On Thursday, Stephen Marche gave his woman editor at The Guardian a real lesson on what does and what doesn’t constitute classic bro locker room talk.

“Locker-room talk goes like this,” Marche wrote. “You say to your friend, my God, did you see the tits on that yoga instructor, and your friend says, it hurts you, doesn’t it, and you say it does, it does, and he says you know I’ve sucked tits like that before, and you say yeah right and he says really and you say who and he says in Brazil and you say of course it would be an unverifiable claim, and he shrugs and you laugh and he laughs.”

I called him today* and I was like, cuz, what? That feels crazy. And he said, “No, no, it’s real.” And insisted on giving me a few more examples.



“It goes like this,” he told me, “You say to your friend, did you see Dave’s new BMW, and your friend says, it’s nice, and you say, it is, it is, and he says, I’ve fucked a BMW, and you say, no way, how, and your friend says, right in the gas tank, and you say, where, and he says, in Europe, where it’s legal, and you say, did you finish, and he says, yeah, I always finish first, and you shake your head, and he laughs, and you laugh.”

I couldn’t believe it. That’s just unrealistic, my dawg, I told him. And he said, “I promise you, this is what dudes are like.”

“It goes like this,” he said again, even though I had told him I had to get off the phone because my large son was yelling and spitting into my mouth, “You say to your friend, want half of my power bar, and your friend says, wouldn’t you like that, and you say, I would, I would, and he says, I’m still full from eating all that sweet muff, and you say, what muff, no way, and he says, from the bakery next door, I had like three muffins before we lifted, and you say, have you ever seen the tits on that one sales girl there, and he says, no I’m blind, and you say, yeah, right, and he says, no really, a doctor said so, and you say, haha, what doctor, where, and your friend says, I met him in a dream, and you say, whatever man, and he laughs, and you laugh.”


Okay, you’re lying to me, Brosephine Baker, I said, but he wouldn’t let me get off the phone while I was still sounding skeptical.

“It goes like this,” he shouted, threatening the safety of my terrible son, “You say to your friend, good game, man, and your friend says, nice three-pointer, and you say, that basketball felt great to hold, and he says, once I shoved a whole basketball up me, and you say, no way, how, and he says, my dickhole, it’s so wide, and you say, mmhm, and he says, it kills you doesn’t it, and you say, yes, yes it does, and he says, that’s why I can’t walk, and you say, because of your huge dickhole, and he says, yeah, and you say, chicks dig huge dickholes, and he says, really, what chicks, and you say, chicks in Canada, and he says, of course in Canada, you know I can’t travel there because I was caught smuggling firearms over the border, you say, college right, and he shrugs, and you laugh and he laughs.”


*No I didn’t.

Image via gpointstudio/Shutterstock.