Now that Brandon is back from fighting the Morlocks, we both wanted to take a moment to let you guys get to know more about the real us. Some people have been having confusion over who’s who, as we both trade off posting, so here’s an earnest attempt to distinguish the two of us. Firstly, a lot of people have implied that we’re brothers.
(Bryan, left, Brandon, on the right)
No, we are not brothers. We are not even Eskimo brothers. Our brotherhood is purely metaphorical, as I, Bryan, have known Brandon since we were in elementary school. That's a long time, right? So for today, let’s take a trip back way back to ~1990, when mullets were king and cassette tapes were just fucking ‘radical.’
Ah, look at that little goober. Yep, that’s me (Bryan) at the tender age of “5”, or “6”, or “fuck it, just kill it with fire.” No, ol’ Billy Ray wasn’t my hero, but my parents, who I’ve deduced are both sick, sick people, thought this hairstyle would be a great choice for me. In my defense, I didn’t look as bad as this ass-kicking magnet, but still… whoever gave my dad a pair of scissors should be sent to the electric chair.
Look at how fucking happy I was. Was it the greasy rat tail? Was it the oversized Mickey Mouse sweater? Who knows. All I know is that looking at that, I’m surprised I’m sitting here blogging and didn’t devote my life to pushing over cows, spitting into buckets, and eating paint chips. Where’s the square-brimmed John Deere hat? Where’s the PBR and the appearance on Maury?
By some miracle I managed to turn out half way decent, and I’d like to think I’ve made a lot of progress in life. Like, back in the time that picture was taken I was sitting around in my pajamas, laughing at poop jokes, playing Dig Dug on my Nintendo, and today, I sit here unemployed, in my underwear, laughing at poop jokes, playing Dig Dug on my Nintendo…
But at least I don’t have a fucking mullet.
Hullo peoples. Brandon here. And I’m starting to have my doubts about this blast from the past nonsense now that I’m rooting through old photos. Judging by the evidence, while every kid has an awkward phase, mine spanned the entire decade between age six and sixteen. Looking at that picture of wee Bryan in a mullet almost makes it worthwhile for me posting the following. Almost.
I dub this epic snapshot “Nerdy Harry Potter on Holiday.”
And I officially vote my eight-year-old ass off the island. First off, what am I doing…making kissy faces at the camera? I choose to believe that I was envisioning a partially nude 90's swimsuit model on the other end of that camera, and not an elderly family member.
The glasses, sadly, I have no excuse for. I just thought tiger-print brown plastic was awesome. Good call, right?
So, you may ask, what the hell was I doing, anyway? While the sunken cheeks, the forest, and canteen may lead you to believe I was some sort of pasty-faced refugee from The Lord of the Flies, it was nothing so exciting. Just a weekend camping trip. But from the look of it, at least I was well prepared for the outing. Besides the canteen and the forty pound pack I recall lugging around, you can clearly see my emergency whistle, which successfully kept me from getting lost…or raped by a bear.
And, yes that is an Orlando Magic t-shirt. Leave it to the scrawny white kid to pick the worst team in basketball to flaunt in public.
Well, we hope you’ve enjoyed this little glimpse into the dark nether regions of posterity. And, after looking at these two socially awkward little goons, hopefully now you have a better understanding of the literary misfits that became of them.
Cheers and stay classy, friends,
Brandon and Bryan
Music: The Fratellis (I'm listening to them too, how gay --Bryan)
Beer: Amber Bock (Bryan)
Mood: Eager to fly off to Hogwarts (Brandon)
Shower: Just the perfect way to wash out my greasy ass mullet (Bryan)