Talk about trying to capitalize on Jack's fame, which I've been accused of, but at least my book was an homage to Jack, albeit tongue-in-cheek in part.
Here's a sample from On The Bro'd:
But then they strutted down the streets like total pimps, and I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after bros who interest me, because the only bros for me are the awesome ones, the ones who are mad to chug, mad to party, mad to bone, mad to get hammered, desirous of all the chicks at Buffalo Wild Wings, the ones who never turn down a Bud Light Lime, but chug, chug, chug like fucking awesome players exploding like spiders across an Ed Hardy shirt and in the middle you see the silver skull pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
In case you don't know what a "bro" is, here you go: Urban Dictionary.
Connecting the beats with bros is a travesty of the first order. Jack is rolling in his grave, and I am wondering what it would take to get the New York Press to review The Beat Handbook. Oh, wait. I forgot. It's not nearly stupid enough.
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