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Rape me.
I was feeling pretty good, so I put on that Nirvana CD and got out the old shotgun and cleaned her up REAL good. I’ve made the journey to the other side. Dusty trail. Dusty boardshorts. Whomsoever yore style, it’s just that me be so pro shy, cause they sooo connected to marketing and sales and just write out the endorsement, sign on the line and show the pretty pictures. Publish your GD/GQ paper rag and lets get down the path. Why do we keep looking at the same diagram on the old blackboard. Schools out forever. Session expression. Is that blood on the front of your shirt after the shark feeding that you swear you weren’t involved in? Is that smile yours for the taking from the latest tuna you gutted to scan in the secret answer? Perfume from snot, and keep that eternal lamp lit so our freighters don’t get the point. Beluga - Gesundheit. You don’t have the latest sea-n-sea machine so your digits are hermetically sealed from all hints of guild. Hands tied and died shirt folded and waiting for revolution take two, scene and unseen, you look tired and weighty - kinda like the laser gaze, emploring eye of a beached MAMMAL, cut and paste pictures from the I of the storm, nowhere to go, pallet of plywood, board up the windows, you don’t want to see what they do with virgin concepts and sacred icons anyway. Tacked to a tree the latest decree straight from the sores. Hell, I’ve offended Kings and Popes and all the rest of the dope and glue sniffers AND the Funky Bunch. What’s another genius mean to me? Year end report or quarterly earnings? Did you purchase your place at the feeding trough by gaining momentum and snarling at the newbies in the lineup, “Out of my way, you insignifigant protoplasmic surf sacrifices, team Think Tank at work.” OR did I misread your intent? YOU are the greatest wake and waste creator. Of ALL time. Certainly not at all like the smile that Velzy etched into the undone onion skin layers at the center of the collective soul. OR first time Laird burned away the granite carved ultimate laws-o-surf-nature. Surf sacrifice, shotgun shell lying on the beach, pick it up and you can hear the ocean roar. Ghost dancers at the other end of the cove, gathered around a crackling fire. I wonder what’s going on over there? It better have something to do with surfboard de-sign or they’re outta here!
Pop quiz. Does water flow or do we? Weber? Grill? Hotdog or noble weiner.