Tight Supremacy
For Drooq, on his 39th birthday
“I’m just calling you for a bitch session about my day,” my friend and co-worker Anthony said to me.
“Here for it, brother,” I said. “Don’t mind me — I’m eating a salad.”
“I’m eating too,” he said, which sounded like, “I’m feefing foo.”
“What’s for lunch?”
“Chex Mix.”
“Ooh, nice. Could go for some Tex-Mex myself.”
“No! Chex. Mix. Although Tex-Mex sounds great right about now.”
After the twenty-minute bitch session concluded, a photo on Instagram triggered an unrelated observation.
“I’d love to gargle Addison Rae’s piss after we attended an asparagus festival together,” I disclosed.
“That’s the second time you’ve said that.”
“I know, but it’s been about a month, so I figured it was worth reiterating. Her debut album’s out next Friday. I dig all the singles. She reminds me of Lana a decade ago.”
“You and your female pop stars. You know she started as an influencer, right? She’s right up your alley with her small titty supremacy.”
“No knee knockers. You can have your Sydney Sweeney bathwater all day, but her melons are bound to become fried eggs on a nail.”
“I guess I’ve never really thought about boobs in the future.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here, bud. I dated a woman in her fifties with small boobs. Trust my perspective on this one. Oh yeah, female popstars: I played the new Miley Cyrus album this morning. She has a song called ‘Easy Lover.’”
A second later, both of us began poorly singing the Phil Collins hit while pretending we knew the lyrics.
“You a Miley fan?” Anthony asked.
“Have I never told you about the time Sue and I saw her? Maybe the most fucked up crowd at any show I’ve ever attended. One girl puked a couple feet from us. They confiscated Sue’s neuropathy medicine on the way in. Lady told her it looked like ecstasy, so she had to throw it away. We were standing all night, and she kept holding my shoulder while stretching her legs. Surreal concert.”
“Damn, that’s wild.”
“At one point, I squinted at the stage and said to her, ‘Are those Miley’s titties hanging out?’ ‘Yeah, she’s had ’em out for two songs, Blebbz,’ she said to me.”
“Took you TWO SONGS to notice?!”
“It was a wild scene, man! And we were far from the stage. They were perfect, though. Just sitting there, not even moving. Could cry thinking about ‘em.”
“When was this?”
“About ten years ago at Terminal 5 in Manhattan on the Dead Petztour. The Flaming Lips were her backing band, which explained all the lunatics in the crowd.”
“Oh yeah, I see ’em. Just Google search ‘Miley Cyrus Terminal 5 topless.’ They are nice.”
“Can’t find ‘em.”
“Cuz you probably have SafeSearch on like a bitch!”
“Shut up,” I said while laughing. “There they are. Small Titty Supremacy Squad, huh?”
“You’ve got a squad now?”
“Well, I am mad femme. It suits me.”
“True. Know what else is true? I bet I could crank my hog to this photo if she wasn’t wearing a giant unicorn strap-on dildo.”
“What if you cranked your hog while thinking about her cranking her hog?”
“It’s, like, a layered hog. Or tapered, even.”
The word instantly moved us from the sternum to the rectum.
“You ever see that George Brett video?” Anthony asked me.
“Yeah, you shared it in a group chat ages ago.”
“The double-tapered shit!” he said while audibly watching the video.
In the clip, baseball legend George Brett details one particularly humbling experience to his teammates, explaining, almost bragging, how he once got food poisoning from eating crab legs in Las Vegas then had explosive diarrhea as he walked into the Bellagio. However, the kicker is that he woke up the next morning and took “the most perfect double-tapered shit of [his] life.”
“The best shit to take,” I said.
“What do you know about the double-tapered shit, AHF?”
“Bro, I’ve been taking double-tapered shits for a decade longer than you. Don’t act like you know more about them than me.”
“That’s fair. Have you mastered butthole control? Taking linked shits on the reg?”
“You know it. High fiber diet. Linked shit supremacy.”
“This could be your legacy. Small tits and linked shits. Imagine me giving your eulogy? ‘Everyone gathered here today, I want to tell you about our friend behind me. I didn’t respect him much, but he taught me the value of enjoying small titties and how important it was to take a linked shit each day. The man knews his tits and he knew his shits. It is advice I will carry with me the rest of my days. He will be missed.’”
“What more is there to say about me?”
“It’s good to be remembered for the important stuff.”
“I’m gonna pin this Miley photo in our Slack chat, by the way.”
“Until I send it to H.R.”
“They’ll call me in. ‘Um, yes, Adam, did you pin this photo of a topless Miley Cyrus sporting a unicorn horn for a cock?’ ‘I did,’ I’d tell them. ‘It was my inspiration and motivation.’ You think I’ll still get a severance afterward?”
“It’s hog, not cock! But I’ll advocate for it. You deserve it after this.”
More immature themes brought us to the conversational finish line — well, mature themes if you’re fond of the same websites we are — as Anthony’s recent call posing as a morning deejay on a fictional radio station received an obligatory mention. “This is 95.5 and you’re listening to Hog Crankers!” he shouted at me in his best raspy radio voice while sitting in morning traffic on his way to work. Additionally, he mentioned bras with faux nipples protruding from the cups, spurring on my confession about how much I respect mannequin torsos with erect nipples, including how Sue would point them out in department stores much to my delight.
Working from home alone, Anthony’s calls are often my sole daily human interaction, the two of us routinely exploring man’s most primal fixations. The work week ended an hour later with a vision of my closest confidantes tearily gathered in a funeral home where my dear friend paid tribute to my attention to details, including my most cherished duo: B cups and BMs.