Monday, July 5, 2010
Everyone's heard the phrase "bros before hos" and every educated human regards this as one of the great insights of our species. Besides being short and rhyming, the logic of the phrase is eloquent and unbreakably sound.
Your bro is your boy, your best bud, your soul mate, your life force. And a ho is just a jabbery chickenhead with blond hair and no wings. Anyone who would risk the loss of a Brobond for such a creature is damaged and possibly beyond mental repair.
But what about Moms or "Mos"? Where do they factor in to this Brothology? Mos can't throw down a keg stand or get your back in a beach brawl, but on the other hand they did birth you, which, is admittedly a pretty chill-ass gesture. Kind of like getting free breadsticks with your 'za.
So who comes first between your Bro — your current best bud and all around soldier — and the OB (the original Bro), the woman that gave you life, fed you and touched your junk before anyone else would, your Mo.
The answer is obviously your Mo. Mos always come before Bros. This fact should be Cristal ™ clear, but if your brain is still tripping I've included some situations where this phrase would apply. You know, to illustrate that shit...
Your buddy wants you to videotape his Strongest Man workout audition tape but your Mom just got fired from her pilates volunteer teaching job and is Kleenex balling it up at home. What do you do?
Verdict: Mos before Bros.
Comfort Moms ASAP. You can film your Brosiff dead-squatting a Mini tomorrow when your Mom's not double-fisting shame shots.
You and your Maverick are hard vibbing with some tasty Sarah Lawrencers. Betting odds say you're getting hot tub handies at worst. But your mom calls up cause her peanut allergy is swilling up her face like a Van Damme Bloodsport-era tricep. The hot honeys are only in town for the night but your original squeeze — Momser — is marshmallowing to death. What's the solution, y'all?
Verdict: Mos before Bros.
Fly floozies come and go. And who knows, maybe your Bromate will score double duty, they are Chilean after all. Get your sculpted ass back home and hook your Mo up with anti-freakout skin meds. When she starts feeling better she'll give you some huge life-saving daps.
Crap. You screwed up the coordinates and accidentally got transported to the Ice Age with Moms and your best bud Jake. It's nipple-popping cold outside and, guess what? The only food for 30 miles is one freshly killed Mastodon and your BFL (Bro for life) Jake is desperate for grubification. Think fast. That furry-ass elephant can only feeds two people, MAX. What the shit do you do?
Verdict: Mos before Bros. Peek a trend, much?
Distract your protein-craving wing-Bro Jake with a dirty joke about lezzie Canadians. While he laughs, rip an icicle off the nearby cave ledge and sink it deep into your best bud's aorta. Sure you had to kill the top general in your Broarmy. But your Mo takes food priority. After all, she did the same for you in back in the day, just ask your placenta. So get your extinct animal chow down on and then get the f out of the Ice Age while you still can. That ain't no place to get your camp out on. Remember, even if you did find other peeps you'd still be screwed cause... Neanderthal girls don't wax.