"He is wearing a North Face fleece and sunglasses made of neon-orange plastic. He will come, he will see, he will conquer. He will vomit out the window of a taxi. He is the American Bro. He is on the phone with someone named Ryan or Tyler or Kyle. He is grinning as he walks along club lines he thinks he can cut. His shirt has come untucked, it never fit in the first place; he is thinking about Rachael, and cumming in Rachael’s mouth, and then ignoring Rachael for the rest of her life. But he is also thinking about where the fuck can I get something to eat? No one goes as hard as he does; no one has killed it like he has. He never gets hangovers or takes no for an answer or fucks the ugly friend. He crushes that next-level pussy, bruh bruh, only the finest. He is pinstripes and full Windsor knots, smashing bottles and spiking footballs, things that are irrepressible, things that smack you in the face. He goes all-in; he gets shredded and ripped and defines his life by aggression and competitions. He buys the hamburger that comes with two other hamburgers and a chicken cutlet on top of it. Why? Because it’s three hamburgers with a chicken cutlet on top of it. There is no stress in his life, no obstacles, nothing impeding this path to pussy and alcohol and beige, deep-fried carbohydrates. All toughness is an affectation, manufacturing INTIMIDATION and REALNESS with tribal tattoos, distressed jeans, Timberland boots, dog tags, pit stains. He is in San Juan or Key West or Señor Frog’s or some cookie-cutter debauchery enclave. He needs another country to sustain his biological need to be awful. He is going HAM on jet skis, trips to Cancun, theme parties in off-campus apartments, tailgating, quoting Will Ferrell movies, drinking shitty light beers that he can disparage for being shitty, though he feels proud because he drank them anyway. He is at the St. Patrick’s Day Parade, at Santacon, at happy hour on Cinco de Mayo, in New Orleans for Mardi Gras. He owns more hoodies than there are torsos throughout the entire planet. His Facebook cover photo is a picture of an automobile. Not one he owns, necessarily, just an automobile—a thing that drives, a thing that is bright and loud, a vroom-vroom box with engine make noise go fast. He is never calling her back, he is texting his friends that he never called her back, he is moments of solitude when he wishes desperately that he had called her back, and then he is doing 75 pushups because NO REGRETS. He uploads thousands of pictures: no one tagged, no captions, just there, documenting his need to be ON at all times. He is doing vulgar things to statues, pretending to fuck them in the ass, pretending to make them suck his dick. Putting them in a headlock. He needs to make you gasp. He needs to be thrown out of somewhere. To be banned. This is his dream. This is his life. He is the worst person alive, and he has no idea."