Seven Dwarfs. Stopping by Woods on a Bro-wy Evening. Icy precipitation is pun efficient and indisputable visual evidence that Bro-bal warming needs to be stopped at any cost, if only for the wordplay.
On Sunday afternoon at the Our Lady of Perpetual Methodism church, Pastor Ingqvist gave his annual winter sermon, reminding the congregation about the great Bro-Fall of 1997. After a victory at an impromptu snow ball fight, a group of five dudes decide to chant "Frat! Frat! Frat!" all the way home. But with the last syllable, the sound reverberated throughout the canyon and triggered an avalanche. While the bros survived, they had to huddle together for warmth, which was in no way awesome. And in no way homo. The good pastor's moral is simple: Please rage responsibly, lest you become another victim of acoustic phenomenon.
Randy Tollofson has preemptively given himself the nickname "Mr. Plow," a proud declaration of how much ass he's going to get this winter. The young lad even bought some eggnog flavored condoms from McGillicutty's General Store down on Spring Street. The novelty prophylactic is one of the town's greatest traditions, ever since Old Man McGillicutty mistakenly received a shipment of pine condoms instead of pine cones. The town got a good chuckle out of that, so each year the store "accidentally" orders another economy-sized box of holiday rubbers in flavors as diverse as gingerbread and reindeer.
This isn't to say that the winter is a carefree ice beach. The backwards baseball cap is grossly impractical in cold weather. What is a bro supposed to wear, a knit cap? Shit hasn't been fashionable since Colin Farrell was in S.W.A.T.. Sub-zero temperatures also mean you have to spend even longer during your bullshit warm-up set at the gym and keeps you away from the squat rack. No clue how Rocky managed to train in the U.S.S.R. in part IV. Dude must be cold blooded or something.
Yet even scarier than the threat of ear muffs and cardio is the undeniable fact that women tend to wear more layers during the cold months. This is detrimental and potentially hazardous when attempting to get a chick naked. She's wearing goggles, long underwear, gloves, another thermal top, and a down vest (all of which is available from Eddie Bauer this season). You get her back to your place and she's a Russian nesting doll, you have no idea when you've peeled off the last layer. All the while, this provides her more time with which to change her mind. Gore-Tex is the natural enemy of the disrobing bro.
Even more difficult: It is hard to judge a body's righteousness when there is so much inherent padding and extra garments. Under that puffy coat could either be a 10 or a 2. Winter acts as some sort of anti-onion, adding layers and preventing you from seeing what's really important about a person: their figure. It forces you to play Russian Roulette and focus on her personality with no indication of her body type. And that, my fellow bros, might be winter's iciest chill yet.
And that's the news from Lake Brobegon, where all the chicks are hot, the children are born athletes, and the dudes are freaking awesome.
*******
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