A majestic creature, the wild fraternity bro roams the West and Central Campuses of Duke University. With a Natty, Busch Ice or other shitty beer having the consistency of rams’ piss in hand, he stalks his most targeted prey: the sorority girl. In an effort similar to birds’ mating styles, the male chooses a potential mate and begins the most sacred and inebriated of mating rituals. Just as the rare Blue-Footed Booby prances around his partner in an attempt to arouse her, the wild bro too drags potential and (sometimes?) willing partner to Shooters and commences the dance of ages, the most sacred and ratchet of courting (he starts humping her). In the same fashion, each wild bro fluffs himself up with vibrant plumage in an effort to appear more masculine and ward off competitors. Males proudly boast the makers of their colorful displays by sporting as much Brooks Brothers, Vineyard Vines, Southern Tide and Polo Ralph Lauren as possible. Pastel is the usual color scheme of choice and most often males choose to sport extremely tight and vibrant shades of pink around their groin area. (Scientists are still baffled by this pastel-loin phenomenon, but they have discovered a positive correlation between the brightness and shortness of shorts with the currency within them.)
Each Wednesday and Saturday, hundreds of bros and potential mates flock to Shooters in a movement we know as The Great Struggle Bus. From above, the dance floor of Shooters looks as though Ke$ha doused herself with glitter, ate a 64 pack of Crayola crayons, drank a fifth of vodka and then threw up into a kaleidoscope. As the mating selection continues, pungent pheromones laden with cologne, smoke, alcohol, body odor and shame fill the air creating a dense haze that obscures the judgment and morals of females. Once mates select each other, they begin the journey back to their mating grounds or, if they are too drunk, the handicapped bathroom stall. In the morning, the male arises, spreads his over-priced pastel wings and takes flight never to call her again.
Ladies and gentlemen, as much as I love getting high and watching nature documentaries, the above represents a truly terrifying trend in the Duke community. The Shooters mating ritual is generally fine; my public service announcement is about the terrible danger of pastel shorts. Why must shorts be so tight and bright? Are you afraid girls won’t be able to find you otherwise? The only problem is there are hundreds of other dudes rocking the same inexplicably bright shorts. Now everyone is drowning in a sea of Sperries, douchebaggery and color.
“Mean Boy, why do you hate the preppy look?”
I actually enjoy the preppy look. I do not enjoy what the preppy look has become at Duke. Being preppy means looking respectable without trying too hard. I guess I missed the memo, but being preppy here means throwing on Sperries, obnoxiously tight and bright shorts, a button down or polo that advertises your expensive clothing brand to the world and croakies. Look out everyone—we got a badass over here! It’s sad to see the decline of dressing like a gentleman. Preppy has become a pissing contest of who can wear the most expensive and obnoxious clothing.
“But Mean Boy, if the sky is out, should not my thighs be out?”
Yes, to a degree of good sense. A few inches above the knee is OK, but when your quads start bursting out of your shorts in a Hulk-esque fashion, I myself begin to feel sexually violated. Your knees should have room to move around and be free, but leave short shorts for girls and 80’s basketball. I’m sure your legs look great, bro. I bet you can squat two school busses full of kids on their way to fat camp, but that doesn’t mean we want to see your four-inch inseam that leaves everything to be seen (including something that’s probably also only four inches) and nothing to be desired. I promise that girls are not looking at your hairy thighs saying, “Wow his thighs are hairy and muscular. I bet he could squat Rosie O’Donnell. He and only he must ravage me tonight.”
“Whatever, I’m way TFTC”
Thanks for sharing.
“How can we stop these egregious fashion faux pas?”
Can we all go back to the ways of our forefathers, when George Washington would wear shorts ending just a few inches above his knee? The only way to stop this madness is from within. For girls out there, next time you see a bro in the wild, ask him why his shorts are shorter than yours. For guys, just buy a regular polo or sport shirt that isn’t dyed with skittles, a rave and the blood of unicorns.
Unfortunately for all of us, this movement, as well as male thigh exposure, is going nowhere but up. If this movement is left unchecked, engineers solicited with free Starcraft accounts have calculated that by the year 2030, males will be strolling around in paisley speedos: the only garment that is both tight and bright enough to look awesome.
If we work together, we can all make this world a little classier.
Mean Boy’s go-to shorts are Nantucket red with a seven-inch inseam, in case you were wondering.