Awesome!

I'm watching a movie on TV and the leading actress just showed her tits. Nice!

BRO-badeer, continued

So, as promised from yesterday, here are some of the ideas that I have come up with for the Nobadeer project. A few of these are a bit lackluster, because I do not have my right-hand woman with me to stimulate the creative juices, but I will update the post as I get more. Perhaps we will compile these into some sort of T-shirt. Or, perhaps these will be read by a grand total of six people and I will forget about starting this blog by next week.

-Brobadeer: Ya, my Dad still smokes pot. With me.

-Brobadeer: Licenses to Chill accepted here.

-Brobadeer: Where’s your fucking Trin Coll bumper sticker?? Ya, that’s what I thought. Have fun at Cisco!

-Brobadeer: The first rule of Brobadeer is we do talk about Brobadeer. A lot.

-Brobadeer: I remember my first beer. Bro.

-Brobadeer: Beware of pickpocketers and loose flying lax balls.

-Brobadeer: I went to a lax pinney trading show and a beach party broke out. With lots of hot chicks and dudes wearing the same aviator sunglasses. And lax pinneys!

-Brobadeer: That reminds me of the day I drank 100 beers. Bro.

-Brobadeer: Home to shitty D3 laxers playing with fiddlesticks and skimboards since 1992.

-Brobadeer: The water’s warm, the brews are cold, and our fake IDs say we’re real fucking old!

-Brobadeer: So many babes, not enough time.

-I went to Brobadeer and all I got was this lousy hickey from a Seal. On my ass. Bro.

-Brobadeer: Play another Afroman “Because I Got High!”

-Brobadeer: Yo, who brought the acoustic? I wanna hear some JJ.

-Brobadeer: This fucking ATV cop should be mowing my step dad’s lawn.

-Brobadeer: Don’t hassle me. I’m on my fourth straight month of vacation and this economy is totally killin’ the job market. Dude. I mean… Bro.

-Brobadeer: That’s my bro Tommy. He’s always bumpin’ the hardcore country jams. Got all six Kenny Chesney CDs. And one Shania Twain.

-Brobadeer: You ever heard that song, “Six Pack Summer?” Ya, that’s me. And my Bros.

-Brobadeer: If you ain’t got croakies, you either lost them when you were BLACKED OUT last night or should keep on walkin’….

-Brobadeer: Ya, go ahead and try to arrest me for drunk driving on the beach. My Dad is the best lawyer in New Canaan and he’ll see to it that by the end of the month you are jobless, homeless, penniless, and… hairless.

-Brobadeer: Where Bros congregate to face chug Mike’s Hard and tell stories that they vividly remember from when they were blacked out the night before.

-Brobadeer: If I play my cards right with this babe, I might get a bro-job.

It's BRO-badeer, biatch!

A good friend of mine and I were wrapping up a random but enjoyable night in FRATucket – which had included partaking in some illegal activities in her outdoor shower out of a beer can, walking/taxiing in the rain to four different bars in the span of about 48 minutes in search of a female friend who it would please me to see (most likely already have freaked her out with my over-exuberant text messaging, calling, and general existence), and stuffing our faces with some dank Tacos Tacos burritos - when we saw what I will describe to you now:

A tall, skinny, somewhat-awkward-but-definitely-hiding-it-enough-to-woo-the-blonde-hike-skewl-chick-with-braces-and-the-cherished-full-Gatorade-bottle -of-vodka-on-the-STRIP! guy walk into the newly-opened Easy Street Cantina (which is a new combination of Tacos Tacos and Joe’s Broad Street Grill, which now serves breakfast all day and is open until 2am – a great spot for late-night munchies). Immediately, my friend and I begin to crack up, and she mutters underneath her breath in her unique English accent which amounts to a slightly higher level of humor, “we neeeed to get those t-shirts….” Anyhow, upon seeing me approach him, our new friend, entering the restaurant from stage right, almost immediately halts on a dime and recoils into a deer-in-the-headlights look. The guy, who will we call Nathan Nantucket, is your prototypical kid who has just spent his first summer on the island of sin that is ACK. In essence, your prototypical chief. Nathan is wearing a fresh pair of Rainbows, khaki shorts that are too loose for his long legs, has a sailing-rope-type bracelet on one wrist (you know what I mean), a puka shell necklace, has sun-blonded hair, a tan that could only be accumulated through three straight months of sitting on a beach, zero percent muscles or fat, and is wearing a shirt that I will describe to you now:

It is a white t-shirt, naturally too large across the shoulders, girth of chest, and in the length of the sleeves because of his lack of muscular structure. On the front of the shirt (which isn’t even a pocket tee!!), there is a sign. The same type of sign that they have at the Rotary that says “Surfside,” “Town,” “Madaket,” etc with an arrow under it pointing in that direction. However, instead of displaying the name of the area of the island that one might be attempting to reach via vehicle, little Nathan’s shirt said something different. The road sign on the front of Nathan’s shirt that was draped over his delicate little frame said one word, and one word only. And if you know Nantucket, you know this word, and if you know this word, and you are remotely cool, and you see Nathan stroll into the Cantina after a night cruising the Strip, typing some text messages to himself into his new Samsung Sidekick, and almost bagging Lucy who works at the Juice Bar, you know that this shirt might as well have had a road sign with an arrow that pointed to the owner of the shirt that said, in big, bold letters: “TOOL!” That word, my friends, is the one. The only. The most kick-ass beach on all of the island (and, for that matter, in the entire fucking world – yup, beat out the Hamptons, the OC, AND Surfside, SC). "NOBADEER."

So, my apologies for the long introduction, but I have nothing else to do and, for those unfamiliar with Nantucket, the life of a young partier trying to find his place in this wild world, Nobadeer, douche bags, talking about how much you like to drink and party, I just wanted to paint the picture. Nobadeer, aka BRO-badeer, is one of the few beaches on Nantucket (and, for that matter, I believe, on the east coast, which is pretty cool) on which you can drive your truck or SUV. This adds a fantastic dimension to your day at the beach with the additions of power, louder music, a place at which to congregate and a staging area from which to play outside drinking games, a larger compartment in which to transport your food, drink, beach accessories, and friends, and a vessel which facilitates travel to a nice spot on the beach without having to exert effort. And, of course, a sure-fire layup of an opportunity to drunk-drive home before showering before dinner with your parents. Just kidding. No, but seriously.

So, naturally, the hordes of high school, college, and post-collegiate frat stars that inhabit Nantucket during the summer months migrate toward this strip of beach on the southeast corner of the island, located directly underneath the path upon which airplanes fly to and from the airport (adding a further Wayne’s World/heady aspect to your time spent relaxing underneath the sun). And, all of the above provides an excellent recipe for a great time. And, as any fun kid who has done a tour of duty on Nantucket knows, there is nothing like a day at Nobs.*

HOWEVER, and as the above asterix insinuates, there is a catch. This glorious conjunction of positive positivity comes with a hanging chad: There are a ton of d-bags that partake in the party atmosphere of Nobadeer Beach. Thus, one must take caution when approaching the subject of Brobadeer. In a short sentence (because I am getting tired), there is nothing that screams “I am not cool, simply a jabroni, faux bro (citation: The Beer Lodge), chief, tool, etcetera etcetera” louder than overdoing something without sarcasm, being 100% cliché without sarcasm, and being… well… just not cool, an asshole in general, think you’re cool when you’re not, and, ya… any of that stuff.” (Sense the sarcasm??) So, while by no means should you let the fact that a contingent of posers spoil a great thing by overcrowding and drawing too much attention to themselves deter you from enjoying an amazing day at Nobs, just be careful when you talk about it and about who you might encounter there.

Anyhow, seeing Nathan walk into the Easy Street Cantina, most likely before he sprints to his house to chew on peanut butter and swallow Listerene to make curfew and to avoid missing another awesome night out on the Strip because he was grounded, prompted my friend and I to come up with ideas for a sarcastic shirt or, perhaps, an expose satirizing the anti-bros that take up space on a great party spot (when taken for what it is). Due to time constraints on my computer’s battery I will not write those down at this time, but my friend and I hope to knock heads (and, perhaps, boots!) tomorrow and come up with some ideas. We already have a design for the shirt and some ideas, so stay tuned.