Duncan Hunter Is That Bro

Duncan Hunter shaking hands with waz-is-name while Darrel Issa gets jocular.

By Brett Warnke

Duncan Hunter is a human hangover.  He’s that bro who double-parks in a Navigator, who goes Dutch on a third date, and wears sandals with bruised toes.  He’s that bro who the rain never touches, whose suits always fit right, and who gets the sort of bad tattoos that everyone compliments.

He’s that bro without underwear who scratches himself at your kids’ games attracting your wife’s attention.  Duncan Hunter is that jock who wouldn’t pass the ball in your final high school game, going for glory as your team loses the sectional.  He’s that friend of your son who plays video games while you carry in groceries and then complains he’s hungry. He’s that bro who muttered “faggots” when you and your boyfriend held hands because he lacked the sack to say it to two guys who could stomp his ass.  He’s that dude who points at turbans, laughed when you fell, shared PizzaGate links, and was the first jerk to endorse Trump.

Duncan Hunter is that guy with a BMW who doesn’t signal, the heir who made money and never earned it.  He’s that rich kid who chews with his mouth open, the lech who pinched your girlfriend’s ass. He’s that bro who couldn’t read a book if he tried, but wouldn’t.  That bro who pees on the seat in the women’s bathroom. He’s that bigmouth everyone listened to in class because he was loud and strong and had a chin like an anvil.  He’s that bro who slid on his smiles, coasted on his muscles, bummed cigarettes, welched on his bets, and was kicked upstairs by Daddy’s golf pal’s promotion. Duncan Hunter is that putz who smoked a Vape pen in Capitol Hill during hearings when you were trying to get healthcare coverage for asthma.

When you take the slow bus or are locked in traffic, or when a promised raise you deserve doesn’t come or see your rent or mortgage payments rise, remember Congressional Representative Duncan Hunter of the 50th District.  Because he’s that schmuck who bought thousands of dollars of groceries with illegal money, can’t pronounce “union,” and blows his nose on the flag when he’s not pretending to kiss it. He’s that cruiser who cheats on his wife, took his mistresses to a fleabag flop, never flushes, and had the campaign pick up his Uber fare.  He’s that loud sot in the bar spending other people’s cash who draws a line in the tip when the waitress was paying off her student loans. Duncan Hunter is that creep who talks about what his wife enjoys in bed while he’s in public.

He’s the bro to blame for your medication being expensive.  He’s that worm who trolls in ALL CAPS and takes cash from defense contractors so he can tour Italy with their dough.  Duncan Hunter is why your roads are terrible, the schools are crowded, and life is more boring than it should be. Duncan Hunter is traffic and smog and climate change and dudes in lawn chairs who hold up 1-10 numbers when women walk by.

He’s that phony strutting Nordstrom racketeer who lifted weights with P.J. and Squi.

Duncan Hunter is that bro who never did his homework but his Dad knew the coaches.  And that was enough. He’s that rounder in Under Armour who golfed and said it was for the troops, who could over-spend at Wal-Mart and Vons and never paid you back for the case you bought.  He’s that snoring bro you woke up next to that said his girlfriend was coming home in an hour. He’s that Christian cad who never changed the soiled sheets and wears a cross but always laughs at the homeless woman.  He’s the clown who says racist shit in that white-person-deniable-facebooky-emoji-filled way. He’s that bro who paid cash for the house you’d been waiting for because his father knew the realtor.

Yep, he’s that preening, strutting, posing, head-up-his ass, silver spoon rip-off artist bro who always got away with it and laughed at you in his pool, scratching his ass on a Pink Panther inflatable while holding a Koozie.

And, like it or not, you are the one that put him there.

Will you keep him there?