Sunday, April 3, 2016

Parting Ways with the Pro Surfing Spectacle

By: @rottmouth

How do you stop turning your head and easing off the gas when passing by a gruesome wreck on the highway? At what point have you become comfortably numb to the carnage and saturated with eleven million seasons of Walking Dead gore? Well, a man knows when to walk away from a burning foyer and step into the wasteland with that baseball bat in hand. 2016 is the year I became a man. Not for naught… I have experienced the sorrowful loss of a lovely lass to a rival suitor and the bitterness of unrequited love before:

I first saw her along the bank of an unnamed tributary digging up Badenian mollusks with a stone chisel. I watched her, mesmerized, from behind a screen of willow branches as she bent to her task, grunting contentedly, her breasts swaying lazily and bra-less ‘neath a frayed Def Leppard t-shirt. Small beads of perspiration dribbled steadily from her heavy brow… falling harmlessly to the hardened sand and evaporating like leaking petrol on hot asphalt.

I disrobed.

Moving quietly through the willows, her nose twitched as that of a frightened meadow viper and her head swung my direction. She rose abruptly from her position on squatty, muscular legs – dropping mollusks but firmly clutching the chisel. Her dull, expressionless face framed a pair of jaundiced eyes that glistened like CÄ“pacol® in a highball glass. We stood there, suspended in the matrix, staring at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, I asked her if she would like to join me for supper. She disappeared quickly into the brush and I never saw her again.

I came to find out later she ran off with a flamboyant, mustachioed Pro-Gamer with a penchant for tattoos and a history of moderate to severe Crohn’s disease.