Bro-cab-u-lary (n.): A revolutionary new lexicon for bonding with your bros

Put down your BlackBerry, you PDA-hole, and cancel that masturdate it's time for Brocabulary: a bawdy new dicktionary. This crucial addition to your guybrary will put you in the testosterzone, whether you're being fandiloquent at the game or barticulating during a fargone-versation. Find out how to: 

• Define your stripping point (the precise number of Jäger shots that make a woman want to get naked with you).
• Elect yourself the next Abraham Drinkin' and make an Inebriation Proclamation ("Four whores and seven beers ago . . .").

Stop brocrastinating! It's time to become everyone's guydol by leaving your mark on dudescussions for generations to come.
 

Sample Chapter

Chapter One

Brommunication

(n.) The art of communicating in a brophisticated manner, with or about your bros

They say that right after God created man, he took a rib from him and made a chick. That's actually a bit of a creation myth-the truth is, after God saw that man was good, he created another man and saw that it was all good. For many days these bros lived in a veritable "beer garden of Eden" where they could just pick cans of Schlitz off of trees. One day, though, a chick showed up and asked Adam if he could pick a Jell-O shot off of a certain tree he had been told not to touch-Adam figured, why not, if it'll get this girl wasted. Next thing, God was turning on the lights and telling everyone to go home, party's over, if anyone broke anything their parents will be called.

Before this chick screwed everything up, Adam gave his bro a list of rules written on a bar napkin:

The ten brommandments

 1. I am your bro. Thou shalt not put hos before me.
 2. Thou shalt not take the dudeonym or brewdonym of thy bro in vain.
 3. Thou shalt not make unto my forehead while I am passed out any graven image, or any likeness of a cock and balls.
 4. Remember the Sabbath day, to keepit wholly devoted to watching football.
 5. Honor my father and my mother: No mother jokes.
 6. Thou shalt not kill the keg without first pouring me some.
 7. Thou shalt not commit adultery. Adults are lame.
 8. Thou shalt not steal my girl.
 9. Thou shalt not bear false witness, especially when refereeing a game of beer pong.
10. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife, unless of course she's a MILF.

Ever since these bro-nos were first issued, dudes have been broing down with a religious fervor. Strangely, though, the brocabulary one might use to describe these brotesque situations hasn't kept up with the words we use for guy-girl sitches. Argue with your girlfriend and you've had a "lover's spat," but how do you describe a tiff with your bro? The following words should be of some help when you're living-or just describing-the life brotastic.

abroha - A way to say "hello" and "goodbye" to your bro.

brocaine - Cocaine injested during a circle snort.

Whoever said "hugs not drugs" clearly never did blow with their bros. Get four dudes in a room for some serious keybauchery and you'll see so many group hugs it's like an episode of Golden Guys, with everyone slapping each other on the back and saying "thank you for being a bro." The downside of this dudephoria is that it sometimes causes you to guybernate. You stay in someone's apartment watching Scarface and having cokeversations such as: "Fuck, Kill, Marry: Selma Hayak, Penelope Cruz, and Paz Vega." After cutting line after line with a gramboni (a credit card that flattens a gram of coke like a Zamboni smoothing over ice), you become extremely blowquacious and you talk about poontang all night instead of chasing it. Next thing you know, it's 6 a.m. and you're wearing a duststache and having a dawnversation about how you have to go to work in a couple of hours. Wouldn't you rather be doing body blow? Of course you would. Nothing beats doing bumps off a chick's lumps Neil Patrick Harris-style.

brocrastination - Killing time with your bros in order to avoid something tedious and soulcrushing your girl has in store for you.

Girls never understand why their boyfriends are always flip-ping through their brolodexes trying to find someone-anyone-other than them to hang out with. "But you were with them last night," they'll whine. Yes, and you'll be with them every night as long as your only other option is watching Friends reruns with her and her diarrhetic cat.

Ironically, brocrastinating often ends up being as tedious as the thing you're avoiding, especially when your bro starts telling manecdotes you've heard one too many times, like the one about hooking up with the PanAm stewardess. Can't he bang someone on JetBlue already? Any airline that still exists? They don't even call them stewardesses anymore!

Sooner or later you realize you've reached the night's dudenoument-when a bunch of dudes who clearly aren't getting laid are sitting around sipping their last three or four rounds discussing all that was and might have been ("Dude, I can't believe you didn't kick it to that one chick-she was eyeing you like you were dog food").

It's good to have a post-game bro, but at this point you're likely to be in a state of mild cock shock that suddenly there's no more pussy left in the bar. You check your watch and realize that if you head home now, your girlfriend still might give you a beej. It's the point of ho return. But your bros aren't going to let you bounce without applying a heavy amount of beer pressure.

Refusing to have just one more is a strict violation of brotocol-it's worse than if an old lady asked you to help her across the street and you told her to suck it. The brocial contract says you're all there to drink until the bar closes, someone gets arrested, or someone gets violently ill. In fact, a rendez-dudes is much like an ill-fated space shuttle launch: There's no bailing out and it doesn't end until chunks are flying everywhere.

At some point, though, you're going to have to return to your significant bother. That's when you break out the "shit scale" and weigh the crap you're going to take from your boys for bailing on them against the wet bag of shit that's going to be pimpsmacked across your face if you come home sloshed at 4 a.m. slurring, "I missed wha? I thought your mom's birthday dinner was tomorrow night . . ."

Continues…

About the Author

Daniel Maurer is a manthropologist and an editor of New York magazine's award-winning food and nightlife blog Grub Street. His writing has appeared in the New York Times, Nerve.com, McSweeney's, and Metro. He lives in New York.