) and the pretty undergrads, who themselves flock for the silly-cheap booze and the promise of "more mature" prospects than college has to offer. well, forties.) No one flocks for the food, which, given the fact that the place is called Drinker's, should be neither surprising nor alarming.

Ditto the milkshake-y floor sludge you'll find caked to your Cole Haans/Uggs the morning after. Look, Portland’s known for its hipsters, craft cocktails, and indie music, but that doesn’t mean the bros don’t need somewhere to go... On the weekends, when the suburban commandos invade Stumptown, there’re so many that some blocks of Old Town -- the only spot in the city where “clubbing” is a thing -- are shut down for safety.

Unlike the hipster, the bro is slow to shift allegiances, and prefers the sturdy reliability of a place where, since the late '90s, bros have been crushing domestics on draft, ripping shots, and seeing dudes they know who went to Bowdoin with other dudes they used to play lax with at Nobles.

Unlike Beacon Hill Pub, which is almost exclusively NESCAC bro territory, Clerys is a little more of a mixed crowd, meaning you could easily see someone who went to Skidmore or Kenyon as well. The bros who ran Potbelly's -- Tallahassee/America's finest establishment for $5 liquor pitchers and FSU girls -- thought that concept needed to be brought to frat-tastic Fort Lauderdale, and hence, this Las Olas spot was born.

Play your cards right (or wrong, or not at all) and you may find yourself stumbling back up Mc Kinney with a new friend to do sex with.

Wait 'til she/he sees your pool-front one-bedroom in Post Worthington! What does this have to do with The Box, a down-home ACK sea shack that, at one point in its 65-year history, did actually serve chicken? First, it's a regular hangout of Nantucket's fishermen, who are as indispensable to The Box's character as the license plates, seafaring paraphernalia, and assorted Nantucket knick-knackery that adorn the walls. Second, "the perfect storm" is a frighteningly prescient allegory for the chaotic orgy of Ivy Leaguers, Massholes & Mc Gillicuddy's that touches down during big island-wide events.

If the stars over Texas are properly aligned, Friar'll have entertainment: either a movie projected onto the brick wall next door, or Tom Petty cover band/institutional heroes Petty Theft tuning up on stage.

If the stars aren't, and it's too packed to make it up the ramp, worry not -- Idle Rich is basically the exact same thing, and it's directly across the street.

Where does a college bro go after graduation, when his move to the nearest urban center rips him away from the safe, sticky embrace of his favorite college bar?

Why, to the bro bar, of course: a former-frat star safe haven where the beer comes in pitchers, the game's always on the flatscreen, and there are maybe-possibly-occasionally potential sex partners to whom he can boast about his very important job in financial services.

It's basically like a horseless, indoor version of the Preakness that never ends, which if you know anything about the Preakness, is utterly terrifying.