Recently, while I was at Border’s browsing through the metaphysics section, searching for a small hex that might take care of a tender blister I’ve developed on my right index finger due to long hours of pensive tea-stirring, I was tapped on the shoulder. It was a guy, about my age, wearing a baseball cap, a sleeveless t-shirt with an enormous eagle and U.S. flag on it, cargo shorts that went nearly down to his ankles, and hiking sandals. Axe body-spray billowed from him in nauseating waves when he moved and he had a bad spray-on tan.

“‘Scuse me, bro. Just looking for a book on astronomy for my girlfriend…”

I winced. Twice. Then I straightened my cravat. Then I bristled.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not, in fact, your ‘bro’. If I was your ‘bro’, or anyone else’s ‘bro’ for that matter, I would f**king kill myself. Then I’d have a team of doctors bring me back to life just so I could enjoy killing myself all over again,” I replied in a measured tone. “And surely you mean ‘Astrology’, not astronomy,” I added.

“Uhh…well… I’m pretty sure my girlfriend said astronomy, British guy.” He said, like he was insulting me.

“Firstly, I’m not British. I’m American, just like… well, anyway, I’m from here. I just speak correctly and clearly. And I eschew slang.”

“What?” He said, looking like I’d just said something to him in Esperanto.

“It means that I avoid using slang,” I clarified, “because I don’t like it. It’s ‘not my bag’, you ‘feel me’?. And secondly, does your girlfriend study planets and stars and solar systems?”

“Nope.” He answered.

“Does she ever talk about wormholes in space/time or how a black hole’s gravity effects the speed of light or get into lively debates about Pluto’s planetary status? Does she ever talk about Cruithne?”

“What?” He asked.

(Again with the ‘what’. Doesn’t anyone say ‘pardon’ anymore? My fat, ugly grandmother would roll over in her grave if she heard all the ‘whats’ I hear on a daily basis. If you don’t understand or don’t hear what the other person has just said, you say ‘pardon?’ or ‘I’m sorry?’ or even ‘what’s that you just said?’, never ‘what’. ‘What’ is acceptable only if someone asks you something like “Can you guess what I had in my yogurt this morning?” or “Do you know what your grandmother used to do for spare pocket change?”. But enough about my promiscuous grandmum…)

“What color does she paint her toenails?”

“Pink, I think.”

“Then she means ‘astrology’. That’s the study of how great big lumps of whirling rock and gases know more about your day-to-day than yourself. I’m guessing in this case it might be a toss-up. Here,” I said, handing him a book I’d picked out for myself earlier, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, “give her this one instead. Then after she reads it, you go ahead and read it too. And then, maybe, just maybe, the two of you combined might have a couple brain cells you could rub together.”

And with that comment and a punctuating snort, I walked away. I felt so flustered that I had to go and sit in the in-store cafe to calm myself down. On my way there I picked up a GQ magazine to read, possibly purchase, and began thumbing through it. Ah, GQ. One of the last bastions a fellow can count on… hello, what’s this?

“The Golden Age of the Bro” was a 5-page article. I wish I were joking. I read the article for research purposes, then went back to the magazine rack, replaced the one I’d taken, and then placed a copy of “Yarn Quarterly” in front of the stack of GQs to ensure this issue would not fall into the hands of impressionable and dim-witted 13-year-old boys. Then I thought about all of the people out there who love yarn, despite it’s horrible qualities, and replaced it with the latest copy of Sheep Magazine’s Special Shearing Issue.

Now, at home, heavily fortified with port and monocles, I hereby take a stand against ‘bros’, ‘bro’ culture, and the changing of any word in the English language to include any permutation of the word ‘bro’.

If you’ve read this far I can only assume that you are with me. You’re tired of this frat-boy culture leaking into our once reasonably classy lives. It should stay in the colleges along with girls who think they’re ‘kinda lesbian’ and beer-pong, the ultimate bro sport/abomination. Instead we find ourselves with t-shirts-wearers at the opera, Courvoisier used for body shots, rubber genitalia dangling from beneath trucks on the road (seriously, thank you, anonymous halfwit, for emotionally scarring my wife’s 9-year-old niece), and the term ‘chillaxing’.

So, instead, I present you with the Anti-Bro Laws (also called the David Niven Ordinances).

1. Thou shalt dress accordingly. Shorts are appropriate for the beach or on very hot summer days. Sandals are not worn to job interviews unless you’re trying to land a position as a lifeguard. Buy even just one suit, for heaven’s sake. Learn to feel naked without a shirt-collar of some sort.
2. Thou shalt not wear baseball caps unless you are a baseball player. I know many who will tell me this is archaic, but there are few things more schlubbish than seeing a grown man wearing a baseball cap. Flat-billed caps doubly so.
3. If more than, say, 10% of the words out of your mouth are quotes from television shows (esp. cartoons) or movies, just stop. Think about what you’re going to say before it comes out of your mouth. Will it add anything to the conversation beside maybe a cheap chuckle? I didn’t think so.
4. Comb your damned hair. The ‘just-rolled-out-of-bed’ look is appropriate for only one occasion: when you’ve just rolled out of bed.
5. Leave the fine liquors for those who will enjoy it. If you’re going to down shots or mix it with an energy drink, use rotgut. At least then it will punish you in the morning for being so effing dense.
6. Thou shalt not watch Ultimate Fighting. No, it’s not a noble sport like boxing. It’s just a small step away from bum-fights (where sadistic f**ks pay bums to beat the tar out of each other).
7. Thou shalt not watch bum-fights or associate with those who do.
8. Thou shalt find something interesting to talk about. The easiest way to do this is to learn something new everyday. Listening to the Effing Brilliant Podcast Series is a good place to start…
9. Thou shalt never wear sleeveless t-shirts.
10. Thou shalt not wear clothing from a company more famous for it’s stripped down custom motorcycles (West Coast Choppers, Famous, etc.) Also, “TapouT”, UFC-enthusiast clothing is to be avoided like a worn-out cliché.
11. Thou shalt never insert the word ‘bro’ into any word, ever. “Bromance”, ”broficiency”, “bromunity”. Not clever, just awful.
12. Thou shalt never refer to one’s friend as your “bro”. I don’t care if you’re “like brothers”.
13. If said friend is also your actual brother, as in you both came from the same mother, you may call him bro, once per month. If you are a surfer, but he is not, you may call him ‘bro’ once per week. If you are both surfers who actually surf, it may be used once a day.
14. Thou shalt never put ketchup on your hot-dog. Not bro-related, but important nonetheless. It’s just wrong. Use the mustard, kraut, onions, relish even, but leave the damned ketchup alone. And if you put mayonnaise on your hot-dog, just leave my website right now.
15. Thou shalt never flash weak-ass white-boy hand-signs. Finger poses, gang signs, whatever you call them. Never, but especially never in a photograph. Never flip the bird, either. There is nothing so immature.
16. Thou shalt never jack up thy pickup truck.

Please feel free to add to this list and make this world a better place. For more research information about “bros” and “bro culture”, visit Flatbiller.com