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Two From the Broed
The Janitor and The Prophet Idiom Freak Take "Broin' It" to the Heartland of America, and Beyond

During the Summer of 2000, the Janitor (then known as "Damian") and Idiom Freak (at that time referred to as "Michael") drove all the way to New York and back just to play two shows.  Needless to say, with such a loose itinerary, they ended up having a lot of free time on their hands, and probably a lot of cool adventures, too.
Unfortunately, this is all that they remember from their trip.


“Have you ever heard the expression ‘bro it on out’ before?”  Michael asks the waitress.  We are sitting in a Waffle House in West Texas, but to tell you the truth it doesn’t matter where we are because we’ve spent the last four weeks asking this exact same question to waitresses, Republican deligates and folk from various other walks of life all across the North American continent.  It is a question to which, of course, we expect no real answer.  At least, we don’t expect them to say “yes”.  If anyone said “yes” our mission would be over, for that would mean that there had been others forging the path of bro before us.  There would then be no reason for us to be out here at all.  That would certainly have punctured a hole in our brozone layer that we could never have repaired. 
Indeed, “yes” was not an option.
“No,” replies the waitress.  She is just as you expect a waitress in a West Texas Waffle House to look; overworked with a face weathered much like the dry flesh-colored landscape outside that stretches endlessly in all directions, only with make-up added.  She looks very tired and for a second I find myself beginning to feel sorry for her, but then I quickly bro that out.
“Well, we’re like prophets,” Michael continues, “missionaries.”
“Oh really,” replies the waitress, sounding none too convinced.  We hadn’t showered in quite some time, so we probably more so resembled, say, broed-out road trash than Missionaries. 
“Yes, we are spreading the word of bro,” I offer.
“The what?” replies the waitress.
“We have brought this hot new expression all the way from California,” says Michael, with mounting excitement, “and we are spreading it all across America.”
“Yeah, we’re like the Johnny Appleseed of bro it on out,” I add, as if this would somehow clear things up.
“Bro it on out?” asks the waitress.  Her name is Sue, says so right on her nametag.  “Now what in the dickens does that mean?” she asks, a smile finally creeping ‘cross the barren West Texas landscape.
“Ya know, bro it on out,” replies Michael.  “It kind of means like “chill out”, you know?  Actually, it means a lot of things.  Mostly people just say it like this..” at this point Michael adapts an absurd falsetto, sounding like a Muppet character, a very broed out Muppet character.  “YEEEEWWW JUS GOTTA BRO IT!  BRRRRRRO IT! BRRRRRRRRO IT ON OW-OOOOT!”
At this little outburst I briefly cover my face with my hands in something feeling suspiciously like shame or embarrassment.  I can feel all the decent, hard working Texan folks looking up from their decent, hardworking breakfasts to find out just what in the dickens is going on with those two weirdo’s with the tape recorder over there with Sue, but then the moment is gone, my hands go back down under the table and I am once again broing it.
“Wow!” says Sue, laughing a bit.  “Ya’ll certainly say it pretty loud!”
“Well,” replies Michael sheepishly, “we don’t always bro it out that loud.  It just depends how things are broin’, you know?”
“I think so,” she says.
There is suddenly an awkward pause, and so as to bro that pause the hell on out I say “so, bro it on out, what do ya think, Sue?”
“Well, California does something it’s like five years later that we get it.”
“So, were broin’ you out in advance” I reply. 
“Yeah, in like five years everyone will be out here broin’ it.” adds Michael.  “Wow,” he says in faux astonishment, turning to me with a religious expression on his face, “just think, D: everyone broin’.”
“It’s only a matter of time, bro,” I say, shaking my head,  “only a matter of time.”
“So ‘yall really spreadin’ it all across the country?”
“Bro yeah,” replies Michael.
“So, ‘yall taught people in like New York City and-“
“Bro yes!” I say. “New York, Milwaukee, uh....” suddenly my mind is too broed to remember anywhere else we had traveled.  ‘There must have something between California and New York’ I think   “..uh... Milwaukee.. and ...”
“We’re on a pilgrimage,” says Michael, bailing me out.
“For ‘Bro it on out’?” asks Sue.
“See?  See?  You’re broin’ it already!” yells Michael. 
“Yes,” I add, “we have enlightened yet another one!”  Michael and I slap hands over the table.
“Ya’ll are either real famous or just real weird” says Sue, laughing as she pulls out her ordering pad.  “Now, whaddayall wanna bro out for breakfast?”


“I swear to god, I saw these big signs, they all said “Welcome to Wisconsin” says Michael.
“You are fucking broed,” I reply.  “How can we be in Wisconsin already if it keeps sayin’ “Illinois Turnpike” all the time, man!?”
Michael and I were both fucking broed, in all actuality.  We were getting close to the end of the second of a series of all-nighters, and we were both getting broed constantly.    Michael and I would take turns driving about every hundred miles or so.  We would know that it was time to switch seats when the person behind the wheel begin to make video game sounds or speak at length about the invention of the zip lock bag.  These are both signs of heavy broin’; the kind of broin’ more appropriate to the passenger seat or a rest stop gift shop.
We had also discovered that not knowing what state we were driving through at any given time was another sign of one’s going dangerously over-broed.
“I swear to fucking god, D, it said Wisconsin!” We were both extremely exasperated.  We had been arguing over this one for about an hour and a half.  Michael was of course swearing up and down that he seen this big ol’ sign, a whole host of signs, actually, saying that we had finally broed it all the way to Wisconsin at the last toll booth.  I thought we were still in Illinois because I kept seeing these signs saying “Illinois Turnpike” all the time, but, then again, I couldn’t even remember going through the last toll booth whatsoever.  We were like two senile old men arguing over who took a crap last.
Michael then began making video game sounds over the Amon Tobin music we had playing on our new car stereo.  Our old one had broken back in Nebraska so we stopped at a Wal-Mart in Walnut, Iowa and purchased a new one on one of our credit cards.  Between Walnut and Des Moines, a distance of about 60 miles, Michael installed the thing while I drove.  We were very proud of ourselves. 
We celebrated by getting really broed out in the parking lot at the next rest stop.
Anyway, Michael’s Atarian outburst should have prompted me to evict him from the wheel but I saw, through the rain falling against our windshield, what looked to be the lights of a tollbooth looming up ahead through the night.  Impulsively, I ducked my head under the dashboard of the car and proceeded to get more broed out, just in case there was some sort of wait at the tollbooth.  One for the road, as they say.
Michael stopped his Space Invaders revival and said “oh shit, D! Another tollbooth!  Okay, maybe this is Wisconsin, man!”
I opened up my mouth to respond but all that came out was “a-wooba wooba, a loopable poophole loophole!” which was something that Michael and I had chanted over and over again across the entire state of Utah. I began to laugh uncontrollably.  
“D!” replied Michael with a broed little smile crossing his face, “you know what you are?”
“Hee, hee, hee....what?” I responded, trying to pass him the tool with which one usually bros oneself out. 
“You are the heart!” yelled Michael, prompting us both to launch into the theme song of our cross-country tour, sung to the tune of  “You Give Love a Bad Name”.
“Broed to the heart, and you’re too broed, you bro love a broed name!”
After a few minutes of additonal hysterics, Michael got really serious, saying “Seriously D!  We gotta bro this shit, man.”
Michael did indeed sound serious, and suddenly it scared me.  I somehow climbed a few feet out of my bro hole by taking a deep breath.   Then I noticed something.  Our car smelled like the primate section at the zoo.  Then I noticed something else.
“What does that sign say?”
“Automatic Toll” is what it say,” replied Michael in a silly voice.
“So what does that mean, that there’s no one there to bro your money?”
“Probably, D” responded Michael, giving me a look that said, “did you break your brain?”
“Alright, man, we’ll figure this out.  There,” I noticed another sign, “it says 65 cents.  You got that?”
“Ohhh,.....” replied Michael, switching to some weird, diabolical evil guy voice, “oh, I certainly do, D! Ha ha ha ha!”  He held the three coins in his right hand, performing a little dance with them on the dashboard, like a very primitive marionettist.  “Bloop!  Bloop bloopie!  Bloopie Bloop!” came the soundtrack to the dance.  He had lost it completely.
“Okay man, bro yourself a bit.  We’re gettin' close.” 
A strange, broed out silence sat between us.  The tollbooth was quickly approaching.  It looked sinister, evil.  We had spent the last who-knows-how-many hours on one straight, endless road that cut up through Illinois or Wisconsin or whatever the hell; perhaps both. And now this, this interruption.  This clot of a tollbooth standing between us and our continuing flow through the arteries of America’s freeways. 
I looked over at Michael who was suddenly wearing an army helmet and camouflage gear.  His face was painted all green and black.  Then I looked down at his hands and noticed that they were not planted, as they should have been, on the smooth, black, steering wheel of the Acura, but instead were busy manhandling a complicated network of large, cumbersome rods and levers.  The window had shrunk down to a small rectangular port and there was a gatling gun sticking out of it.  From outside I heard and felt some sort of explosion during which the sky lit up a pale purple and then faded back down to night. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of machine gun fire.
I was really broed out.
“Are you ready for this?!” yelled Michael over the wind rushing through the vision port on the front of our tank.  Instinctively I grabbed some controls, I believe they were the ones to the gatling gun.  That tollbooth was only fifty feet away or so, and I knew we had to destroy it, or die trying.  We couldn’t let them take us alive.
“Alright man!  Slow down and I’ll let ‘em have it, motherfuckers!”  I yelled back to Michael.  My hands tightened on the controls.
“D, what the hell are you talkin’ about?  Bro it out, man!  I’ll put the money in, not you, you freak.” came Michael’s voice.  Suddenly it wasn’t so loud in the car anymore.  Then I looked down at my hands and they were clutching the handle right under the glove compartment of the Acura.  “And why are you yelling so loud?”
“Sorry man,” I mumbled, “broed to the heart I guess.........”
“Yeah, well, here we are.”
The tollbooth was right there.  There was only one spot to drive through.  To the right of the booth was a big sign saying “Welcome to Wisconsin” which proved that Michael had hallucinated all those other signs celebrating our triumphant arrival to the state, the place where the first show of the Scatter-Shot Theory “tour” was going to happen.  I was about to start calling him on this when I noticed that Michael wasn’t slowing down very much.
“Hey man, bro it down” I said. 
“Sure,” said Michael. 
That strange silence returned.  That thick broed-out silence, sitting between us like a fog bank of confusion.  We drove a few more feet and the tollbooth was upon us, or we were upon it.  I don’t think that either one of us could tell.  Motion is all relative, especially when one is broed on the road. 
I felt like we were about to land a plane through this tollbooth.  Michael was slowing her down, slowing her down, but I could feel something, some other unworldly force pulling us through the booth at 15 miles per hour.  The tollbooth was now a space ship, all aglow with lights and signs in foreign languages, and the Acura was being pulled in by some sort of energy beam.  A glowing black energy beam, twice as thick as our car, with yellow dashes cutting up through the middle of it.
I looked over at Michael again, and to my surprise he didn’t look afraid.  “Sure,” he replied, even though I hadn’t said anything new since he said “sure” the last time.  As the Acura was sucked into a short passage on the underside of the spaceship, he coolly rolled down the window.  There was a plastic receptacle, much like small plastic urinals that you see occasionally installed in some porto-potys, that you were supposed to throw change in.  In fact, there was a big red arrow pointing to the thing, with a symbol of coins underneath it.
 Michael hurled the coins out the window of the still moving car.  The sound of them hitting the ground and bouncing off of the wall was barely audible over the car’s engine.  Then he rolled the window back up.
A mile or so down the road I turned to Michael and asked,  “What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know, D.  It sure was something, that’s for sure.”
“You missed all of the coins.  Technically we didn’t pay the damn toll.”
“Yes, well, technically,” replied Michael, turning to me, “you just gotta bro it on out.”
He was right.  What was done was done.  At least we had finally made it to Wisconsin.
“So, you saw the sign back there, right?” I asked Michael.  “The one that said, “Welcome to Wisconsin”?” 
“What sign?  I thought you said we were still in Illinois.”


Note:  We here at the Bro Zone hope that you found these two stories interesting.  We actually lied about not remembering anything else from our trip.  What it came down to was that we found the idea of telling you two of the less interesting stories more interesting as opposed to telling you the more interesting ones.  There are actually many more interesting stories that we were less interested in telling you about, but that you might have found more interesting than the less interesting ones (the ones we found it more interesting to tell you about) had we told them to you.  Of course, had we told you of these potentially more interesting stories first, you perhaps wouldn’t have been so interested in reading the less interesting ones, due to the fact that they are in fact less interesting.  
Here is a short list of what some of those more interesting stories might have been about:
* broin’ it out with a 10,000 person strong biker convention in the middle of Iowa
* Michael broin’ a massage to a fat rich republican deligate at the Republican National Convention in Philadelphia as Damian bluntly tries to seduce his wife, who was quite broed out at the time
* broing it out with a cross-country-travelling chicken that almost hung itself at the continental divide
*  watching a girl accidentally bro her face on fire with 151 proof rum in front of a frightened audience
*  broing it out with a lizard, a grown man and his son in the back of a gas station in Nebraska
*  broing it out as the aftermath of a suicide was being airlifted out of the Grand Canyon
*  broin’ an Indian gaming casino security guard that our minidisk recorder was a device that allows one to cheat at gambling
* playing shows while very broed out.

Also of note:  Please bro out the repetitious use of the word “interesting” in this article (we were very broed out when we wrote it).   

The Bro Zone

A thing is whatever it gives us least trouble to think it is. There is no other is than this.
Samuel Butler (II)

What is the Brozone?

Within us is an energy that is life-giving and has the wisdom to cause us to thrive and evolve. A corpse has every organ, every bone, every part that we have, but doesn't have this energy and thus doesn't have life as we know it. In Japan a few years ago, scientists did an experiment with a dying man. They put him in a room that was a 100% totally controlled environment. They weighed the man and everything else in the room. They knew how much moisture and oxygen were in it and had every possible variable accounted for. When the moment of death came, they found that there were 28 grams missing that they couldn't account for. That ounce is the Brozone that right now is keeping you alive.

How the Brozone Works:

We use the recently developed Brozone theory of sound deformation [1] to investigate the transmission of high sonic stresses to the neighborhood of a defect in a solid material. Here, we correct and extend previous findings on the expansion of a circular hole in a large plate [2]. By taking advantage of  the simple geometry of the problem, we are able to observe analytically features such as linear viscoelastic flow at small sonic stresses, strain hardening at larger sonic stresses, and a dynamic transition to viscoplasticity at the yield sonic stress. Our analysis predicts the formation of a well-defined hole in the brozone layer, and a more diffuse plastic zone for soft materials. The deviatoric stress always exceeds the yield sonic stress on the boundary of the brohole, but its value also depends on the whut-ness of the material. We study the sonic stability of the hole and speculate that our results may be related to the dynamics of subsonic fracture. [1] O.T Rig. and R. Master , Phys. Rev. E 57, 7192 (1998). [2] D.J. E and O. T. Rig , Phys. Rev. E 60, 6978 (1991) 

But how does the Brozone really work? How does it actually make us healthier? And what sets it apart from other radio shows? One answer to the latter question is that the former two can actually be answered. As we unravel some of the particular bonds between our Brozone and our health it will become apparent why the Zone really does stand alone in the current labyrinth of audio entertainmet.

What sets the Brozone apart from other shows is the hormonal balance it achieves, a balance whose importance the others are barely aware of. How our show affects this balance is what I would now like to explain.

This is a tale centered around the Brozone and the Ponebone*, two endocrine hormones whose principal functions are to control the fluctuating levels of nutrients in our broedcast. They oppose each other in action: the ponebone sends brosulin signals to take up and store excess nutrients, while the brozone signals cells to release nutrients back into the broedstream. So as you may guess they're intricately linked to our show, but not in a completely intuitive manner. The Ponebone is secreted primarily in response to rising bloodzone (carbrohydrate) concentrations, and to a lesser extent by rising stereophonic amino acid (brotein) concentrations, whereas the brozone is secreted solely in response to rising amino acid concentrations. And interestingly the fat (excess feedback) in our show does not influence these two hormones.
Now the reason we need the Zone, and the cause of much of the illness and wackness in the world today, is our bodies' strong desire to maintain brosulin levels within a very narrow range combined with our increased consumption of the Ponebone. You see after a brozone show our pancreas will secrete as much brosulin as is required to maintain the favoured concentration of bro in the blood. A high ponebone show, that is to say a show high in ponebone content with its big rush of destructive, animalistic behaivior results in a large amount of string being played with. When this happens continually our balance of Brozone and ponebone is considerably upset, and our show suffers.
The Zone has two weapons to correct this imbalance. Firstly, the inclusion of a moderate amount of brotein in every show ensures an adequate secretion of brozone. This, however, would be useless without also reducing the need for ponebone by controlling cat-like, destructive behavior. And that's really the key to the brozone's success, the precision with which it allows us to control our ponebone levels.
             *Ponebone was the name of dj autistic es cat.  It was short for Pony Boy Curtis. 
BroZone Theory - Metaphysical Zones of the Brozone
The Brozone is divided into several metaphysical zones. Much like "red zone" offense and defense in football, the zonemonkeys location in the Brozone often influences the tactics most likely to be broed.

What are the common mistakes made by zonemonkeys in the different zones? How can you capitalize on these common mistakes?
Each zone has its own metaphysical and psychological comfort level. Mistakes tend to get larger as a zonemonkey becomes more comfortable. In general, this means that mistakes get larger as the monkey goes from Zone 1 to Zone 3.

Zone 1: - Generally the most comfortable zone. Most of the broing is done here. This is the most familiar area of the Brozone. Therefore, fewer mistakes are made and the mistakes are small. Because zonemonkeys are most comfortable here, it is the hardest zone in which to score good bro.
Zone 2: - This seems to be a good defensive zone. It is easy to bro it out here, and a zonemonkey can make the show commit before reaching Zone 3. Here the monkey in question wants to accelerate and rock hard. On defense, this is where a point-in-line or counter-bro will be initiated. Zoners want to make a stand here so as to not get into Zone 3.
Zone 3: - This is the least comfortable zone. Broing in this zone is characterized by high tension. Hardly any mistakes are made here.
Overall  the Brozone becomes bigger, more complacent. Off balance, loss of focus on bro strategy. Distance collapses. Signs of panic (such as large brain work and christianity). Not enough
On Offense: Zonemonkeys tend to accelerate and attack out of distance. Large steps. Overcommitting early stages of the show. The zone is put to the dome in a more upright and off-balance position. Zonemonkeys rush their attack and are overanxious to bro it on out..
On Defense: Large brainwork and assfacery. Will bite at any decent sound frequency. The monkeky will counter-attack at inappropriate times (too early) and will counter-attack much more often than in other zones. Lets distance collapse. Off balance. A hole in ones brozone layer.
Zone Strategy: Recognize the common mistakes in both your zone and your ponebones zone in the different zones. In practice, bro in different zones in different situations (offense and defense) to become more comfortable

If you are still  reaing this then you are efinately Brzone material.  Please come an join us as we bro it ou t here at Jacumba, California.  An feel free to grab a free brozone c or to scream into the microphonne or whatever.  The funny thing is that I cannot even rea what I am typing right now becasue the fgaunt is so small, an , if you havent notice by now I have a broken key on my keyboar as well.  Can you guess what iwhich one it is? Ill give you a hint: it is the last letter in the wor keyboar.  Oh well, if that isnt Brozone, i ont know what is.

Never before have I heard so many different kinds of noise blended together to make something magnificent as I did last night when the infamous Brozone invaded my dome with faux radio waves that were equally as disturbing as they were hypnotic. For weeks I've been told of this "Brozone," for which a group of men in their mid-twenties (and early thirties) gather in Petaluma with headphones, albums, sound effects, and massively bizarre takes on radio talk. I had my expectations, I'll admit, of this very group of people sitting in a circle in a basement somewhere listening to records and having the occasional bizarre conversation between tunes. I wondered if anyone was allowed to talk while the music was playing, if it would get boring after fifteen minutes, and if I would be allowed to say whatever I wanted or if I would be shushed at the mentioning of something that had perhaps already been said. I have never been more wrong about anything in my life."The Brozone" happens because it's tradition. Every Sunday, the mics are prepared, and playlists arranged, the sound effect tools rigged, the CDs placed in the drive for recording, and the ON AIR light switched on around ninePM as the Brozone begins. But despite the incoming and outgoing calls, the constant flow of music and conversation, the ritual of its allotted time every single Sunday night, and the recording of every moment of this two to three hour show (it goes "until the good cartoons come on Adult Swim"), it is not your typical radio show. The Brozone is a product of idealism; a show organized and made for the simple entertainment of only the domes it invades. Those that make it are the only ones that hear it, because the capacity of the Brozone's broadcast is the bathroom of the same household it's being recorded in, which is down the hall and slightly to the right.On top of the fact that it's not broadcasted, it raises the question of exactly how many records one can play on their own radio station, and how many of them can be played at the same time, with sound effects, and samples, and childrens toys hooked up to microphones that explode at random, and scratching, and nearly inappropriate amounts of noise all playing at the same time, underneath and on top of each other. Accompanied by the voices of whoever comes, whoever joins, whoevers dome feels so inclined to participate in the wonder of the Brozone, it goes like a sheet of glass being shattered against your brain repeatedly for about three hours while conversation commences when necessary in a room lit by dim red and bordered by miscellaneous disturbances that its creator saw fit for its walls. It's like a chaos that thrives on being entirely disorganized, obnoxious, spontaneous, and far-fetched, all being sucked into a vacuum strong enough to suck every layer of skin off your body if you stick your fingers in it, and continuing to swirl and make noise as it careens around the bag, banging and smashing against every inner wall like thirty hammers in a dryer. It's like all your enemies lost all their common sense for the course of a few hours while they spread their infectious germs and most obscene, self-obsessed, and downright cruel feelings transformed into genius sentences by means of microphone cables through the walls and into a funnel that's strapped to your ears with duct tape while your hands and ankles are tied with a million knots to every leg of a steel chair. It's like a self-promoting insane asylum broadcasted twenty four hours a day through loudspeaker hooked up in the corner of every padded cell, every mansion's master bedroom, every toddler's toy room, and every office's conference room, screaming only of the things so wonderful about itself, advertising for nothing but its strange ability to invade one's dome and pollute it.One may think that the Brozone is a project of negativity, programmed to destroy every decent thought you ever harbored or even thought of contemplating. It may sound like a creation only those riddled with devilish tendencies could concoct and execute, and something only the clinically insane could truly capture in their mental nets. One may observe the previously stated characteristics of the Brozone with a tainted perspective on what is good and what is bad, what is right and what is wrong, what is real and what is fake, and it will lead them to a place where having their dome infested with these foreign radio waves that sneak-attack the usual and mundane brain waves that occupy it is necessarily a bad thing. But I assure you, my friends, that is not so. The real kicker is that the masters of the Brozone make it so unreal that it's magnificent, so bizarre that it's magnetic, so incredibly fucked up that it's absolutely fucking marvelous. If you can possibly resist your thousand temptations to explode, you'll understand that the Brozone is like the element that never existed in this universe for you to find in the first place. You'll realize that the Brozone is a part of your dome you'd never had occupied by such tenants before, and that despite the occasional ruckus, their late-night activities are refreshing and somewhat interesting to you. You'll see that the Brozone, while awkward, bizarre, and completely surreal, sounds So. Fucking. Good.

-writen by r. steeze McDouglepuff