Do you have a picture of your Dad chugging a Natty Ice and wearing a lax pinnie? Wearing a tank top and aviators?  Or better yet, do you have a photo of your pops indulging in Edward Crown Royal Hands?  If you answered yes to all of these questions, or if your Daddy is just plain bro, it’s time to take his bro-ness public.

Why, you ask?  Our frenemies over at Brobible.com are putting down their lacrosse sticks and Jager Bombs to publish “My Dad is Bro,” a bro-blication that will go on sale nationwide in May, 2011.

In order to make that happen, the bros are looking for picture documentation of bro-daddies everywhere. Yes, you supply a pic and your dad could go down in bro infamy! In case that’s not intriguing enough, if your papa is printed in the book, the editors of BroBible will send you a free copy for Father’s Day!  I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a pretty amazing (and free!) gift to fork over to your father instead of a car wash and Pine Forest car air fresheners.

So gather up that collection of photos where your bro-tastic Dad is doing a keg stand, smoking cigars, golfing with his bro buddies, and representing the brommunity to his utmost bro-bilities and send ‘em on over.  Then, look out for the “My Dad is Bro” book this spring!

According to an article on Gawker, there are only three types of students left in college: the snob, the dropout, and the cheater. We at CollegeCandy found this analysis to be total bullsh*t spewed by someone who hasn’t seen the inside of a lecture hall in 10+ years rather flawed, for it omitted several all-too-common college students.

Based on our own scientific research and findings (read: actually being in college), we have decided to share the stories of the most obvious of Gawker’s lost stereotypes.

These are their stories. [Insert Law and Order 'ching ching' sound here.]

The Intellectual These students love all matters pertaining to philosophy and theory. The metaphysical is their playground, and they play in it 24/7. At a kegger, they will discuss John Rawls Justice as Fairness, arguing its relevance in contemporary policies. They go to college to learn, not to prepare for what’s after their 4-years of dorm dwelling… you know, in that anti-utopian society: the real world.

The Slut The first night of freshman year, she got wasted and gave 4 football players blow jobs (which she may or may not have documented on the Internet). She’ll hook up with anything that breathes, as long as there’s enough alcohol to fuel her decision. Although the double standard is unfair, it’s far from dead and keeps the slut stereotype alive and thriving.

The Druggie Spending 10+ hours in front of the TV, this student rarely goes to class. When entering his/her apartment, prepare to be greeted by a red-eyed, XBox playing 20-something and a mushroom cloud wafting from a three-foot bong. Oh, and watch out for the bong water-soaked rug. Later that night, the same student is overly energetic, his/her pupils so dilated you can barely see their irises. How did they suddenly get such a second wind, you ask? A little drug called cocaine…and a whole lotta Four Loko.

The Frat Star Bro, this kid is sick. He loves pastels, lax pinnys, and crushing brews. He’s got a closet full of classic Nikes with a few pairs of boat shoes mixed in. When he’s not banging chicks, he’s watching football with his bros and talking about banging chicks. All whilst gripping a Red Bull. Sick, dude.

The Gordon Gekko Focused on landing a job on Wall Street, this student is all business. He/she is often spotted in a suit, bag in hand. They know all about the DOW and the daily stock market fluctuations. There is often overlap with the Frat Star and the Druggie. Just ask Bert the Broker. But, no matter his or her personality, this type of student has his/her eyes set on one thing during college: how to make a crapload of money post-graduation.

Tell us: What other college student “stereotypes” are still out there and thriving?

Now ladies, I’m assuming everyone here is up on their personal grooming regimen.  While I by no means endorse waxing every part of your body until you resemble a baby prostitute, I think we can all appreciate that some things need to be taken care of.  That being said, I think the bro POV is especially harsh and clearly these fellas are choosing to ignore all the…er, unpleasantries…they often bring to the table (or the beach, or the bedroom, or the gym).

Back hair
Yeah, that mess happens.  Just because you can’t see it when you look in the mirror doesn’t mean we can’t, gentlemen.  You want us to wrap our arms around you and beg for more?  Take care of the sweater you’re growing.

Unibrows
Come on, you look like a Turkish cab driver.  Tweezers can be your friend, too.

Your armpit hair
It’s like a Chia pet under there.  And you know that move when you grab us in a playful headlock and we laugh like we’re enjoying it?  Well, that mini-bush you’ve got is rubbing all over the back of our necks.  Whether we’re good actresses or simply mature enough to accept you for who you are…you’ll never know.

Nose hair
Sure, it may hurt, but if I’m willing to put hot wax on my vagina to please you, then take one for the team and tweeze those spider legs coming out of your nostrils.  Not feeling so manly?  Mini-scissors can also work wonders.  Something.  Anything.

The Rape ‘Stache
For those guys who can’t grow full-on facial hair.  It’s those few stray hairs that grow around your mouth or under your chin.  You’re like a thirteen year old going through puberty, except you’re 25 trying to look like Burt Reynolds.  Throw in the towel, it’s not gonna happen, Champ.

Toes
Feet should not be hairy.  Case closed.

Ears
If you’ve got it goin’ on in your ears, I don’t want to know about it.  Then again, if you often get mistaken for the Missing Link, I probably don’t want to know you in general.  Sorry.

[Everyone’s got a morning after story (though most don't include campus-wide makeout tours) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

I think we can all agree that it’s exciting when you run into someone wearing your university’s logo/mascot/colors when you’re far away from campus. You instantly wanna give them a “Go [insert team name here]!” before high fiving them and talking about all the wonderful things you have in common.

Or, in my case, going back to their dingy sublet and cab-of-shaming it home the next morning.

I’m currently living it up in Chicago, doing the whole summer internship thang. Last weekend, a few of my college girlfriends came to visit and I planned a big night out for all of us. OK, so maybe I just bought a handle of Skyy and figured we’d stumble to whatever big-city bar was closest to my studio sublet. Whatever. Details.

So we drank some vodka, did the obligatory “Party in the U.S.A.” dance (twice for good measure), then drunkenly navigated our way to a new sports bar that had opened up down the street. We were making our way to the bar (“SHOTS!”) when I spotted a boy wearing a hat with my school’s logo on it. Nevermind the fact that said hat was perched on his head at a 45 degree angle (read: he was a bro) or that he was was way skinnier than me, I approached him and gave him a hearty “Go team!”

Fast forward an hour and we’re making out in the corner.

When the lights came on at 2 a.m., Bro asked me if I wanted to go back to his place. Obvi I did, but I had to take care of my guests.

“Gimme your number. I’ll text you. Just drop the friends off at home and come meet up with me.”

And that I did. Well, that and a quick stop for a slice of deep-dish. I had to carb up for the night ahead!

I met up with Bro on the corner of my street and we walked back to his place. We weren’t even through the door and my dress was already unzipped, exposing my bra and underwear to his night-owl neighbors. Bro’s mouth tasted like vodka and Red Bull (and his heart was racing from the 6 or so he consumed at the bar) and I feared quite a few times that I’d break his frail little body. But he didn’t seem to mind, so I let it go and we got frisky on the couch, had a little moment on the floor, then we made our way to the bed.

When it was all said and done, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I started scouring the floor for my undies, but to no avail. Bro, being the gentleman that he was, hopped out of bed and grabbed me a pair of his boxers.

“Here,” he said. “You can sleep in these.” I thanked him, carrying them to the bathroom to slip them on.

Only “slip them on” isn’t quite what happened. Instead, I shimmied into those XS boxer shorts like they were a brand new pair of Spanx. By the time I got those bike shorts over my thighs I was beat red and sweating from all sorts of unsightly places. I swear I lost feeling in my feet as the blood flow was cut off by the taut elastic band at the waist. I never felt less sexy in my life. I mean, I knew homeboy was skinny, but I didn’t realize I could have eaten him in one bite.

I clearly didn’t want to wear those to bed (or in front of the Bro), but I also didn’t intend on sleeping naked. So I sucked in my belly, walked back into the room and dove under the covers before Bro could see.

I woke up before him in the morning and tip-toed to the bathroom with my dress and shoes. When I finally shimmied out of the boxers (breaking out in a sweat once again), I felt was wave of relief as the blood and oxygen started flowing through my lower body once again. Then I looked down and noticed a giant red ring around my waist. I quickly got dressed, dropped the boxers on the bathroom floor, and snuck out of the apartment without saying goodbye.

That was the last time I saw the boy. The last time I wore those undies. And most definitely the last time I ever hooked up with a skinny kid.

“Is that your phone?”

“Yeah.”

“You have a pink phone?”

“Mmhm.”

“Is it, like, your girlfriend’s phone?”"

“Nope.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup.”

Found in a dining hall, on a piece of paper shoved into a napkin dispenser:

“Students! Rise up! Class riot today, 3:00 in the courtyard. Refreshments will be served.”

Two in the morning – a pair of legs is poking out of a broken window. Two guys in striped hipster hoodies are standing nearby, craning their necks to look in.

“No, no,” say the legs. “This isn’t going to work. I’ll still be locked out, I’ll just be locked out inside.”

Ten or so sweaty people in t-shirts and tank tops are clustered around a cooler. One guy lifts the top off the cooler and dumps some colored powder in.

“What was that?” asks one, confused.

“Nothing,” says the dumper. “Just drink the Kool-aid.”

There’s a commotion outside, in the hallway. I poke my head out. A man is sprinting down the hallway with his sweater unzipped, a rhinestone necklace bouncing on his exposed chest hair, and his mouth wrapped tightly around a beer bottle.

Men sit around a crowded table, eating lunch. One of them reaches for a newspaper.

“Dude,” asks the guy next to him. “Why you frontin’ like you can read?”

Nobody laughs.

On my way to work, feeling dejected. I am stopped by a man.

“Excuse me, sir, do you have the time?”

“Uh, um,” I stutter, looking for my cell phone.

“You see,” he says, smiling conspiratorily, “My watch stopped.”

He rolls up his sleeve, and there’s a watch tattooed on his wrist. I grin.

“Thanks for the smile,” he says, and leaves.

Two polo-shirted bros are eating together.

“Wait, dude, hold up. You got an eyelash.”

He leans forward and plucks something from the other’s face. He holds it up.

“Hey,” he says. “Make a wish.”

[photo from www.roadfood.com]