In the early days of June, me and my fellow bros; Abel McNece and Miles Wilson; were tired of having nowhere to swim—since none of our parents love us enough to buy us a pool. So the bromosapiens and I decided to take a bro’d trip and hit the water, Salem Style!
My brosephs and I left Rolla around 12:30 PM and headed down 72. Instead of getting directions beforehand, as responsible brofessors would do, the brobags and I assumed my iPhone would be able to find the only pool in the metropolis of Salem–but the brotato chips and I were wrong. Instead, it told me to turn the wrong way, down a road that didn’t exist, to a pool which ended up being on the opposite side of town. While driving in circles looking for this mystery road, my brotastic buddies and I were able to flag down a local (who shall remain nameless). Fortunately, after a short conbrosation, she was able to give us what she called “directions” to the pool. A couple of back-roads and a low-water bridge later, the brofolios had arrived at the pool.
After paying a reasonable $2 to get in, my bromosaurauses and I entered the locker room, and felt a completely different vibe than the creepy one experienced at the Centre’s locker room. There were no old men wearing speedos, or changing in or out of their speedos—which was a welcome difference for all of us broskis.
Upon entering the pool area, the bronanas and I were surprised to find our fellow brozillas: Aaron Froehlich, Nate Kramme, and Hunter Short pulling some sick backflips, frontflips, and dives off the high dive. The Salem pool was obviously doubling as a day-care center that day, as there were nearly 30 kids around the age of 10 running around, roughhousing, horse playing, and even mooning the lifeguards off the high dive.
After doing some rad moves off the diving board ourselves, the bronaculars and I noticed that the narrow road leading up to the pool was obviously the Kingshighway of Salem. A dirty Jeep Wrangler with its doors removed, a cheap lift kit, and a lousy muffler was driving up and down this road repeatedly; it’s safe to say, he was “cruising the strip.” No words in my brocabulary can describe how lucky the librotarians and I were that there was not a Planned Parenthood nearby; or else there would no-doubt be an assortment of sweet rides, from Dodge Cummins’ to Mitsubishi Eclipses, congregating in the parking lot, revving their collective engines.
Around the time the Jeep made its 50th trip down the strip, the brocoa puffs and I made our exit from the Salem pool. Even though the speakers in the bromobile blew out on the way back to Bro-mo(as the Riders of Brohan call it), the only word which can be used to describe the day is: incredibro.
