“Bronado, this shit be fancy, yo,” a meathead named Chad said to his girlfriend.
This is not necessarily the Chad we have already encountered, but it is not necessarily not him either. We are trusting your judgment in these matters. But you should probably think of him as a representative of Meathead Nation. Meatheads are good sports, so their wrath need not be feared. We can all learn from the meathead. Until we can learn no more.
Chad and Clarice had just taken their seats at the symphony.
“Babe, my phone is locked and loaded on that Patriots game. So, like, if they be scoring, I’m gonna be shouting out the glad tidings. Brady roolz, mofos!”
He had recently learned the phrase “glad tidings.” It was Christmas and his therapist had advised him to be more in touch with the season this year.
“Tide rolls in, tide rolls out, tide gets you super wet ta ha ha ha ha ta ha. Don’t you feel grown up when you’re here? Ta ha ta ha.”
Clarice couldn’t help notice that some men like Chad had a tendency to insert a “t” into their laughter, which already sounded like barrels rolling.
Her therapist had said she should extend her parameters.
“Not everyone has to be a surgeon. Be ecumenical in your search. People have a way of surprising us.”
“You diggin’ what the ‘Dolph is up to?” Chad inquired, rubbing the undercarriage of the famous Christmas reindeer who covered his entire sweater front. “The ‘Dolph is like, ‘you know why it’s red.’ Nothing makes itself red on its own. Not even kisses.”
And he winked.
“Deal sealer,” he inwardly opined.
Chad had never seen Handel’s Messiah. A laser show seemed a possibility.
“So like Handle Mariah was this chick who did Spotify before anyone did Spotify. FACKS. Tres coolio.”
Normally Chad would not do research before a date, but he had decided he was going to be in love soon. And speaking Spanish at Christmastime was a good way to show that you were welcoming of all cultures. His friend Trey had said so at the bar.
“You be roping in the cattle from all the lady nations,” Trey concluded. “Gotta bust a bronc to get rode, yo.”
Chad pondered this.
“It’s like putting the star on the top of the tree, bro. You fall forwards, you eat the needles. Fall backwards, the needles eat you. Like, if they have knives like blades of steel—shit, that game was fun, remember that game, bro?—that are invisible in the air behind your back, if you know what I’m saying, my brother.”
Trey had no clue.
“Babe, why are those people below us blue?”
Clarice was starting to think she had made a dire mistake.
“They’re just older.”
“I don’t know. Like seventies?”
“So north of sixty-nine. Ta ha ha ta ha ha ta ha. Yeah. You get it. You’re picking up what I’m putting down. Swizzle stick on the ground. Pick it up. Pop it in the mouth. Now lick, and spit, spit, and lick. Mouth pop. Mouth pop, mouth pop, you feel it, you feel it, you need it, that’s right, that’s right, mouth pop.”
He sang these words to the tune of the Hallelujah chorus. Research had paid off.
As he extended his balled up hand for a first bump, a young boy in a suit sitting between Chad and Clarice smacked his forehead. The couple had gotten their tickets last minute.
“What’s up, little ‘Dolph?” Chad asked. This boy looked very smart and he made Chad a little nervous.
“Why are you making sixty-nine jokes? Stand down. And apologize. Sir.”
Clarice piped in. “It’s okay. Thank you.”
But Chad did not stand for blown up spots.
“No, screw this. What’s up with you, bro? Why are you blowing up my spot?” He puffed out his cheeks.
This meant business. His underbite was reserved for orgasms. But when forced—
The boy started to shake. As Chad reasoned—inwardly (he was getting better at that)—this wasn’t a dog you could slap.
“What would Yoda do?” he asked, also inwardly.
Two for two.
‘Come on, bro, don’t cry. Look, Rudolph.”
He began to rub Rudolph’s undercarriage portion.
“Feels good. All warm inside. Wait, what’s this? My phone?”
The orchestra was almost done tuning up. The conductor waited in the wings.
“Update to the Patriots game?” Chad pantomimed checking a website on his phone. “Patriots up 56-7? That be whaling. Don’t cry little man. Mini bro. Bro Junior. My little BJ.”
The lights went down. Tears were on the boy’s cheeks.
“There there” said Clarice, taking his hand.
Maybe she would adopt after all.
“Oh fuck me,” Chad said as he pulled out his phone six bars into the orchestra’s opening movement.
The blue-colored people from down below looked at him up in the balcony.
“Didn’t charge it, bros,” he sadly mouthed. “No me chargo.”