Sometimes I think back to when I was in college, and how I had to hide my copies of Maxim, FHM and Stuff when they arrived in the mail each month, because otherwise my bros and friends would steal them and I’d never get to read the hilarious jokes, check out the latest witty t-shirts or appreciate the bikini-clad women who had already appeared naked in Playboy but felt like reaching a slightly-less-perverted demographic. Man, those were much simpler times.
Now, I like to think that I’ve evolved a little more and am what my peers at the wine bars refer to as progressive. Those subscriptions to Maxim and FHM have been replaced by a growing collection of books that I often stare at and think, “I really should read one of those”, and the witty t-shirts have been replaced by plain t-shirts.
But it’s still kind of nice to know that even when I think that I’ve matured and have become a reasonable, intelligent adult, that can all be shot to sh*t by one magazine cover featuring Brittney Palmer and Arianny Celeste. You can take the bro out of the college, but never the college out of the bro.