It's almost a fact that international superstar and renowned Papi Drake doesn't roll his own joints. As to why, there are two reasons: dude probably has a bunch of goons ready to perform the general mechanics of his life. A footrest; an accountant; the guy who will carry his bag through the airport in the eventual inaugural episode of whenever MTV manage to Run's House the shit out of his life; and yes – the weed carrier, always on hand to move to the undulating rhythm of joints needing to be rolled. Or there's the more basic version: your boy Drake cannot roll.
Picture the scene: it's a quiet night in Calabasas, the sky is a blend of millennial pink and lets-get-stoned blue, and each time Drake wets the edge of his blunt it bends, contorts, refuses to meld. The shape resembles something not thought to be possible with the combined medium of paper and plant. Eventually he manages to blow through this impossibly combustible device and throws up.
In a way this second theory is as possible as the weed carrier theory. The two are not isolated concepts. In either case: the main point we're *puffs joint* rolling around here is that Drake cancelled a show in Amsterdam last night. This would not be so much of a big deal if: (a) this wasn't Drake and; (b) it wasn't the third time he had cancelled a show in Amsterdam, weed capital of the world, at the last minute. This time it's all because he was *puffs on the joint for far too long now* "sick".
Can your boy, your daddy, dad, handle his weed? Will he ever "Light Up" with the best of them? Does Drake really stand for Do Right And Kill Everything, as he once announced on a song, but with an asterisk pertaining to never being personally involved in the killing of the blunt? Who can say, really. It's all open to interpretation. What isn't though is the fact Drake cancelled his show last night 45 minutes after fans had already been let into the venue. Or that fans are a little upset. Presenting exhibit A, Instagram comment, left underneath one of Drake's most recent photos:
Oh and exhibit B:
#FuckDarke indeed, as they say in Dutch.
Of course there's also a probability Drake is sick. Last week I ate some stanky chicken from a food stand and farted water and raw meat from every orifice for a few days, which was both unpleasant for me and now you, for reading about it. Sometimes I don't want to leave the house. I get depressed; I get anxious; I go through things we all do as a human and should be allowed to do as a human or a celebrity. If it's any of these latter things or indeed any other incident, catastrophic or minuscule, my heart honestly goes out to Drake. As exhibit C goes, from the bottom of my heart, in a way that's impossible to get across on the internet but should be known has come from the very deepest wells of my unparalleled emotion:
But damn, if it's the weed bro: c'mon on. I would tell you to pass that shit over here but you're probably asleep.
You can find Ryan on Twitter.
Image via Wikipedia Commons.