On June 19, 2011, I ranted my stance on Nike’s inapt interest in surfing. At that point in time, I had at least 15 (more followers than Jesus when he started) people who would check this site on a semi-regular basis. In regard to honesty, I could go through the analytical statistics that wordpress provides and see the actual number of views this website got that day, but I am instead choosing to let my fingers tickle the keys of this 2008 wine stained white macbook like it’s the tickling booth at the 1994 Kentucky state fair.
Since that fateful day, I have not communicated any of the immature thoughts that my brain regularly produces on this website. It was sad! But not that sad, kind of like a pet hamster passing away or a mortgage crisis when you’re upper middle class.
In response to this relatively sad event of no posts in nearly a year, I solemnly vow to tickle words on this website as often as deemed necessary by a council consisting of John Kerry (he never won president), one of Alec Baldwin’s siblings (TBA), and John McCarvel (CEO of Crocs footwear).
The future is in their hands. Here is a picture of a horse.
Remember when you were like 14 years old playing little league baseball, and that one kid came out of nowhere. That roided out kid, he started striking everyone out and was kind of a dick. Yeah, I don’t remember that either… I didn’t fucking play baseball. Who would even give a 14 year old steroids anyway?
Responsible American consumers, that’s who.
I worry.
Sooner or later, everybody’s gonna get lung cancer from trying to look cool smoking a cigarette, and this whole hipster thing is gonna go away. You see it coming, I see it coming, and the American Cancer Society sees it coming.
But something has to replace it. People will need a new thing to buy into, a new image to own. Such is the reservoir of my worry.
A company that rhymes with “spiky” has recently been pumping approximately .0000000002 % of their annual revenue into surfing. That’s about ten billion dollars. Puberty does not stand a chance when pitted against steroids.
Years ago, any *real* surfer would have laughed at the notion of Nike taking over surfing. Years and years ago, a surfer would have looked at you with eyes long lost in the throes of lysergic acid diethylamide and replied, “What’s a Nike?”. Regardless, those sly dogs have snuck their way into surfing. And with fedoras now being sold at K-Mart, right next to the “Dragon Ball-Z” t-shirts, a new trend must step up to make this artsy shit seem as silly as balloon pants and MC Hammer. Could Nike be the answer? Jocksters?
Exploitation. The swoosh is not in this game for fun. The swoosh has eyes that can only comprehend figures. These eyes never see blurriness at 3 am, are never glassy at 8 am. Lysergic what? Nike wants only your money. Surfing was once the sport of Kings, then the sport of outcasts, of rebels, of cool. It should never be the sport of jocks.
If Nike took over, I would be vanquished from the surf industry, treated as if I had congressionally represented the state of New York and put a picture of my boner on twitter. Truth is, I hate the muscle maker grill.
What happens if you win? You get an exquisite hooker with Tiger Woods? I hope so, cause that seems like waaay more fun than doing lunch with Julian Wilson.
Obviously, should the Jockster become the next trend, the level of surfing would dramatically increase. But seriously, what’s more important to you: leading an existence centered purely around having fun or doing a backflip on a penis shaped chunk of polyurethane and fiberglass?
*Stubborn refusal to ever use the word “hardcore”. Ever.
As evident by the swelling, you can see very clearly that my medial collateral ligament has been sprained. Recovery time is estimated to be anywhere from 75-200 beers.
Wrote this at some point before this present moment. Red wine whispers into my ear, says proofreading is not a good idea. I listen to red wine. You should, too.
Everyone already knows that the greyhound bus service is sibling to the distinctively horrible SPIRIT airlines- born the bastard hate child of inexpensiveness and an attitude of seething disdain towards the entire customer base.
In spite of rambling on about all of the painful intricacies of the ordeal, I’ll put it this way: the degenerate sub-society of greyhound employees completely fucked up at every chance they got. And rest assured, every hound I encountered certainly lacked a chromosome or three, taking the bewildered rage they feel towards the science of genetics out on any customer pompous enough to approach their rightful habitat, the ticket counter.
On a side note of blatant irrelevance, my taxi driver on the way to the bus station had himself an interesting life story. He was born in Iraq, moved to Iran in the midst of the Iraq-Iran episode of the Persian Gulf War, eventually moving to the states when he was 22. He assured me that the vast majorities of Middle Easterners like America and Americans. What they dislike is the American government. Well, if they like us, and we like them… Call me a senile lunatic, a delusional atheist to all things patriotic (oil), but encounters like that make me believe it’s possible to live in a world where intelligent people put time and effort into things other than designing nuclear chodes capable of setting life back by destroying most existence for miles upon miles. But what the hey, penis roaches can survive it, right?
In conclusion, I would rather travel on foot with a homosexually cannibalistic tribe of Icelandic aborigines on religious pilgrimage to go see a no doubt concert than partake on another hell ride on the back of a greyswine bus.
Red wine told me this was a good picture to put up.
Red wine told me this was cool too. Red wine also says to me that females (Kara) deserve(s) not only my best regards, but also my love and that money is just stupid and that I shouldn't care about it. Red wine, are you bipolar?
The irresponsible consumption of alcohol has such deep roots in humanity, and those roots nurture a tree of intoxication with branches of so many different types of conduct.
This picture, I ponder.
DRunk Brendan spotted this sucker while in the bathroom of a restaurant that he probably didn't beong it.
This painting struck my curiosity. Certainly, the beverages these bastards consumed tasted as if Mona Lisa herself tinkled into an oak barrel and allowed it to age for six months. But all tart palettes of historical art figure’s urine aside, this was modern. This was cosmopolitan and chic, it was having an iPhone. These guys were the coolest fuckers around, this was the fucking party of the year, and these bastards woke up with dry pungent tongues and the hangover of all hell the next day.
In the name of contrast, I’d now like to consider an all too familiar scene. Grimey bar. Young humans. Gulp by gulp, problems and insecurities melt away until you find your hips are no longer driven by your nervous system but by that innate Darwinistic impulse to jam your alcohol flogged dingy somewhere warm and moist. Darwinism: Alcohol becomes a detriment to your memory so that you may have unprotected sex with a 15 pounds overweight undergraduate from the University of Georgia and wake up the next morning feeling like you drank Mona Lisa’s piss.
I ponder further.
Centuries later, trade those bastards’ stupid haircuts for…. stupid haircuts, those bastards’ stupid clothes for….stupid clothes, and generation by generation, we are all bound together by the love of alcohol’s compassionately tender kiss.
My computer has been bi-winning. Part-time (kinda) working, and part time (kinda) not working. No doubt winning not just over here, but over there also. Instead of taking this beautiful white stallion to the stable- a place where an over friendly horse whisperer would take the great white stallion, whisper to it, and tell me it whispered “Give this man your credit card!” back, I opted to play doctor.
My diagnosis:
My computer, the great white stallion, is an alcoholic.
Fuck, that was stupid. Out of all the things one could spend time on, I chose to write a paragraph calling Apple employees horse whisperers. I am a dickhead.
I spilled wine on my computer. Red wine, pinot noir by Castle Rock winery. While I enjoyed its rosy nose, complex fruity palate, and smooth finish, my computer sulked in it. Regardless of what some photobooth pics lead you to believe, macbooks have a very very low tolerance for alcohol.
I am a great philosopher. People will look back on this website and the 27 views it got on january 17 will be that much more significant. And I, the great philosopher, have decided that there are two types of benefits in life….
Things that make you happy
And
Things that make your life easier.
I know plenty of people with money. Are they any happier? No. Is their life easier as they don’t have to worry about making it through the month. Yes.
I’ve always considered myself non materialistic. One who denounces selling yourself to a company so that you can afford a nice house and bmw and hate-my-fucking-life existence before it even has a chance to get started. One with an intuitive wisdom to be able to decipher between the things that make you happier and the things that your life easier.
Will a new computer make me happier? No. I will continue my life without one, and that dumb ass smirk will still be permanantly etched on my cursedly irish and mostly sun kissed (slapped) red face.
Before DRunk Brendan called it a night, he fantasized about life without a computer. It would be so entirely feral! He would read more books. Rarely, he would go on facebook, but when he did he would have 27 notifications and 12 friend requests and 4 inbox messages! Romanticizing this soon to be rugged life without a computer, he softly fell into a deep sleep.
3 days later, the computer started working again. DRunk Brendan probably would have been overwhelmed by 27 notifications anyway.
“If you know your history,
Then you would know where you coming from”
-Bob Marley
Since January is official family history month, I fancied it an appropriate time to publicly explore the delicately personal subject of ancestry for any of the worlds six million internet users to check out. Here are 2 candidates:
Willy F Baby
William F Buckley was an American conservative author and commentator. Although I heartbrokenly stopped paying attention in English class after my career-ending loss in the Central New Jersey Regional Spelling Bee in 3rd grade, I’m pretty sure “conservative author and commentator” means “dillhole whose man breasts lactate Kosciusko mustard”. William, rest his soul, probably drove a luxury automobile, and it is utterly possible that said luxury automobile could tote a load far more hefty than William should ever need to tote. Certainly, he wore the shiniest loafers that were way shinier and more expensive than your father’s most expensive and shiniest pair of loafers. My father’s, as well.
This fellow is non-identifiable by name. In spite of a name, I will identify him by facets of my one and only encounter with him:
1. He was at Hooters in Long Beach, California, by himself.
2. He attired himself with remarkable flamboyance.
3. He laughed often.
4. The doldrums of complete sentences did not characterize his speech.
5. Nor did making any vestige of sense in general.
Bar the most traditional fashion of tracking down ancestors, surnames, and the candidate whom I am more likely related to could not be more obvious. Thanks, family history month. Thanks, Bob Marley. Thanks, Hooters of Long Beach, California.
PS- I totally made up that January is family history month.
Where You Go When You Get Kicked Off Instagram. 
