In a faraway land called Toronot there once lived a caring and thoughtful man named Rob Ford. The people of Toronot thought he was so caring and thoughtful that they chose him as their supreme leader, or “mayor” as they called it. Despite the occasional personal indiscretion, Mr Ford, or TMRF as his followers called him, was a wise and magnanimous leader and personally saved the average taxpayer $88 billion per second. All was well in Toronot. But something was missing in Mayor Ford’s life. Though he had amassed a fortune making useless little decals in a magical Toronotian hamlet called Etobicoke, and though he had a bad bitch by his side, he often found himself longing for a male companion with whom to share pizza, beer, and the occasional crackpipe. He wanted a bro.
Meanwhile, in a land far away from Toronot called Houstatlantavegas, a Toronotian named Drizzy was busy making a name for himself crafting beautiful, sensitive hip hop music. He did have a bro: this bro’s name was Weezy. But Drizzy too felt unhappy. He had fortune and fame and bad bitches, but his bro Weezy didn’t really get him. Weezy was always talking about using hos’ faces for target practice and having seizures brought on by “purple drank,” an appalling mixture of cough syrup and a bunch of other crap. And Drizzy didn’t like that. He believed that women should often be respected, and wrote heartfelt tributes to strippers and ex-girlfriends. Also, Weezy didn’t clean his grill often, and the smell was becoming unbearable.
Feeling lost and confused, Drizzy sought refuge in his hometown of Toronot. He felt he could not go on with the bro-sized hole in his heart, so he began to wander the streets of Etobicoke. He could not say what he was looking for, but he didn’t feel like seeing any of his childhood homies, nor could he go back to the life he had with Weezy. Drizzy didn’t even feel like eating guacamole with a fine motherfucker, which was his all-time favourite thing to do in life. He walked aimlessly for hours when he suddenly stumbled upon a divine image.
Drizzy had never seen anything so beautiful. He wanted that life; he wanted to be in that pool with that big, pink gentleman. He lost track of all time staring at the image and was only startled out of his reverie by an enormous pink hand on his shoulder. Before Drizzy could even turn around, a subdued yet firm voice was asking him, “I’m TMRF. Wanna pardy?” In that moment he knew that it was the man in the mural, and that this was a miracle that would probably make it into the next edition of The Bible. “HELLYEAHFUCKINRIGHT!” Drizzy squealed.
The two men joined hands and skipped off into the sunset, sure that they would have the most delightful of adventures. “Where are we going?” Drizzy asked as they skipped and giggled. “A wonderful place where you can’t feel your face,” answered TMRF.
They entered an apartment complex on Dixon and went straight to the 17th floor. Drizzy didn’t know how much time passed; he only knew that he had turned into purple Kool-Aid and that he was flying with unicorns and leprechauns. And that was fine with him. Through it all, TMRF was at his side, smelling fresh, swaying slightly, and beaming with contentment. They talked about everything and nothing, their hopes and dreams, and what their bro-children might look like. It sure beat watching Weezy drink cough syrup!
An indeterminate amount of time later, Drizzy woke up on the floor of what he later discovered was a KFC on Jane and Finch. The last thing he remembered was being carried off by teeny little fairies and deposited on the Hollywood sign, right in between Amanda Bynes and Diddy. He looked up to see TMRF calmy nibbling on a piece of chicken.
“What happened bro?” Drizzy asked in a hoarse, strangled moan.
“Don’t worry about it broseph,” answered TMRF. “We have the rest of our lives to sort that out. Folks will talk, but as long as we have each other, we can conquer all the Toronto Star journalists and Chris Browns in the world.”
And that, folks, is how a beautiful bromance was born.