Dear Bros,

Let me preface what I’m about to say with this: I get it. I lived with two bros last semester who were a concentrated manifestation of all that is brodom; I know whence you come. And I also know that you didn’t understand that last sentence, so I’ll keep the rest of my letter in simple language for you.

I’m writing to you with a simple request: stop. Please, for the love of snapbacks and lax pinnies, stop this madness. Step into your Sperry’s and just walk away from whatever you’re doing right now. You are way too old for this sort of behavior. I will call your mom, and not to make good on one of the 10,000 “your mom” jokes you make every week.

First thing that has to stop: the way you party. Not everything has to be an effing competition. Did you really have to turn the Tour de France into a drinking game? Tour de Franzia isn’t even a clever title. The world needed that almost as much as it needed Edward Fortyhands. Taping a 40 ounce bottle of beer to both of my hands doesn’t sound like a good time. Neither does standing on my head and drinking crappy beer out of a keg.

I would also like to hear myself think at a party, which is impossible when you blast Lynyrd Skynyrd at max volume. I guess you do it to block out the sound of the rejections you get from various women. The same women you let in for free when we guys have to pay $10. As you always say, “Hoes before bros.” OH WAIT, that’s the opposite of what you say.

Speaking of bros and hoes, you need to think of something more creative than Golf Pros and Tennis Hoes/Army Bros and Barbie Hoes/Blahblah Bros and Blahblah Hoes as a party theme. This isn’t high school anymore. And enough with the ridiculous number of competitive drinking games. Sure, the occasional game of beer pong is fun, especially for more competitive groups, but we’re getting a little sick of the 50 or so versions you’ve cooked up to cover your alcohol addiction (and yes, it is considered an addiction when you wear shades to night parties because you “drink until the sun comes up”). Between flip cup, slap cup, Civil War, Harvard and whatever else you’ve created, I think we get the point. You like sharing cups with dudes. It’s cool, or as you would say, “sick.”

Which brings me to issue number two: the way you speak. Stop metaphorically crapping on my ears. Why can’t you say “hello” or “hey” when you see me, instead of “yo,” “sup” or “wadup brah?” Also, stop unnecessarily shortening words. When you say “totes,” even if it’s just to make fun of girls whom you have ignorantly stereotyped, I hear, “I’m an idiot; please punch me in the sternum.” Yes, it used to be hilarious when you worked “bro” into other words to make them more awesome (i.e. “bromance,” “brocode,” “brometheus,” “ambrolance”), but now it just makes me hate every word you say.

We’re also getting pretty damn sick of the music your support makes mainstream. Skrillex is approximately 20 times worse when you’re sober, but you wouldn’t know that because you only blast his remixes when you’re already halfway through a bottle of Jameson. I know you like weed, but that doesn’t make Kid Cudi the best rapper of all time. And, Southern bros, that “country” music you listen to when you want to connect to your man roots? That ain’t real country music, ya hear? Just like Deadmau5, that “underground” DJ you found. It’s a crummier version of the real deal, and ragers found techno/dubstep at least two years before you did.

Also, you need a new dress code. I got sick of the sweatshirts and sweatpants look two years ago, and yet you still think that’s the only acceptable clothing in the winter. Then, when it’s finally SOGO time (Sun’s Out, Guns Out), you exclusively wear tank tops in colors intended for highlighters and a pair of flip-flops that I’m convinced you share with the entire bro population. Try a little harder to draw attention to yourself, I dare you.

Listen, I don’t hate everything about you. We share tastes in movies and—I’m not ashamed to say, women. But unlike you, I watch movies that don’t always star Will Farrell or are directed by Judd Apatow, and I don’t brag loudly about all the “hoes” I “slam.” I do, however, appreciate how well you brag. About everything. I didn’t know alcoholism, sex addiction and steroid-induced rage blackouts were things to brag about, but damn, you sure proved me wrong. Seriously, if boasting were a sport, you guys would clean up.

That being said, I’d still like to be invited to your parties. They are awesome.

I hope you understand,

Harry Huggins