Being a bro means many things. The word has decayed, transmuted, metamorphisized throughout the ages. The term has been passed from one culture to the next, each co-opting the sacred letters for their own means. Those who wield Thu’um have used the word for power, pain, and glory. At its truest essence, being a bro means coming through for another bro in moments of need. Strip away the smell of Milwaukee’s Beast, peel off the layers of Frat Hall grease, and you will find such a truth. So when Johnny Hotsauce said that The Tricky Thing Called Life was keeping him away from this column, I decided to be a bro. Help a bro. Make a bro. For life.

Now I’ll level with you. There are a couple things  I’m better at than Johnny Hotsauce. Eating sixteen pizzas in front of a disgusted family and tee-ball team.  Desperately shitting into a toilet four minutes before I have to teach a class and still making it before the bell rings. Torrents of man-chocolate glossing the ceramic throne, all while I’m counting seconds and checking Tumblr. However, writing a comic books column is where Hotsauce has me bested. By a considerable portion. So I supplicate myself before you folks. Accept my bro-powered offering until his return next week. I know I am not worthy, but I know I am a true bro.

Read the rest of this entry »