Pen 15 Club

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.


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Just Do Something Else

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.

Nike’s latest blatant stab at my job security.

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.

In summary:

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How to be full of success on the internet:

Degrading others + abusive use of alcohol = success.


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In Jury

This is a copy of my MRI:

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.

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The Indigent Mutiny of Getting From Point A to Point Probably Not B: Greyswine Bus

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?

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The Evolution of Belligerence

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.

Charles Darwin, you dog…

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