BROto Salute to The Horns

I'm embarrassed. I'm sickened. I'm disheartened. To say that it took me four months to think of doing a salute to the horns just pains me. It came to me this weekend whilst getting my viewing pleasure in during the Supercross show on SPEED. As usual, before and after commercial breaks, the SPEED cameras were fixed on the crowd, always in the hunt for good background footage. And of course, as usual, more than a few boys and girls threw up the ever so symbolic index and pinky finger combo that is the horns. Immediately I thought to myself "Hey, way to get on TV, BROs", and I knew. A salute was in order. Where, oh good God where, would the state of BROtocross (that's BRO motocross, not this blog) be without the universal symbol of BROtitude to keep everyone united? The Metal Mulisha would be in shambles, the Crustys wiped off the face of the Earth. Black trucks would fall into disrepair, and the baggy moto pants industry would crumble entirely. Hospitals all over would be laying off E.R. docs left and right, and EVERYONE would stop listening to the Kottonmouth Kings. I shutter to think of such consequences. Gang gestures in general are essential to any BRO on the go, but nothing is more important to have in your arsenal than the almighty horns. What started out as a hand gesture to represent the University of Texas mascot, the longhorn, has been the center of the BRO revolution in American culture. What the shocker did for high school lacrosse teams, the horns have done for every douche and hoebag between the grand Pacific and Atlantic oceans. When a camera turns to you, you instinctively throw the horns, knowing that in the moment you are going to capture something amazing: How radical you truly are. Sixty years down the road, you and your dearest octBROgenarian homies can reminisce back to the days when you could throw the horns without the crippling arthritis pains that will have since made the gesture an impossible pipe dream. But make no mistake; the horns are by no means to be kept contained solely in photographs. They are to be drawn at every instance of gnarly you may encounter. A true BROfessional has his horns in the holster, ready to go 24-7. If your BRO sends a mega booter on his black '97 KX250, you drop the fuck out of the camera and toss the horns, because some things are just more important. You had better fucking believe that Mr. 490 had his BROs beside that triple every fucking lap, horns raised. Because he was throwing that triple, bitch.

Horn etiquette for BROs differs from that of the original Longhorns fans. In true BRO fashion, it is essential that you turn your hand so that the back is facing the camera, or target of the horns' hardcore-ness. This will sufficiently demonstrate your general lack of care for the Longhorns (whoever the fuck they are, right?) and for anything else, for that matter. While not always essential, it is important to do so at least two or three times a day to really communicate your message to the world: You don't give a fuck, you're just here to party. And maybe get in a fight. But what's a party without a fight? A lesbian bitch festival, that's what.

Oh, and of course, it would be nothing if not irresponsible to ignore the phenomenon that is the makeshift vagina that the horns have often come to represent. Men and women alike can simply raise their hands to their face, stick their tongue out, and instantly they are licking a symbolic vagina. Isn't that just the ultimate annex of hardcore and humor you have ever heard of? Think of how many girls would have absolutely nothing to do for the camera when it turns to them, no ability to demonstrate their own complicated sexuality, and no way of letting the party know that they are going to be fucking hammered in about five minutes from whatever time it was ten minutes ago.