BroBQ 7: Live, Laugh, Chug

It’s that time of year again. That time when you turn your eyes of desire towards a ragtag gaggle of dead brains and man-children, otherwise known as The Bros, and bestow upon us the privilege of providing you and yours with one day of pure, unabashed joy. That time is now, but I’m afraid I have to start with some bad news.

My friends, it seems that our legendary prodigious substance intake has finally begun to take its toll. The bros are a goddamn mess.

At 29, Jesse is the only one still clinging to his 20’s. He’s taken his drunken carnival of assholery to Ithaca, NY, a peaceful town where foxy college babes go to stop shaving their armpits, hacky sack is a viable form of exercise and white dudes with dreadlocks rule the night. He’ll be just fine though, no one will ever suspect that he is only there to frack the shit out of the ground beneath them and fall asleep whilst standing up at their microbreweries. Oh Jesse, what WILL you do next?

As for the rest of us? It’s been dark. Failed careers, lost love, an ill advised leap into Juggaloism, an even more ill advised leap into experimentation with poppers and whipits, voluntarily spending time in White Plains. These are just a few of the hallmarks of the time spent between BroBQ 6 and now. Such depths we’ve never seen. A very dark place, indeed.

Most recently and perhaps the greatest sign of all that the bros have truly thrown in the towel and given up on the dream came in March when one of us bought a dog. Sad, right? It was Tim Feeney. He’s an idiot.

I believe it was misunderstood thespian Gary Busy who once said, “the great tragedy of life is not death, but what dies inside you while you’re living.” Poignant words from a brilliant man. But bold times call for bold measures and if I am certain of one thing it is that we are living in the boldest of times. And what’s left inside of us that hasn’t died or been chewed up by some galping puppy is the desire…to bro.

Which brings us to the task at hand, throwing the type of party that leaves a lasting impact. A party that both strengthens our unique bond as concerned citizens and gives you beer shits the likes of which you’ve never seen. A party that reunites us with old friends and people we tried to avoid in high school. A party that…I’m over this silly paragraph, does anyone even read this bullshit?

Anywayzzzz, after numerous attempts to thwart our annual rager, it seems that once again we’ve fooled George’s Island into granting us the necessary permits to publicly funnel warm beer and drop would-be keg standers directly on their heads. Apparently, the powers that be in the parks department have become wise to our shenanigans and want no part of it. What they’ve failed to consider is that the only thing we’re truly guilty of is a love for which there is no name. An unbridled passion for getting completely blotto and leaving our trash for Mother Nature to dispense of. I mean, is that a crime? Well, the fascists at the parks department seem to think it is and here is our chance to really stick it to them.

Welcome to BroBQ 7. Welcome to the resistance.

So bring us your thirsty masses, your appetite for disaster, your concussed keg standers. Bring us your jag off cousin who is way too good at softball, your slutty friend from work, your Wal-Mart cargo jorts. Bring us…your children. Bring us these things and we promise you this, that you’ll leave with an impaired judgment, a stomach full of regret and someone else’s cell phone.

I’m bored now and this case of whipits ain’t gonna crack and huff itself. What else? I don’t know, I don’t really give a fuck about any of this. Let’s just fuckin’ do this mess.

Georges Island. May 26th. Noon. Lol.

Also, eat shit.