Jane kept staring at her phone; I think she was pretty crunk since she was always drinking a shitton of Smirnoff Ices. She used to be pretty hot, but she wasn’t looking as hot now. Her pores acted up like crazy in New Orleans. Our crew rolled out of the Wrangler Unlimited and chilled in the house. Galatea was there and came over to her joke husband. That chick was gross. She was like a six-point-five at best and seemed like she didn’t party. Ed adjusted his hat and was like “what up.” Shit was awkward as fuck.
We cruised over to Old Bull Lee’s crib. There were like a ton of swamps and shit everywhere. The house was in buttfuck nowhere, but it was a sort of awesome swamp-party pad; the grass was covered in red Solo cups, old beeramids leaned, old kegs sat on the porch. Nobody was around. We rolled up to the crib. I went up to the front door. Bull’s wife Jane answered the door while checking her phone. “What up, Jane?” I was like, “It’s me.”
We took the Algiers ferry to get across the river. “Now we gotta all get out and check out the city and chicks and see if there’s a bar on the ship,” Dean was like, grabbing his Oakleys and iPhone and leaping out the car like hell. We followed. We leaned over the edge of the ferry and checked out the big-ass river rolling down from the Midwest like a huge continent-sized piss—like if America had a wang in Minnesota and just let it fly.
As we started cruising by the sick beaches on the Gulf, an awesome thing started on the stereo; it was Kid Cudi, all mad beats, sick jams, with the rhymes just telling us to have a fucking awesome time! New Orleans was up ahead and we all got even more stoked. Dean took a pull off his can of Natty. “Now we’re gonna get wild!” A few hours later we were all up in the Big Easy. “Yo, check this shit out!” Dean was like, all crazy pumped. “Let’s do this!” He swung around a corner. “Fuck yeah!” He drove like a maniac and looked everywhere for hotties. “Check her out!” The hotties were so fine in New Orleans it seemed like it was a movie; and you could tell they wanted to party and really get wild, and drink, and smash, and do all kinds of shit till sunrise
It’s totes official, bros. On The Bro’d is available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or wherever books are sold. You can even get it as an eBook, if you’re some kind of douche with a Kindle.
So grab a copy of the book, a case of Natty, and shotgun a brewdog every time there’s a semicolon.
I was amped; a car full of hotties blasted past us, going to Mobile. We had to hook up with them. I peeled off my shirt and flexed for them. A little later when we wanted some brews, Dean cruised into a gas station all quiet as hell, saw the dude inside was asleep, busted out, stole some beers, made sure the dude didn’t wake up, and rolled off like a ninja with a 30-rack of Natty for our pilgrimage.
He and I suddenly saw the whole country like a mad club for us to get into; and the bottle service was there, the bottle service was there. We kept hauling ass south. We gave another dude a ride. This dude told us about some amazing house party that was going down in North Carolina. “When we get there can you get us some tail? Hell yeah! Wooo! Let’s do it!” We rolled up there like an hour later, right around party o’clock. We found the house and there was no fucking party. What the shit was that dude thinking?
Some dickhole cop got all up in Dean’s face; he was totally jealous of what an awesome dude he was. The dickhole’s buddy interrogated me and Marylou. They were trying to bust Marylou for underage drinking, ‘cause she totally reeked of booze and looked young as fuck. But she had a real solid fake ID. “I’m twenty-two,” she was like. They were still dicks. They thought we were up to some shit. They tried some amateur Law and Order shit and tried to get us to fuck up.
The cop tried to accuse me of stealing my wallet. Too bad I’ve got like five gym IDs with my photo on them.
Dean hunched his ripped neck, wearing a distressed polo that was rough and ragged like the American road, and drove that whip. He made my ass drive through Maryland; that was aight, except he and Marylou tried to steer while they made out. It was crazy; the stereo was bumping. Dean punched the dashboard till it got all fucked up; I did too. The Wrangler Unlimited was getting its shit tossed.
Marylou and Dean and I chilled in front and had the realest talk about whether Old School or The Hangover was a better movie. Dean suddenly got real serious. “Now for fuck’s sake, look here, motherfuckers, we must admit that everything in Old School was fucking hilarious and there’s no way you can ever compete with that, and in fact we should realize that The Hangover wouldn’t even FUCKING EXIST without the FUNNY SHIT that went down in OLD SCHOOL. You feel me?” Dude was right.