Bronafides

Happy Monday, all!

I spent today in our main office for several meetings.

I thought I would share a bit about my day, my realization that I have been less than vigilant in maintaining my deep cover as a boy, and my radical steps to remedy this alarming development.

Follow along, won't you?


Late this afternoon, a colleague I worked closely with last year was passing by. We hadn't seen each other since April or May.

As he walked by, I called out, "Hey, you!"

He kept walking.

I called out again.

"A? Hey, A?"

He stopped, turned around, and looked at me for several long seconds.

He looked puzzled.

Then he figured it out.

Sort of.

lol

"{My boy name}?" he said, uncertain.

"Yup, it's me, all right," I said, smiling, as we shook hands.

He stared at me.

"Wow, you look... ummm…"

He paused.

"So... did you let your hair grow?"

I said yes.

He kept looking at me, with the same befuddled expression.

"I didn't recognize your voice either, actually," he admitted. "You sound... different."

I sort of smiled again, and simultaneously attempted to clear my throat in a (vain) attempt to approximate my boy voice.

We chatted for a few more minutes, but he was obviously studying me the entire time, even as he walked away.

This is worrisome, dear reader.

I am on the verge of blowing my cover!

I brooded over this conundrum as I sat in traffic on the way home.

Then it hit me.

I knew just what I need to do:

Reassert my "Bronafides!"

***

Yup.

Those pesky bronafides.

You just gotta have 'em in reserve, in case of an emergency.

This was rapidly approaching that level, particularly in light of a similarly alarming encounter at the same office last week.

Fortunately (at least in this case), I live in an urban area, one considered nearly the ideal natural habitat for bro's.

(Just look for heavy infestations of Hooters restaurants, sports bars, and tailgating parties outside football stadiums for the highest concentrations.)

And *that*, dear reader, is why I did the following:

• Purchased a fully loaded pickup truck. With monster wheels. (Of course.) And Cosmo Magazine mud flaps. (They came with the subscription! No, really! Stop judging me!!!)

• Picked up ten kilos of chewing tobacco on the black market. (OK... brown market. Ick.)

• Entered a belching contest. (Practicing my ABCs as you read this!)

• Resolved to henceforth address all males of my acquaintance as "Dude," "Wingman," or "S***-for Brains." (Optionally accompanied by an awkward hug and  slurred declaration of "I love you, man," depending on the field sobriety test results.)

I am confident that with these admittedly-hasty steps, my cover will be reinforced sufficiently once again.

Just one quick question before I go:

Do you think the guys will laugh at me because my truck is pink?

***

This songs popped into my head as a good one for this post:

Then I actually listened to it for the first time since… well, the only other time I ever heard it, actually. lol (The trauma is ever-present.)

The hideous synths, the horrid drum sound, Mick's jacket (*especially* Mick's jacket)… it could only be - shudder - 1987!

After watching this abomination, as well as those of Sir Mick's equally misguided solo debut, it is no wonder that Keef felt compelled to respond with this savage riposte off his terrific 1988 solo debut album, Talk Is Cheap:

My favorite lines: "You say you wanna roll the dice/But you already crapped out twice/You just don't move me anymore."

Damn! A "Tumbling Dice" reference *and* a shot at Mick's two unsuccessful solo albums… Don't mess with Keith! lol

Here's wishing you a happy, healthy (and hopefully bro-free) Tuesday!