Guidos: An Affront to Bro Culture
When MTV premiered its new reality show, “Jersey Shore,” my heart sank under the weight of my sorrow for humanity. Why would MTV showcase the Guido lives of six superficial, over-juiced, under-educated, fist-pumping, gel-loving, emotionally stunted orange whores? What America needs now is not a disappointing portrayal of the state of the human condition, but the glorification of a hearty and respectable culture. The East Coast has long claimed the cultural high ground with jovial New Yorkers, peaceful Philadelphians and Ben Affleck. A line must be drawn to stop the human depravity of Guidos, because the large amount of focus applied to Guidos has blocked attention from deeper, more wholesome and inspiring cultures such as Bro culture (unchill).
Bro culture emanates from the base of one’s identity, right from the asshole. It has roots that venture far beyond a single shore. It is a grassroots culture found in every state, region and 24 Hour Fitness. Being a Bro is that indefinable something that you cannot lose even after you have sold your large raised truck. A Guido is a like a cheap Bro knockoff you buy in Chinatown; you know it is not real, but you buy it anyway because it is a cheap and easy way to appear rich. All that is necessary to become a Guido is an Italian flag, a fake tan, an ungodly amount of hair gel and a willingness to sleep with ugly people. You do not actually have to believe you are a Guido – you just have to appear to be a Guido.
Sure, some people might say that both Bro and Guido lifestyles are attempts by young adults to appropriate a pseudo-identity in an effort to fit into a society they have deemed too daunting to explore their own beliefs, character or personality. But those people are stupid. Unlike being a Guido, being a Bro requires a serious belief that you are an arrogant, obnoxious, illiterate, shallow loudmouth. You have to believe that you are an asshole, and that requires work. If you take away the raised truck, sideways hats, sideways peace signs, Axe body spray, oversized sunglasses, perpetual shirtlessness, fist-bump explosions, loose women, slutty tendencies, plugged earrings and Ed Hardy t-shirts, a Bro will still be a giant asshole because that is just who they are. Being a Bro is not something you can buy, it is something you feel. It is a state of mind. It’s almost like a religion. A Broligion (word). But if the Bromighty knew that Guidos would use their arms to fist pump, He would have never given us arms. Everyone knows that hands are for fondling truck nuts.
Guidos are an affront to the time-honored Bro traditions outlined in the “Bro Code.” Guidos don’t even care enough to write down a set of rules governing their inane, homophobic and disrespectful actions and that makes them a bunch of gay-ass bitches. Deep down, Bros are simply trying to change the world one game of beer pong at a time, by working hard to stereotype masculinity into its most basic and asshole-like form, ignoring the intricacies and nuances that are inherent to individual identity.
In this sense, Bros are doing God’s work, and Guidos are undermining the nullification of diverse character by posing as false, orange prophets. They are like Oompa Loompas on steroids, slowly ridding the Brocolate factory of those well-behaved children. The Guido uprising must be crushed. So Bros, gather your raised trucks, arm them with the finest truck nuts and go East to teabag the orange out of those forsaken Guidos. Your battle will be explosive, mostly due to the flammable content of your over-gelled hair, but it must be fought to preserve the Bro culture. Go forth and pound those fist-pumping morons. We will celebrate your heroism and, with any luck, none of you will come back. Also, take your women with you.
James Kuo is a fourth-year English major. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.