But then there’s a fun rite of passage: The first time a friend visits. In the lexicon of brocabulary, this is known as a BRO WEEKEND. Perhaps not surprisingly, this event is more complicated than it appears on the surface.
Expectations, on both sides, are enormously high. You don’t want to seem like the washed-up career man who’s let life ground you into an emasculated pussy. And you’ll never say it out loud, but you want your friend to somewhat envy your life, to let him know you're doing okay. So you make a concerted effort to impress the guy who's probably seen you at your lowest lows—your sloppiest public hookups, your freshman-year case of Mono, your subpar Snapchatted poops.
As for the friend? He will be 100% THERE. He will rally at all times. He will suggest drinking at 6 a.m. He will turn into John Belushi circa 1975.
This weekend is, above anything, a battle of wills between these dueling forces. Here’s what happens:
7 p.m. The friend arrives at your apartment. He’s carrying a 30-rack of a cheap domestic and attempting to ignore the after-effects of eight hours spent on a bus. Drinking commences more or less immediately.
7:01 p.m. Background music = Pregame, so background music it must be. You strive to find the song that perfectly encapsulates sophomore year, the song that represents college's peak. This tune will probably also represent some sort of inside joke, even though it was one of the most popular of that year. Depending on your graduation date, this is the song you will play:
2012: “Sexy Bitch”
2011: “Party in the USA”
2010: “A Milli”
2009: “Good Life”
1959: “Jailhouse Rock” (Skrillex remix)
7:04 p.m. Transition the playlist into something current. Show off your musical taste. And kick ass.
7:04 p.m. You’ve been standing at the docked iPhone for, like, 45 seconds now. Panic, hit shuffle.
7:05 p.m. A voice recording of a poorly thought-out comedy bit on Asian food comes on.
7:05 p.m. “Haha, what? Caught my roommate practicing that in the bathroom. HEY, HAVE YOU HEARD THE NEW JAY-Z?”
8:00 p.m. It’s still light out, and you’re drinking far too quickly. You guys are adults now. You're far too old for competitive BS’ing like this. This will not end well.
9:00 p.m. The conversation has shifted from the two-hour well of material stemming from college—and it’s always around two hours worth of usable stuff, repeated and tweaked ad nauseum over the years—to “current events.”
9:05 p.m. You attempt to draw a line between showing off your job and bitching about it.
9:10 p.m. Give up. Bitch about the job.
10:00 p.m. “Christ, did you forget to eat, too?”
10:30 p.m. Bar time! Text every girl you’ve met in the past few months. Send out Tinder bombs to 35-year-olds. EVERYONE MUST KNOW YOU PULL.
11 p.m. Arrive at bar. Mentally note to, next time, maybe proposition a pregame to girls earlier in the evening.
11:01 p.m. Briefly lose sanity, order a craft beer, then pawn it off on friend.
11:01 p.m. “What the fuck is this?”
12:00 a.m. Conversation has long since been exhausted. Time to show off The Game you have obtained.
12:10 a.m. Pull the “This guy is visiting!” card for the 25th time.
1:50 a.m. It worked!
2 a.m. Look at the crew around you. Decide to punt, and leave friend to the hands of fate. Or maybe her name is Destiny.
6 a.m. Friend returns from what he will later call an “$85 black car ride, I don’t know, man, I just handed over money.” He’ll wake you to “KEEP IT ROLLING.” Tell him to fuck off.
1 p.m. Actually wake up.
1:30 p.m. Gleefully show off all the things you’ve amassed in hangover prevention: Coconut water, bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches, Gatorade, and tall iced coffees from Dunkin’ Donuts. This is why you work, you say.
2 p.m. You’re drinking again. You’re getting the rundown on the events that took place at the new lady friend of your bro, and, based on his description of surrounding “brick buildings,” “the billboard of ‘The Lone Ranger,’ and “odd street signs,” you realize he spent the night 120 blocks uptown.
3 p.m. Work friends join at bar. Quickly tell college friend to play it cool if work friends bring up your “year” “spent” in the “Peace Corps.”
4 p.m. – 11 p.m. Haze. Haze. Haze. You haven't drank this much in months. You should never have visitors over again.
8 p.m. You're in some sort of club? He's convinced you to go to an incredibly expensive club. The bottle in front of you may be speaking to you. Its top opens up and down. “Ramen noodles next week, buddy,” it says.
4 a.m. Snap out of it. You’re in a strip club. You don’t know the series of events that led to this strip club, or how this strip club is even still open, but you’re at a strip club. The table is filled with strangers. An ATM receipt crumbled in your pocket horrifies you, and it explains how your bro is currently in a private room.
4:05 a.m. Your friend comes behind the sheet.
4:06 a.m. “I SHOULD MOVE HERE.”
4:06 a.m. “I’M NOT SURE IF THAT’S A GREAT IDEA.”
7 a.m. The bro leaves.
8 a.m. You sleep for 18 hours.
[Guys at bar drinking image via Shutterstock]
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