Iced

The other day, I got iced by a bro.  And that wasn’t even the most humiliating part.

Have you, oh savvy Internet-using, cool-tunes-listening, blog-reading human being I’m trying to flatter, heard of this so-hip–it’s-over trend, ‘Bros Icing Bros’?  Apparently not a Smirnoff campaign, its website is now defunct, and of course it had its brief moment in the media sun.

Bro, you've been...

Basically, a bro ices a fellow bro by surprising him with a delicious Smirnoff Ice, and said bro must bend a knee (why, I have no idea) and chug the Ice in one collegiate downing.  (The only way a bro can counter said icing is by having his own Smirnoff Ice, which he then uses to counter-ice.  It’s all very Barney Stinson.)

So there I was, at the end of a dinner party, outside at the table, drinking a beer and chatting with some folks, when my bro, a good guy who favors impossibly WASP-y dress but is important to note for the purposes of this story is not a douchebag, iced me.  And here’s the humiliating part:  I couldn’t down the Smirnoff Ice.

In all fairness to me, I’d already had cheese, salad, potatoes, filet mignon, shrimp and asparagus, plus quite a bit of Sauvignon blanc and a beer or two.  But really, have you ever tried a Smirnoff Ice?  It’s so sickeningly sweet and artificial, it’s like Hello Kitty mated with Splenda.  It is, in a word, disgusting.

And then, the very next day, at the very same house, by the very same bro, I was iced again.  Why, world, why?!  This time I passed the Smirnoff Ice around the table so everyone could wet their whistles with foulness.

Iced.

Iced twice, in a prank that no longer exists, and I didn’t exactly acquit myself all that well.  Hmm.  Couldn’t we start a trend of ‘Bros Blue Mooning Bros’?

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