Dynastic Fellatio
After stopping to grab an XL cheese pie at Hacienda de la Pizza (née Pizza House) in Agaswamp, I arrived at Drooq’s house to talk shit and watch two NFL playoff games. He greeted me while nursing a small glass of tequila containing roughly six dozen lemon and lime chunks, telling me he couldn’t taste even a hint of citrus. He gifted me a twenty-three-year-old sticker before explaining how he shamefully used to be addicted to buying stickers and never affixing them to anything.
“There’s a network called Voodoo Lounge,” I said while connecting my laptop to the guest Wi-Fi.
“I thought it was a strange name until I realized it was a Rolling Stones album,” Drooq replied. “There’s another one called Booty Talk. Really wanna know what those neighbors are getting into.”
Drooq told me how he was walking his corgi, Linus, and a different neighbor commented on how he (Drooq, not Linus) looked like the baby boy Post Malone (a recent blog favorite), a man whose countenance he was unfamiliar with. “Thanks, I guess,” he said in return. Upon connecting to his Star Trek-themed NCC1701-named Wi-Fi, he realized the comparison to Syracuse’s most famous trap rapper wasn’t exactly favorable. This was our cue to largely ignore football and do what we do best: discuss music.
“I can’t believe you’re a huge 2Pac fan,” I said, accidentally calling the secretly-living-on-an-island-for-two-plus-decades emcee 2PACK.
“I’m not,” Drooq said. “Was just feeling him last night. I love ‘Picture Me Rollin.’”
Seconds later, he was doing his impression of Daron Malakian’s caterwauling by comparing it to Donna Jean Godchaux’s time ruining Grateful Dead songs.
“You gotta create a YouTube channel trolling these people, man!” I enthusiastically suggested.
“I’ll have to do my Dani Filth on there,” he said before performing an impromptu dress rehearsal of black metal screams for me.
Having mentioned it during each of my last five visits, Drooq divulged that he’d gotten the necessary cable to hook up his turntable. Initially balking at a prolonged setup, he took a sip of phantom rind and connected everything within minutes.
“We should finally listen to this copy of Pretty Hate Machine,” he told me while ignoring the in-progress Houston Texans comeback except to shit on their demonymic nickname.
“You don’t wanna play Selected Ambient Works Volume II?”
“Nah, that’s gotta be on my own the first time.” Things took a quick turn. “I am destined to kill myself to it someday.”
Hearty laughter.
As “Down In It” played, Drooq imitated a former co-worker’s high-pitched take on the chorus.
“I WAS UP ABOVE IT!” he blurted out in his best helium-soaked voice.
“Spilla!” I added in tribute to our castrato pal.
It was a reference to former Buffalo Bills running back C.J. Spiller, the team that had just conveniently been defeated in overtime. Drooq expected to watch more of the second game because he casually supported The Greatest Franchise in the History of Sports™ (the New England Patriots).
He told me about his nostalgic connection to the slew of Jethro Tull albums in his milk crate before I busted out my poor impersonation of Geddy Lee hoping Drooq might one-up me. Unable to stave off the inevitable, he retreated to his basement to grab his laptop so we could pore over his iTunes library while trading opinions. As we neared the end of the alphabet—Drooq sipping water to refresh himself in the interim—the Tennessee Titans were up by a point heading to halftime.
“Well, gotta get my BAC up,” Drooq announced before sitting upright.
“What?”
“Blood Alcohol Content.”
“You can have that chocolate maple syrup-flavored stout I brought over. It’s a palate ruiner. Be prepared.”
As we paid closer attention to the potential downfall of the Patriots—mocking a fan’s pathetic “PLEASE STAY TOMMY” banner hanging in the stands—Drooq couldn’t help but do one last impression after the subject of Vermont arose.
“Bernie needs to just come out and say, ‘Smoke weed every day!’ like Nate Dogg!”
The Patriots squandered an opportunity late in the game; forever unwilling to give up on Tommy, I said they had the Titans right where they wanted them. Meanwhile, CBS’s commentators, Jim Nantz and Tony Romo, remained more concerned with Tommy’s (rumored) departure from the one team he’s ever played for, bemoaning that the end of the Patriots dynasty was on the horizon.
“Mrom Mrady is the mrest playmer emmer,” it sounded like Nantz said.
“Is he gonna remove Tommy’s balls from his mouth?” I asked. “The game’s not over yet!”
“Mwhat mwill Mill Melichick moo mithmout Mrom…” Romo was saying about Tommy’s coach until Drooq talked over him.
“Listen to him fellate Tommy’s red-white-and-blue shaft! Did he forget how they didn’t win a Super Bowl from 2005 to 2014?”
With nine seconds to go, Mrommy threw an interception that sealed the Titans victory.
“I wonder how many fans are contemplating killing themselves right now,” an admitted Patriots supporter inquired.
“Gonna have to remove Bob Kraft’s dick from their mouths first,” I joked about the Patriots owner. “Probably tastes like a Vietnamese hooker.”
Drooq chugged a can of lemon seltzer, finally tasting the elusive acid he coveted. We wrapped up the night chatting for another hour or so, spicing up impromptu discussions of dog hair being infused in his shirts as well as his love of V8 Light and ginger ale with excessive blowjob jokes, all the while assuming no hardcore Pats fans were as equally obsessed withSelected Ambient Works Volume II.