I’ve written admonitions in the past toward certain guys, rained fire and brimstone upon the tools and douches who litter our campus with muscle shirts and fauxhawks. I appealed to their sense of nostalgia, calling on them to hearken to a time when men were men. I dared them to order bourbon and stop pounding Red Bull vodkas. I berated their ridiculous fashion sense. I challenged them to be more masculine.
But my pleas have gone unheeded, because our walkways, halls and locker rooms (never libraries) remain studded with what I can only assume is the alien race Bro, sent from the planet Bropiter to destroy our culture and replace it with video games, cheap, cheap beer and VD.
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Who is to blame for the proliferation of this alien race? As a RWS teacher, I can attest to their continued population growth, perennially populating my 100 and 200 classes. Although elements of the species remain mysterious, it has been discovered they do not reproduce asexually, meaning their survival is contingent on reproduction. Let us now consider why the population is so concentrated on our campus.
Some will argue more Bros are created through a relentless media that preys on insecure young males. Some can claim the naivety of youth and peer pressure. “Well, I’m a freshman, and I saw this junior at a party looking like that, so I figured I should, too.” And voilá — a backward trucker hat instantly alights on his cavernous head. It must be noted these influences are all received and then executed with the goal of sex. They want to get laid.
And while these outside influences are strong and are not to be disregarded, they are a means to an end, an end that cannot be achieved without permission (or Rohypnol). I contend the source of the propagation of Bros is none other than … Hoes.
Not you, ladies, not you with your normal length jean shorts, normal amount of makeup and leopard-print-free wardrobe. You are above reproach. Your continual disdain for Bros is worthy of admiration and respect, and I have every intention of one day writing a column singing your praises.
But you, Hoes, you are the source of the proliferation of the Bros. Were it not for you, this alien race would not be plaguing our fair campus. Just as Guidos would not flourish in my native New York without the approval and encouragement from Guidettes, the Bro race would go extinct if you Hoes did not condone their behavior.
Do you honestly believe they like putting on gallons of hair gel every morning? Do you think they enjoy the terribly vexing decision of what pair of sandals match their knockoff Wayfarers? Do you think they want to be insecure about their physique and forced to spend an inordinate amount of time in the gym?
No! They want to skip showering for at least a couple of days, loaf about in their underwear and steadily gain weight on a strict diet of Fluffernutters and burritos while playing “Madden” and watching “Old School.”
But they don’t do these things because you provide the one thing they cannot provide themselves: You sleep with these jackasses. Your continued copulation guarantees their survival. If you did not grant them access south of the border, or anywhere on the map for that matter, they would vanish, cease to exist. Perhaps they would be replaced with, oh I don’t know, guys who can spell.
But because you continue to tolerate their inane behavior by partying with them and inviting them into your cave of feminine wonder, you ensure their proliferation. You show up to their tawdry theme soirees wearing less clothes than Gandhi, consume one too many of their questionable cocktails and end up sharing a bed with them and their BFF, gonorrhea. And despite that lovely parting gift, you and your ilk arrive at their door the following weekend eager to partake in the absurd and likely vaginally hazardous revelry.
What’s worse is the incoming cadre of freshman girls will witness this behavior and think it normal. They will mimic you, just as you mimicked your elders during those first impressionable weeks of school, and lo and behold, by the end of September, there is a freshly minted batch of Hoes appeasing the Bros.
It is time to put an end to The Bros. I have implored them to act like real men, but my advice goes unheeded. So I appeal to you, Hoes. I beg of you: Stop being Hoes! And stop sleeping with Bros. If you no longer give away what they perceive to be an unlimited supply of tickets to your lovely lady parts, they will change their behavior. They will certainly not stop trying to see what’s behind the curtain, but if you cut off access, they will try a different approach, one that doesn’t involve neon wifebeaters. They will still throw parties, but if you arrive in something other than a short black skirt and skimpy top, maybe they might talk to you instead of grinding on your thigh and giving you a rash.
-Matt Doran is a creative writing graduate student and ardent supporter of strong, independent women. Hoes who seek his counsel on how to become ladies may write him at email@example.com.