Tonight's Poet Corner: Bromancing The Stone?
Bromancing The Stone? by Belinda Roddie Being bros over brunch is so invigorating, man. The tang of the mimosas, the cowlick in your sick salt-and-pepper hair. Eggs benedict and salmon while your wife finds comfort in her own reflection, distorted in the swan's neck of her glass. Once we're done brunching like kickass superheroes, we'll jog back to your man cave, homie, and play video games until the veins look like spider webs across our eyes. Blow the dust off the NES, and we'll rehash the classics before the old hunk of metal and plastic overheats, and we'll take a break for pizza rolls and bad beer. And then your wife locks herself in the bedroom again, and you look so crestfallen over your can of Coors, and all I want to do is comfort you, bro - my hand on the curve of your back where your jersey number turns neon against my fingers, where you are so temptingly warm.