We all have that one friend in the crew... you know, the homie down for whatever and whenever, all the damn time. He can find no reason not to be super turnt up (you could picture him and Smokey from Friday sharing a blunt, trying to dissect Nietzsche). A key factor to his personality is that he is down to screw pretty much anything.
Taking-One-For-The-Team is his middle name. Conquering the Rebel Wilsons of the world is his calling. We ALL know that guy. The Scavenger. The dude who welcomes sleeping with the grenade. For him, it's a challenge to try and bed the Mother Hen of a group of girls, every Friday and Saturday night.
You can be at the most rickety college bar that's a straight up sausage fest and sure enough, The Scavenger will find a way to pick the most random out of place co-ed and have himself a good time. So, The Scavenger is the ideal wingman... for the most part.
This is where sh*t gets real.
Though every man old enough to nurse a beer understands [AND SHOULD LIVE BY] the honorable code: Bros Before Hoes, there is one time where this concept does not apply. As with everything in life, there is an exception to the rule.
The Scavenger is always there for you to accept whatever slim pickings there are from the bunch. His game is exceptionally awful, but he does serve a purpose: he can hold a conversation with his fellow scavenger (i.e. grenades, mother hens, etc.).
What messes up the game for most of us guys is on the rare night where we do meet two to three ladies in a small group -- without a female scavenger in sight. This throws our Scavenger homeboy into a panic. He is not used to dealing with a group of women where there isn't someone whom he can relate to... so what does he do, you ask? He f*cks the night up for everybody.
Have you ever been in the club and just kicked off an amazing conversation with a group of hotties and your boy comes waddling over and just literally kills the vibe? What about when you're on a 1-on-1 session in the lounge area, and the rapport's flowing, and you can see it her eyes she's just begging for you to kiss her, and Mr. Scavenger Buddy glances over to your corner and says something like, "Yo Bro, remember how you were crying over Lisa last night? Did she ever respond to your drunk text?"
I'm here to tell Men of America out there... this behavior is NOT HIS FAULT. The Scavenger does not know any better. It's like asking a fish not to breathe under water. You cannot expect an individual like the Scavenger to behave outside of his comfort zone; to behave outside of his natural element. The sooner you are able to accept this caveat, the better.
So how does this tie-in to the concept of Hoes Before Bros? Well... next time you find yourself in an intense conversation with that young lady at the bar who is ready to go home with you, and you see The Scavenger in your peripheral, drawing in close like a heat-seeking missile, hurry up, pay the tab, chuck him the deuce, and leave with shorty. Period.
Explain to him the next day that you probably were high (lie) or drunk (lie) and didn't see him (lie) and your iPhone battery needed to be replaced (blatant boldface lie).
Just take the L, as they say in the hood.
And when he ends up saying, "Hey man, I thought it was always 'Bros Before Hoes,' what gives?" That's when you hand him a Blu-ray copy of "He's Just Not That Into You," and say in your best Gigi impersonation, "Sorry Bro, you just happen to be the exception, not the rule."
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