Jim Goad writes:
I recently spent an evening last December with about a half-dozen Midwestern dudebros at a small home in a snowy Chicago suburb. They were friends of a pal of mine in his mid-40s who took me to meet these jovial douchebags he’d known since Catholic high school. The host was a part-time amateur hockey player who looked exactly like Fred Flintstone with a missing tooth. A giant bulldog of a dudebro who was having marital problems cooked some hearty tender beef strips while reminiscing about doing acid in college. The assembled dudebros insufflated copious amounts of cocaine and crushed one empty beer can after the next. I know this sounds like I’m making it up, but they actually passed around a copy of Juggs magazine. At around 2AM they all decided we should go to some weird sorta-strip club where girls spin around on brass poles in lingerie without taking off a stitch of clothing and yet still try to hit you up for tips.
How much hate would I need to have in my heart not to love those guys?