Friday, July 16, 2010

Bro Baiting

Yo. Dig it live. Chicks need to stop Bro Baiting me all the f-ing time. That shit ain't kosher no more. I have to put my Kenneth Cole down before this issue gets Brittany-style toxic.

What's Bro Baiting? Let me spread it out for you like a deli meat platter. Bro Baiting is the female art of verbally dropping drawers for a guy and then, at the last second, pulling out of the hookup like K-Bacon in a game of tractor chicken. It's marinating a guy overnight, slather him up with butter and then refusing to put him on the grill. It's a look, a message or a call that says in giant Las Vegas lights "I'm down for Bonetown" with everything advertised except the address.

Straight up seems to be an epidemic of that shit going around. Chicks Bro Baiting me or my boys like it's Sucker Sunday. But guess what? Ain't happening no more on my watch.

Listen, everyone that peeped my self-titled R & B EP knows I got mad love for women's rights. Like I get hard just thinking about them. Their rights. But if you're texting me past 10pm and then not following through, you best believe I ain't going to Southern gentleman you no more. This is how I see them late-night texts. Unless you just pissed a First Response plus, any comunicacíon you give me at those hours gives me the supreme right to come over, rip off your skivvies and flip you around like a scrapbook. That's guy code. That shit's ancient. What do you think's written on Stonehenge?

So, in summary time, give up not giving it up when you're asking to give it up.

Examples of Bro Baiting:

It's midnight on a Saturday, you text me "What are you doing?" and eight minutes later I show up with nothing but two jugs of edible Crisco oil, 12 feet of industrial rope and the answer: "YOU" written on my naked chest. You scream and lock the door before I can even chicken oil up your drumsticks.
Ruling: That's Bro Baiting.
You signed the coitus contract and the text was the down payment. Honor your end of the bargain. Let me in so I can shake you like a Caesar salad. Our nipples will be the croutons. Leave the teasing for prom.

You sit down next to me on the subway. There's another seat on the subway. Maybe not in this car but somewhere on the train. But you sat next to me, nearly touching distance… And then THEN you looked at me. At least once. So I took your cue and I put my hands of each of your knees and played "race to the prize, up your thighs". But you wigged out like I was some kind of New Delhi snake charmer and yelling "Creep!"
Ruling: That's Bro Baiting.
Don't be cuddling up to me on a subway, throwing me dryhump eyes if you don't want to ride the pelvic local. The second you sat down I know you felt a non-train generated rumble. Guess what? That was my junk… getting ready to report for duty. But you still wanted to play uninterested, straight giving me the eunuch-stare. That's wack-a-billy. If you don't want to get clothes-boned then don't wear such a hikeable skirt and don't plant yourself down next to a a brimming sexual volcano. Case closed.

So I proposed to your sis. Whatev. Had to. She's rocking three months worth of twins and her stomach's puffed out like a P.E. ball bag. Like trying to bang a hot air balloon. But the bigger news is we pushed the wedding straight on up and now you, Ms. Curves-of-Honor, are up on this altar and you've been staring my shit DOWN the whole ceremony. Eye-humping the back of my head like a goddamn sexual heat ray. Straight up fix-ATED. But then an hour late when I push you into the dressing room and play "on what else can the wedding ring fit?", you tweak your shit and threaten to have me arrested. Como se whaaaat?
Ruling: That's some All-Pro level Bro Baiting and it ain't to be stood for.
Rattle off all the excuses you want about just watching the ceremony, but I know what an overheated engine looks like when I see it. You wanted to sample the new in-law's flavor and I don't blame you. Your sister's carrying proof of my batter's potency in her stomach like a badge of pride. Of course you'd want a taster spoonful of me. My shit's rarer than kryptonite and hardly ever turns that green. All I ask is that you be upfront about that shit. Then we can bareback in the dressing room and I can pump your full of vows. Maybe I could be your family's Johnny Appleseed and spread my fertile goodness around. Everyone digs trees, right?

So, in Sumo Mary, if you're fiending for a bro, just get after it. Don't go teasing the dragon. Cause let's be honest, ain't nothing more dangerous than playing tricks on the mythological. Just ask Prometheus' chomped up liver. Shit was straight up daily eagle sashimi.

I'm gonzo.
— S-dub


  1. Simon - I need a copy of that hella fly EP album. Grocery boy is coming over, and that dope smooth sonata will for sure secure the sale.

  2. IS ANYONE A DOCTOR???? Because ever since I read this fucking hilarious post, I can't get my girl boner to go down.

    Help! I'm supposed to wear shorts to a party tonight!

  3. Dearest Simon - the haters are the Bro-Baiters. I believe that's a quote from Frost.

  4. Simon, your talents flow like soul-infused butter. A tribute to you and your bro-baiting banter: