Bro Code, A Fallacy

With the recent explosion of a code book written for guys has gone completely viral. With numerous websites completely devoted to it, and off-swings everyone has heard of it.

This list of laws comes from a famous character, Barney Stinson from the Television series How I Met Your Mother. Stinson is a serial womanizer and has a plethora of strategies and rules designed to meet women, sleep with them, and discard them.

‘Bro Code’ is thrown around an absolutely extreme amount, oftentimes used inappropriately and out blatantly wrong. We’ve all heard it at least once this week, and it in my opinion is completely false. I’m not saying it doesn’t have its good points but… well most of them are bad. Basically it is a term that guys use to claim the authority to make rules for all to follow because law dictates. We’re not in kindergarten anymore; let’s stop with making rules for everything.

If anything it is an incomplete list of guidelines, and not a thing more. There are however a few things that denote law status amongst men, these are things you all agree on amongst friends, you don’t need an internet phenomenon to decide these for you.

Making out with a best friend’s (Bro’s) ex girl friend according to some is against code, in actuality it depends on the situation.

1. The two parties had been dating for a significant time of a year or longer seriously, and by seriously generally a high-school relationship doesn’t count. Don’t do it, you don’t want those sloppy 100’s, plus if he’s been your friend for that long it’s just wrong.
2. The two parties had been dating for less than a year and have had a few issues along the way, breaking up and getting back together, it’s a moral dilemma. In reality it’s fair to wait several months before you make your move on the girl, it helps if your friend is banging other girls at this point.
3. The two parties had been dating for several months, broke up for a whopping three months and get back together. (So much for situation 2, eh!) They tried to work it out, cute really, we hated each other the first time let’s see how much we hate each other the second time! Look! It didn’t work out the second time either in record time, a few weeks. You’ve got to ask yourself, was your friend the one who initiated the break up? Or is he completely beside himself tears dripping from those manly cheeks? If he initiated it, or it was mutual and he’s fine with it. Go for it, otherwise, stay clear, ask him if it’s alright if you’re that kind of person; I commend you. In complete reality though, these are only guidelines, you KISSED, swapped spit, met the tonsils, and risked mono. You haven’t killed anyone. Yet.

If you’ve had this happen and your pal apologized, good for him. You can be angry and upset to a point. If you respect this friendship then you should shrug it off. A friendship that can be lost never began. Be honoured, you obviously chose an attractive gal that even your friends were jealous of.

I’m not telling you to go out and mess with all of your pal’s ex’s. It’s highly likely that they broke up for a reason, and you’ll know from the stories: She can’t make sandwiches, is a complete psycho, a stage 5 clinger, amongst a plethora of other issues. If these aren’t qualities you’re looking for, and I’m assuming you hang out with guys much like yourself; don’t waste your time it’s going to get messy.

To many having sex on a friends couch is against ‘Bro Code’, it’s the complete opposite of this, ALWAYS let your friend use your couch. Do not cock block him. Most times, this rule is made up because your friend doesn’t want your spunk on his genuine leather upholstering. Simple fix, bring a blanket and lays it down, this way you also do not have to risk rolling in his legions of white men.

Some Bro Code items that make sense:

1. Always back your friends when they need help.
2. Always reimburse consumed beers, depending on how often this occurrence is, multiply by 2, or 8.
3. Don’t puke, or piss on your friends bed, why were you in their bed in the first place?

When deciding if ‘Bro Code’ is for you, think of this. If your friend is going to be a child about it, you likely broke his rules; you’re in the wrong in his books. Otherwise, you’re all one happy family.

Differentiation Between “Sluts” and “Whores”

First off ladies, lets remove the negative connotation of both of the terms. While we’re at it, let’s stop throwing these at each other.

“Look at that slut!”

Women who throw around these derogatory terms to each other are just super insecure. Calling a girl a whore or a slut because she’s getting it in tonight and you aren’t is pure jealousy. Calling her a whore because she sells her body? Fine, but she’s using what she’s got, don’t hate on it.

Sluts:

Sluts can be defined by women or even men who have sex with people. Who cares if they’re practicing reproduction? I’m sure you’re saying to yourself “Well that’s gross, what a dirty tramp.” Well let me tell you, more often than not the “Sluts” are the girls that give a shit about hygiene, their make-up is done they’re wearing tight ass clothes to keep us guys happy. That doesn’t sound dirty to me, and even if it was would you turn down a night of sheet wrestling with a featherweight champ? No. Sex is fun and if you disagree, have fun. Welcome to College kiddies.

Whores:

Whores are actually defined as a prostitute; arguably anyone who uses sex or their sexuality to receive personal gain. These could include money, food, shelter, provisions for a child. In many cases, girls in college don’t need anything from you. Except maybe those eleven shots you just bought them because they showed off their cleavage. And that makes you a sucker. She’s not going to bang you because you bought her a beer.

Girls will be girls, some are sluts and some are whores. There is no in between, you’re in college why wouldn’t you be promiscuous and available? You’ve got four years to make as many horrible decisions as possible, while having the most fun you possibly could. So what she just made out with that dude who is dating someone, don’t be mad at her; he probably didn’t tell her he was taken. And even if he did, was it your boyfriend? No. And if it was you have way bigger fish to fry then calling the girl a slut because your boyfriend is a scummy douche.

Sex is great; before bed, in the morning, between classes, after class, and if you don’t care if the people actually trying to pay attention during the lecture during class. It’s great to waste time, or even to lift the weight of the midterm you’re going to bail because you had eleven to many shots the night before. Calling a girl a slut but recognizing its normal is fine. Guys don’t give a shit whether you act like a slut or a whore, as long as the pocket book isn’t hurting. We’re here to have fun, and like I mentioned earlier, sex is fun.

“All she does is have one night stands, she’s such a slut”

“She’s not afraid to have a little fun, man I wish it was as easy to get laid for dudes.”

Chapter One: Nose Bleeds

Tim Adair

The room was an eruption of movement. Pens moved quickly scratching on paper, filling the stark white pages as they were being dictated to. At the front of the room stood an old man, large glasses filling his face of wisdom. Near the back of the room sat a young man, curly blonde hair creating wings from having a black hat perched on his head. He wore a black sweater rolled up to the elbow, a pair of cargo shorts and an aged, worn pair of Doc Martins, they were unlaced making the tongue flop forward from lack of support. A headphone wire dangled from his ear, music could faintly be heard from the tiny speaker inside. “Psst, Derek, iPod now, I’m bored.” The young man turned to face the speaker. This young man was called Adam, he and Derek had been friends since elementary school. “Krizzit, turn around, Derek that means you too keep writing; Headphones out gentlemen.” shouted a voice from the front of the room.

Derek turned around with a smirk playing on his lips. Krizzit was a nickname that Derek had received when he was in elementary school. He was quite young when he got the nickname; Adam had dared him to stick his finger into a power outlet for a piece of gum. Derek was a pretty brave kid at the time, so he did it. Krizzit is the sound people say he made as the electrical current jolted through his small body. Derek didn’t remember much from the accident but he survived with only a few faint scars on his right forearm. The scared were barely noticeable, only when you looked very closely did you see them.

…

Adam’s voice filled my hearing, in a hoarse whisper” Derek iPod now, I’m bored.” I turned to face him, and with a quick gesture I tossed him my iPod. “Krizzit, turn around, Derek that means you too keep writing; Headphones out gentlemen.” Spinning back forward I looked on the blank piece of paper sitting on my desk. Abstract lines were drawn on the corners, it’s just what I do, every piece of paper has these abstract lines, and I’ve been doing it since the accident. The soft ticking of the clock filled my senses. My hand sent a shiver up my whole body, “Damn it, Adam do you have any tissue?” I whispered. The sensation was the same every time. My arm would begin to go numb, the feint veiny scars became more prominent, and my nose would begin to bleed.

The soft feel of a balled up tissue brushed against my ear. Doctors weren’t sure why these odd symptoms occurred but they did, but that didn’t mater to me they told my parents I wouldn’t live after the accident. “Mr. Wilifred, Can I go? My nose is beleedin’ again.” Mr. Wilifred nodded me to leave. I quickly excused myself to from the classroom. Blood was beginning to fill the balled up tissue. I quickly jogged to the bathroom, my nose bleed shave been known to knock me out due to blood loss. I kicked the door of the bathroom as I hurried to the sink. Blood began to free flow the second I turned on the tap.

I looked at the mirror, and all that filled my vision was a serious boy staring at me over my shoulder. His violet eyes tore through my body making all the nerves in my body to be on edge. “Got a problem?” I mumbled with all of the force I could muster. No answer. I looked back to the blood that had stopped running down my face. I heard a faint click as I saw a long slender piece of moist wood that looked extremely sharp. “Give me your arm, Derek.” I reluctantly held out my right arm. “This will hurt.” I flinched as the tingling sensation numbed my arm. I looked down at my arm; he had scrawled some weird symbols on my forearm:

ᛈᚱᛟᛏᛖᚲᛏᛁᛟᚾ ᛒᚱᚨᚹᛖᚱᛇ ᛋᚹᛟᚱᛞᛈᚨᛚᛇ

“Here take these,” the boy said as he flourished three short blades towards me, “We have a fight to win my brother.” With that the boy kicked the bathroom door open, readying a blade in each hand as he did so. I cautiously followed him into the hall.

The Selik Weilders

Hey Folks!

So a while ago, like I promised I was going to try to get caught up on posting so I'm mass posting. Teach made us write a short story starting with "One dark and stormy night," And this is what I've come up with. Its not a short story but more or less a short chapter of the opening of a book. Enjoy!

One dark and stormy night, one you could hear the wolves high pitched yowl echo over the tree tops. The sound of crisp leaves crinkled under my footsteps. The sound of the forest kept all of my senses on edge even though this place had become common to me in the last few weeks. Tongiht though somthing was odd, I could feel a nose bleed coming on that was accompaning the feeling. I listened to the many sounds trying to pick out any sound that was out of place. I was so close to the fort, if I could just run for it. Tonight was supposed to be a night of tranquility, apparently it wasn't meant to be.

Adjusting the guitar case on my back I knelt on the ground. The sound of pulsing blood as it beat through my heart. I slid my Selik out of the neck of my guitar. The Selik was dagger like but instead of a metal blade it was replaced with wood from an elder tree, that looked like it was living. The wooden blade glinted like it was just cut from a tree, sap still moist on the surface. This Selik had secretly been in my family for generations and yet it was still as magnificent as the day that it was made. Leaving the guitar case behind I grabbed the guitar and ran towards the fort. I could hear the rustling of soming running after me.

Vaulting over a dead grarled tree, feet planted I drew out my Selik, poised to defend my self. "Daniliath! We've got friends! Bring Wynn!" I screamed over my shoulder. The pleas for help was followed from a strong confident voice, "I see you brother." I felt a body standing against me, the breathing from my comrade rejuvinated my vigor. We are the Selik Weilders and this is our story.

Jorry the Swimming Toy

Hey Folks!

Alrighty, So Teach brought in a "magical bag" it was loaded with random objects and stuff from her house and we had to write a story about the object. This is my story.

The boy had been swimming for days, his blue goggles framing his face surroundeed by golden blond hair. His green swim trunks with dual white race strippes down the side, saturated with water. Jorry swam and he swam when he got tired he swam some more. The waves splahsed against his white body, water on plastic. "Daddy look what I found!" screamed a boy as hepicked up Jorry the swimming toy, "It's a little swimming man that swims when you wind him up." Twisting the nob on Jorrys side and he began to swing his arms faster. The boy set him into the water and Jorry was off again, to swim towards shore. "Wind him up son, and let another little boy find him, Its time to head home." The boys father called. Jorry was wound up one more time and hurled into the water. "Bye Jorry, Swim carefully." the boy yelled wiping a tear off of his cheek. The little swimming toy swam towards the sun set.

Turbo Signing off!

The Change

Hey Folks!

Its been super long since I posted anything but its not like I haven't been writing. I have several pieces to upload and your going to get the biggest one I've written so far tonight. Bear with me. So Teach gave us an assignment to walk around the school and using sensory imagery write a story about some on coming for the first time or leaving for the last time. Deciding to try to think out side of the box, I wrote of a female perspective. I'm most definitely a male in real life so here is my story.

The bright sun was beating through the car window as we drove up to the great, large school. My name is Emma, I’m 14 years old. This is supposed to be my new high school because my father got transferred from the big city to this small town. I’m miserable; my friends are still back home. I slammed the car door and walked up to the school. Since we had just moved I wasn’t enrolled yet, and my Mom was going to do all the paper work as I explored the school.

Entering the big double doors to enter the foyer of the school, a place I would have to deal with for the next four years; against my own will. The air temperature change brushed against my bare forearms. The low buzz of the ventilation system droned out my thoughts about this place. Inside the front foyer was the doors to the main office and across from those were several memorial plaques from the different wars. In every direction long hallways stretched out around the building. In the center where most of the halls connected was a big room with rows and rows of tables, with huge windows above to let in natural light. Many students sat in a group huddled together doing homework or playing cards. Not one head lifted as a shuffled my feet while I was walking by them.

Every hallway was lined with lockers of bright colours; orange, blue, teal, green and red. Since the school was so large I could use them as land marks for getting around. I could hear the soft echo of my footsteps as I explored the school. A low rumble of an orchestra was coming from around the corner. I followed the sound of the excited melody; the room was filled with students curved around a teacher madly flailing his arms around to the beat of the music. Further down the hall; the familiar, repulsing smell of sweaty boys and testosterone grabbed my stomach. I quickly continued down the hall again to get away from the stench. Across from the gym was a huge hand painted mural that read “Home of the Green Team”. The smell of stagnant water and moist soil filled my senses; the feel of unease of being somewhere unfamiliar was replaced with comfort. Stepping into the green house the hot humid air punched me in the face, but after a few deep breaths I was embracing ever smell. A large leafed plant caught my attention as the light sparkled off of a puddle perched on one of its leaves. I steadily reached out to touch the plant, it felt like velvet. The leaf moved just enough to tip the balance sending ice cold water down my wrist. In the far corner of the room was a large medal washing tub and inside of it were several multicoloured fish.

I slipped out of the green house to go back to the front of the school where my mom would be meeting me. Glancing down at my watch, 11:25 I had spent over an hour in the green house. Walking back to the front doors the feeling of unease was completely replaced with a feeling of deep familiarity to a place I had never visited before. I could see myself going to this school, it just felt right.

Be my Valentine? Thank you, Thank you very much.

Hey Folks,

Every year approximately 100 valentines get sent to Elvis Presley to this day even though he died 36 years ago. She had us write a short story around the person who might write one of these valentines day cards. Enjoy

Mrs. Hallendale was sitting in her den the soft clicking of knitting needles filled the room. A musty smell of an older lady was wafting through the room. “Ma, you’re not sending another valentine to Elvis again this year are you?” A younger male said tossing a little white envelope with pink hearts down onto the table in front of Mrs. Hallendale. The man sifted his way through the rest of mail, piece by piece. “How do you know it’s a valentine dear, it could just be a normal everyday card?” Mrs. Hallendale replied in a nice motherly tone of voice.
“It’s covered in tiny pink hearts Ma, and it has Mr. Presley written on the front in your hand writing.”
“Johnny so what if I want to wish him a happy Valentines day? Old people like us like this kind of thing.”
“He’s dead Ma, he kicked the bucket in ’77, 36 years ago, when I was five.”
“He did not! They have no proof, he probably went into hiding.”
“They’ve got him on ice Ma.” The soft clicking noise stopped as Mrs. Hallendale laid down her knitting needles; a scornful look obvious on her wrinkled face. “Get OUT!” She screamed, “He’s alive and he will one day come here to marry me!” With a shrug Johnny turned on his heel, checked to make sure the stove was off and stepped out on to the sidewalk. Looking over his shoulder he noticed how beaten up his mother’s house was. Clicking open his cellphone he dialled a number.
“Hey Janice, … Hi … Ma’s Alzheimer’s is just getting worse, she kicked me out again, you might want to come up here for a few days. … Alright, Bye.” Starting up his truck with a roar of the engine Johnny drove away.

Turbo Signing Off