Bronson. As in Brawn, Son.
I saw a guy wearing a Ferrari jacket and it inspired this post. (Please read in your best sleazy southern California voice, because that’s how he sounded in my head.)
Hey, what’s going on lovely ladies? Ok, sure, you don’t need to look at me, I know you’re listening. Let me tell you a little bit about myself and then maybe you’ll stop crowding together to deliberately keep me out of your circle of hotness. Circle, circle, hot, hot, now you got your Bronson shot.
Yeah. My name’s Bronson. I bet you’re trying to figure out my ‘specs.’ I’ll tell you. I’m about six feet tall, I can bench more than my weight, and I drive a fast car. What kind, you’re wondering? Look no further than between my bountiful pectorals … Yeah, I know guys don’t usually talk about their muscles as being bountiful, but most guys aren’t me. That’s the first thing you’ve gotta learn, gals, like a one hit wonder, I’m unique and charming in a way that will infuriate you but you won’t be able to get enough of me.
Am I saying I’ll get stuck in your head, with you singing my name all night long? No, I’m just implying it.
Anyway, my car, like me, is a rare thing of beauty. It’s a Ferrari. You can tell by my limited edition Ferrari jacket that I’m wearing. They only sold 1,000 of these things.
No … What’s your name? Bianca? Cool. No, Bianca, it’s not limited edition because it’s ugly and no one would want it – it’s limited edition because when it was designed they knew only a select few would deserve to wear this.
This jacket indicates that I have speed and power. Did you notice my name? It’s Bronson. My parents didn’t know what they were doing, but that basically breaks down into a phrase that represents me. “Brawn, son.” You can’t tell but that time I said brawn like b-r-a-w-n. It’s like a brag, but not really, because it’s me. I say son to other people because I have a lot to offer, I’m like a father to pretty much everyone I meet. If you have daddy issues you’ll probably like me more than even I would be used to, which is a lot.
Here’s another thing you’ve got to learn about me. You seem like nice, humble girls who wouldn’t want to brag. You might have a tough time being with me because you can’t say a fact about me without it sounding like a brag.
“That’s my boyfriend, Bronson, he got a forklift license for fun one summer. He did it so he could then get a large cardboard box which he painted to look like an elevator, and then he filled it with plastic forks …”
That’s just one of the anecdotes you’ll learn about me. It’s like this, I anecdote, and you dote.
Take some time and think about that. But don’t think too long, it’ll give you wrinkles and that’s not attractive. Bronson, out.