First of all, thanks. Super big thanks from me. This conversation is going to be the small highlight of my day. I’m going to tell it back to friends, and I’m going to be able to practice my bro imitation (it’s basically a little Wahlberg, a dash of McConaughey, and a pinch of John Mayer). The 30 seconds of you two (let’s call you Chad and Kevin) standing behind me was a complete and utter delight. The cashier must have been wondering why I was grinning, apropos of nothing. Well, cashier chick, let me tell you a story.
Chad: I mean you have to entertain them when you’re out. And then you have to do it over the phone too?
Kevin: Yeah, man.
Chad: They’re just going to have to get used it. I’m not going to text back.
Kevin: I know man. I’m a two word text kind of guy.
(I assumed they high fived after this, and maybe did a chest bump for good measure.)
Chad, Kevin: These girls you’re putting in minimal effort with? They hate you. They hate you so much. They complain to their girlfriends about you every chance they get. Their friends’ hate you. Their friends want these girls to just shut the fuck about you. Everytime you send “K” to Becky, she loses just a little more interest in you. She’s crossing her legs I type this, putting her phone to the side, then picking it back up and swiping right blindly on Tinder. You will be replaced Chad and Kevin, by someone who is smart enough to put in just a touch more effort.
The thing is, I think you guys are coming, maybe, from a place of strategy. You think you’re playing the game. The game’s changed, of course, we’re not calling girls after three days anymore, because who the fuck even calls anymore? No, you’re playing the two word text, let’s keep her hanging on just in case game. Did they teach you this at Penn State? (WE ARE. DOUCHBAGS.) Anyway, I get it. You think it’s working. And maybe it is. Maybe, every once in a while, Jill lets you slip it to her after too many drinks at 13th Step. (Thanks for putting on a condom, by the way, even though you REALLY didn’t want to.)
But Chad. Kevin, you aren’t Barney Stinson. You don’t have enough charisma. You’re just one in this interchangeable crowd of bros, thinking they’re reclaiming their masculinity, their power by playing coy. Becky and Jill hate you guys. Me? I love you. You are ridiculously entertaining, and I love you for it. Keep having this conversation everywhere, please! Have it on the deck of the Frying Pan, while you’re lifting weights at NYSC in your old TKE letters, and while you’re rolling face at that shitty DJ who you claim to know. These conversations give me life.