I used to really enjoy Sundays. Nobody expects shit from you on Sunday, whether you had gone out the night before or not. It’s a day dedicated to Jesus (if you’re into that) or just basking in your own, tequila-infused farts while you scroll through your text messages, making involuntary grunting noises as you shamefully discover written proof as to exactly why you didn’t get laid last night:
Unanswered text #1: “u even care about me?”
Unanswered text #2: “haha, thought so, u dnt care….”
Unanswered text #3: “ur just proving me right so w/e, crown me I win lol Lebronnn”
Unanswered text #4: “funny how I thought u cared, lol..proofs in the pudding bitch”
Unanswered text #5: “u wish I saw me naked right now, sleep good nipples”
Sunday used to be a simple day. I’d have a variety of beverages and eventually order a house special lo mein and at no point would I feel any guilt about not talking to anyone or still having my shoes on.
But now I have to go to fucking brunch. God dammit. When did this shit become a thing? I swear to god, I’ve seen homeless people begging on the street with signs saying “Need money for brunch.”
The struggle is fucking real.
Brunch has evolved from a special, family occasion, to what alcoholics call a “cheat day.” Noooo, we’re not blacking out, we’re having brunch! It’s civilized! I ordered an egg!”
I used to think brunch was for married couples in their early 30’s, with a small child, and they all rode over to the place together on a 3-person bicycle equipped with a baby seat and pedals that don’t actually do shit. They probably have already eaten a nice breakfast together, but really just came out to socialize and meet other married couples with small children and equally disturbing modes of transportation. They’d talk about red wine and feminism and George Clooney’s wife and then one of the husbands, lets call him “Clint,” would quiet down the crowd and recite his favorite joke which would go something like this:
“What does an annoying pepper do?”
“IT GETS JALAPEÑO FACE!!!!”
His wife, lets call her “Marnie,” would roll her eyes and attempt to top his performance with:
“What’s brown and rhymes with Snoop?”
The waiter would over hear the commotion and chime in with:
“How did Hitler tie his shoesies?”
“In little Nazis!!!!!”
Clint would immediately demand a refund. The waiter would be publicly humiliated by the manager as he is asked to remove his apron and never return, and then everyone would go home. I mean, that’s really what I thought brunch was.
Brunch is very much not like this. It sounds great in theory – girls get to wear that dress they just bought that isn’t really appropriate for work and just functionally isn’t convenient for the bar or the club. Or they‘ll just wear the same clothes from the night before, letting everyone know they just downed some D about 6 hours ago (as she greets you with a kiss on the cheek).
The guys attempt a Ryan Gosling / Brody Jenner look – some V-neck, a cardigan and some shitty bracelets they got on Jack Threads. You’re a 3 Doors Down album cover, please understand. It gets better. Nobody has showered, everyone is sticky, and we all need to floss. We look like a bunch of assholes. And now we’re about to act like a bunch of assholes. So fun.
Now every brunch even has its own DJ, who unconsciously encourages mimosa consumption at an obnoxious rate by way of an entire set list consisting of Afrojack x Mumford and Sons mashups. Do you ever just stop and look around and think maybe I have some shit I need to do today? What am I doing here? Even the waiter, who is making bank off my table simply by inducing our obscene blackout is hoping that we all drive home. This is exactly why partying happens at night, because in the light of day, especially at brunch, you’ll make eye contact with an otherwise good looking girl right as the beat drops, and you’ll practically hear the sound of her sweaty titty repeatedly smacking up against her rib cage as hot, melty, rubber-like hollandaise sauce flies out of her mouth and onto your forehead.
That’s what happens at brunch. Anything else is unrealistic. Were you really expecting to follow your brunch with a threesome that lasts all day? Come on dude.
Brunch isn’t always a terrible idea. But just understand that it’ll be a lot of girls who look the same, following every toast with “Omg hahaha I’m such a whore” and it’ll be a bunch of sad, hungover dudes whose response to the waiters order request is “Just fuck me up.”