On one Missouri summer day–when the heat index was roughly 269 degrees Fahrenheit– the bros (Logan “The Handyman” Houf, Hunter Short, Nate Kramme, Abel McNece, Miles Wilson) and I grew tired of alternating between watching episodes of “Weeds” on Netflix and playing “FIFA 11,” so the 6 brohitos and I piled into a 5-seater and headed down South 63 for Lane Springs.

While avoiding the occasional dead opossum on the road, the brochures and I drove past a good number of “rustic” looking houses–all of which seemed to be having a yard sale. The ride was very bromantic for “The Handyman” and Nate, as they were sharing a seat.

After jamming to some Reel Big Fish on the bromobile’s newly repaired speakers, the spawn of Bilbro Baggins and I turned down the long, winding road full of speed bumps leading into Lane Springs. Parking was only $2, so the abrolitionists and I decided to be honest Brobi Won Kenobi’s and pay the fee. Although there must have been an ongoing donut break from the time of our arrival to our departure, as the broatmeal cookies and I never saw a single park ranger.

The stock brokers and I quickly made our way down the sandy trail to a riverbank made up of large, sharp rocks and the occasional pieces of broken glass. Good thing the brolenmeyer flasks and I all brought our river shoes– except “The Handyman,” that bro does what he wants.

While wading up the river looking for a swimming hole deeper than 4 feet, the water from the spring was so cold that the brolos and I literally thought our bronads were going to fall off—except for “The Handyman,” because he’s the toughest bro this side of the Mississippi.

The Last of the Brohicans and I didn’t bring any food with us to the river, because the bromine based solutions and I knew it would be easy to find our own food in the wilderness. After turning over some rocks and taking care of business, the broaches and I had caught nearly 20, yes 20, crawdads. Being responsible Broseidons, Kings of the Brocean–we knew it wouldn’t be safe to eat the shellfish raw. So the brostitos and I took an aerosol can of bug spray and a lighter and grilled us some crawdads.

By the time the broquistadors and I’s stomachs were full of shellfish, the sun had gone down and the Johnny Brovos and I knew not to go back in the water—except for “The Handyman.” So the brosquitoes and I loaded up into the bromobile and headed back to Bro-mo.