Another productive week here at PostSurf headquarters.
7 posts generated 154 comments, which ran the usual gamut: threats, conservative rants, liberal rants, angry anti-establishment rants, theological rants, deranged ramblings, and plenty of accusations of sexual misconduct.
Last week, I pleaded with readers to engage in "thoughtful debate with other members of this community."
At times we almost achieved just that. Reference the discussion from late Saturday night (re: Outsider Art) between Sesquipedalian and Magnum Meatwhistle (AKA Occy's Underbite AKA Andy Irons' Dealer AKA F. Murray Abrahambone).
These two got into a chat room throw-down over the size of their vocabularies.
Sample retort: "As my career, IQ, home library, and multiple degrees attest, I am far from 'vocabulary challenged.'"
Oh Snap!
The comment that set off this spat is below. Click here to see the fallout.
The surf industrial complex is coming for us.
F. Murray Abrahambone says: March 21, 2009 at 5:03 pm
Alex Knost??
Let’s talk again about an all-too-familiar subject: Alex Knost and his misinformed personal attacks on fellow surfers. To get immediately to the point, if I have a bias, it is only against whiney fanatics who smear and defame core surfers like myself and my two balls: named Preston Pendergrass and Logan Schwartzworth respectively. Ten years ago, it was drugged-out, lazy scumbags with mustaches. Today, it’s disgusting, aberrant sybarites who create problems that our grandchildren will have to live with. Let me end by appealing to our collective sense of humanity: The most treacherous manifestation of dysfunctional sentiment among viperine thought police has been the way they egg on negative externalities in the form of evasion, collusion, and corruption.
Fuck you Alex Knost.
And you too Drew Courtney.
A while back I was sitting on the wall at Rocky Point minding my own business watching some good, glassy waves being dismantled by the mid season superstar crew. A fairly attractive young lady with blond hair sat down next to me, smiled and introduced herself. She was from Kazakstan or somewhere and was on the North Shore for a ” working vacation”. She claimed she had a brother named Borat that had made a famous movie about finding America but I didnt really believe her. After a few minutes we both noticed the photographers turning their attention from the water to a couple of young surf stars walking up the beach being followed by a pale, sort of pudgy looking guy with a receding hairline and a notepad trying to ask them questions.I realized it was Granger Larson and Clay Marzo being hounded by that editor guy Chris Cote from Transworld surf magazine. The young lady from Kazakstan sort of moaned as she observed the scene.” In my country”’she said,” they would go crazy for those two.” She was nodding at Granger and Clay with a smile then she looked back at Cote stubbing his toe on a rock in the sand and being totally ignored by the Maui boys.”Not so much that one”.
In honor of my thoughtful and time-consuming comment being displayed on the front page of this holy blog; I feel compelled to share this story with you:
In 1966 a Sherpa on the west face of Mount Everest sought shelter from a blizzard in a hidden cave. Within the sheltered cavern he found a still-wet shark cage, dripping with salt water. Inside was the picked-clean skull of Adam West, who inexplicably was in Los Angeles at the time filming the campy 1966 Batman movie. West’s empty left ocular socket was packed tight with Mickey Dora’s pubic hair; the right socket had a mule cock
lolling out of it at a lewd angle; the dismembered member displayed numerous ferret bites along the length of the shaft in a line that the sherpa recognized as Morse code, which upon later investigation turned out to be a direct line to Lewis Samuel’s desk at the Surfline.
The whole garish scene was illuminated by a single shot-stained lamp.
The sherpa quietly consumed a Zagnut bar, urinated in a corner of the cave, and walked back out into the howling blizzard to meet his end.
And speaking of Zagnut bars, I must take back my previous criticisms of Jihad Khodr.
I for one, would never mess with the Jihad. Legend has it; his birth was a sight to behold. The way it was told me:
On the hot summer night of Jihad’s birth in a country hospital two counties West of Rio, the manicured grounds around the building erupted and spewed forth 7,000 pale, hairless, sexless, headless, and limbless human torsos. They circled the Hospital with a lewd fish-like writhing motion like an obscene river of 90 pound human maggots, making no sounds other than harsh bronchial rasps and barks from their exposed esophagii.
Drew Courtney Conlogue and Brad Gerlach’s alter ego ‘Buddy Wallace’ had to bring a dump truck and front loader from the county barn to clean it all up the next day.
I shit you not.
And while we’re on the topic of shit, fuck you Hater Alves!
Meatwhistle (Occy’s Underbite) writes like Alex Knost surfs.
Or, more accurately like Ozzie Wright. A surfer who knows some tricks, but hurts to look at.
Better yet, a Brazilian Ozzie Wright. A surfer who knows some tricks, but hurts to look at, and claims every wave.
(As written on the previous post’s comments,)
The following is a brief lesson in Many Fay’s many self-indulgent attributes:
Like most of you fellow readers who rip harder and more soulful than any top 40 surfer, I hope to build a better world, a cleaner world, a safer world, and a saner world. As such, many have already tried to explain to Many Fay’s snivelling enablers, that his recent attempts to figuratively dump effluent into creeks, lakes, streams, and rivers may be a prophecy for future attempts to open the gates of Hell. As he matures morally, he’ll eventually grow out of its present way of thinking and come to realize that we are at a crossroads.
One road leads into the light of a bright, shining future in which perverted mental midgets like Many Fay are entirely absent. The other road leads into the darkness of extremism. The question, therefore, is: Who’s driving the bus? I’ll tell you what I think the answer is. I can’t prove it, but if I’m correct, events soon will prove me right.
So, gather round, kids. Settle down now. And no hitting. I’m going to list a few brief things about the way that I regard Many Fay’s recent knuckle dragging comments - in the way I would the sort of stinking filth I might have to clean off my boots after a careless walk in a dog kennel. Fay’s perversions are some of the most gutless, wild, and indelicate I’ve ever encountered. And I hereby describe them thusly:
1. Many Fay draws querulous wiseacres to himself like Rat Boy wannabes to the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
2. Many Fay recently reported that he can absorb mana by devouring his nemeses’ brains.
I think that’s enough evidence for now.
And fuck that weasely-wombat’s turd, Rabbit Bartholomew! Fuck you a thousand times.
When Jihad Khodr was born, he stood up, walked seven steps to the North and bravely proclaimed:
“Occy’s Underbite is a part-time free-lance writer, and full time mental shredder of two foot close-outs in victory-at-sea conditions. He surfs like an epileptic palsy patient in real life. Word.
But, beware whose hand ye bite, o’ ye of small Spicoli-esque intellectual skills. Lest you try to parlay your superior surfing skills into riding his coattails… he WILL bite back.”
He then proceeded to rape the I.V. bag next to the bed until the head nurse defecated a steamy pile of rancid diarrheal refuse onto the floor in a state of shock and fear.
The doctor’s didn’t do shit. None of this was recorded in the doctor’s files, and no one has said shit about the incident since then.
Tap Tap.
Hello, hello, hello…
Anyone out there? Is this thing on?
…up my sleeve.
Occy’s Underbite (aka, aka, aka) is like a marionette. We, the manipulators, pull his strings and then wait for his reply.
It’s puppetry. He’s the dummy.
Now, like always, let’s wait for his reply.
And Occy’s Underbite, tonight’s a school night. Some kids may need access to thesaurus.com, so please don’t crash the server again.
I love the sauce of the Las Mas.
Who’s waiting for my reply? Oh, that’s right… it’s someone named A, and his friend Many Fay. I have fans? Fabulous! Well, far be it from me to prevent your masturbatory pleasures. In fact, take heed, here’s more fodder for your flaccid phallus’s enjoyment.
I’m thoroughly enjoying the complete verbal fisting of your blown minds, in case you’re a step slow on the uptake. Of course, I wouldn’t say this to you in person, because you’d probably beat me up. But, it appears that your excessive exposure to high levels of mercury as a child have rendered you void of any normal social inhibitors, and thus, with intelligence that a child inflicted with Mowatt Wilson Syndrome can surpass. Stunted but undaunted, you crash headlong into the seas of discourse, like a pimple searching for an ass cheek; ejaculating retarded insults about my deeply meaningful commentary, while having no ability yourselves to inject any meaningful dialogue into this site’s conversation.
Certainly, my verbal volleys of vengeance and puerile pontification directed towards the rehashed garbage that’s currently running through the mother ship of your mind, has stricken your brittle nerves. Your underdeveloped intellect must ripple like Kekoa Bacalso’s love handles while my crude commentary courses through your veins. Yet, like the prodigal dog returning to its vomit, you can’t help but revisit my recent comments, hour after hour to read them. Hyperbole? Methinks not.
In fact, you are an asshat of Promethean proportions. Bound to the rock between your ears, you continually proffer up your lifeless carcass to vultures like myself on a daily basis. Alas, your Heracles will never show up. The time draws nigh to cease your stammering tongue; this vulture’s had his fill of your dead meat.
(You can empty your payload-filled tube-sock into the trashcan now. I promised your mommy it would be okay).
Dance, puppet! Dance!
The browser history of Occy’s Underbite:
thesaurus.reference.com/browse/Sesquipedalian
thesaurus.reference.com/browse/aberrant
thesaurus.reference.com/browse/sybarites
thesaurus.reference.com/browse/viperine
thesaurus.reference.com/browse/collusion
thesaurus.reference.com/browse/effluent
thesaurus.reference.com/browse/querulous
thesaurus.reference.com/browse/flaccid
thesaurus.reference.com/browse/Hyperbole
thesaurus.reference.com/browse/proffer
And…here comes the kid whose typing fingers move independently from his somatic nervous system. Watch him dance! Strings from the manipulator move his lifeless limbs.
By the way, at least your 9th grade English teacher will be happy to know you learn that alliteration is something different than the insult kids used to tease you with when you tried to read out loud in class.
And, Oh Unobservant One, there is a catch to the names Many Fay, A, and Until He Sea. Try to use your hooked on phonics skills to read them aloud as they appear on the screen. (Don’t worry, those nasty ninth grade bullies aren’t around.) The pronoun “He” is referring to you.
At least Balaam’s ass spoke words that mattered.
And now, more dancing diatribe from the puppet!
Until He Sea,
Thanks for swallowing the hook, line and sinker. I’m pleased that you swallow.
But, please try harder next time. Maybe spend a few more days concocting your gibberish.
I’m not amused.
Not only that, but the words arduously researched on the thesaurus are actually used in the right context. Fuck me standing!
Both these guys have more free time than me, and at least one of them seems to have access to much higher quality drugs.
I salute you both.
Fany May crept out of his Sun Valley double-wide mobile home to investigate the wet slapping midnight noises emanating from behind his tractor shed, the Remington 12 gauge trembling in his sweaty grasp.
As he rounded the woodpile, Fany witnessed in the pale orange light of his pole-mounted metal halide yard light, the hideous sight of a slim Caucasian male with close-cropped hair, bordered with a cheap necktie, EATING HIS OWN HEAD atop the busted John Deere bush hog. Nearby, a severed foreskin the size of a Mongolian meat loaf mindlessly humped a rotten squirrel with a lewd Lovecraftian action; like a raw sexual fuck-comma at the end of an unspeakable phrase…
Fany backed slowly away, back into his kitchen where he filled their jumbo Sunday Dinner crockpot with Big Momma’s secret Pepsi and Lipton-Cup-O-Soup meat marinade.
Tomorrow they would eat like kings.
Unfortunately, Fany May’s prophecy came only half-true, just before dawn, in a hellish rain of the entrails of his beloved…
…of poo.
Every attempt at narrative uses “lewd.” Maybe thesaurus that one next, give us some variety.
Mr. AKA never made the connection:
Many Fay says: = many faces.
A says: …up my sleeve. = aces up my sleeve.
Until He Sea says: = until he (you) ceases.
Quasi Narrative Pea says: …of poo. = (Do you get it now?)
The Google link for depression and loneliness (aside from your obvious over abundance of time) referred to your comment:
“Tap Tap.
Hello, hello, hello…
Anyone out there? Is this thing on?”
That is sad, all joking aside.
And as “I use nearly every bygone boogie’s name in my name” made clear, responsibilities will pull me away from MAKING you dance; the flat, wind ruined weekend is over.
Although, as sesquipedalian still refers to your poor diction and style, parts of your ramblings deserve credit. The ‘Promethean rock between your ears’ may have been your peak. It was pretty good, I recommend you disappear now knowing that further attempts will only deepen your depression.
If I had a dime for every two-bit online critic that broke down my writing ’style’ and use of a thesaurus, I’d have $4,328.90.
You must be another junior college English professor. And by a ‘professor,’ I mean last ditch effort to save a fledgling career by critiquing the writings of those with superior skill. You haven’t written anything here even remotely entertaining. I’m just titillating your fantasy.
And since you’ve gone through enormous efforts to explain your trite handles, I’ll go one step further.
Who am I??
I am: A figment of the imagination of a senile bougainvillea flower in the possession of a chronic masturbator, tall and boneless, yellow-eyed, a serial person who rips off the faces of other people and slaps them silly with them, an armchair anesthesiologist, a wheelchair wiccan, a Segway Superman, sensitive, with coagulated milk for feet and centipedes for toes, an avid reader and writer, an outdoorsman with sixteen assholes, each one inside of the previous one.
Who are you??
You are: a virgin who has been holding the world hostage for months by threatening to drink copiously and snort cocaine from Lewis Samuels’ penis while pregnant with a future messiah, stout, with crooked teeth and a bellybutton with “self destruct” written on it, no lips, breasts that scream bloody murder in a false falsetto when twisted, a winning smile, receding dark auburn hair crawling with an army of lice hell-bent on Islamic jihad.
Together, we will enjoy: long walks on beaches during sunsets to find a beached whale with oversized genitals to mutilate, integration of rational expressions by geometric substitution, Monopoly, going to the supermarket and mocking the grapefruit, the throes of existentialism, clove cigarettes, inciting a worldwide genocide of people who can touch their noses with their tongues and also that dick with the mustache who works the counter at Jack’s Surfboards.
Contact Information: I’m currently squatting outside your bathroom window, watching your girlfriend tinkle into the toilet.
(Call me!)
True story:
I had a stalker once, in high school. And thankfully SHE was not a HE. Unfortunately, her braces stuck out farther than her boobies and even her uni-brow couldn’t distract from the acne. This evening, the only picture I can conjure of my petty writing critic / stalker is that of a three hundred pound gorilla wearing a camouflage thong with a leopard print scarf and chain smoking Virginia Blends while hunched over a Commodore 64 in the abandoned wood shed behind Mort’s General Store on Mayberry Street.
But enough about my fantasies.
ITS ALRIGHT, GERRY LOPEZ MADE BEING A GOOFY COOL IN THE FIRST PLACE ANYWAY
This just in, scrolling across the CNN newswire:
“When Many Fay was born, inexplicably Walter Matthau, who was across the Atlantic, stood up in a 4-star restaurant and shit his pants so full they had to cut them off with salad tongs.
Some years later, in his fourth attempt at senior year, Many Fay hid inside a hollow rock wall at the Museum of Modern Art’s “Jurassic Birds and their Prey” exhibit, and popped out during a 3rd grade science class fieldtrip and skull-fucked the exhumed corpse of Minnie Pearl with a strap-on Mrs. Buttersworth’s bottle in front of the exasperated juveniles.”
That should be enough to convince any doubters as to the hypocrisy of Many’s remarks.
On a “lets talk about surfing” note I am calling for Jordy, Dusty and the Goods to shine in Tazmania. Hopefully Mason Ho as well. Am I mistaken or did Owen Wright have the highest heat score today? That guy is CT material! Guaranteed! Should be a ton of action these next few weeks with the Taz, Bells and Margaret River contests providing Lewis with loads of material for his razor wit to filet into shreds.I am actually wondering if you are as untouchable as you appear mr. Samuels. Is there only room for one smart ass at the top? I have been thinking about teeing up on the 09 season myself and crushing your pretty little picture. Something tells me you are nervous as you peer sweatily into the rear view and listen to my v8 gaining momentum on your little Prious similar to the Acorn-mainstream media fueled Obama tsunami that swept across America in the summer-fall of 2008. Of course the reality is that I am most likely no more than a Klinglike zit on your Slatervessant cheek and that you wont even respond to this desperate plea for some sort of, any sort of, recognition from SOMEONE, even its just Lewis Samuels, in the world of surfing.Shoot i would settle for something as insignificant as a broism from Cote right now. P.S, Occs underbite is really getting old. I would rather watch that world-renown boy band Gally and the Goods play hackeysack than subject myself to one more confusing, stupid, self serving rant from that barn.
“P.S, Occs underbite is really getting old. I would rather watch that world-renown boy band Gally and the Goods play hackeysack than subject myself to one more confusing, stupid, self serving rant from that barn.”
Probably the best ending to a trainwreck comment I’ve ever read on the world wide web. And I mean the WHOLE World Wide Fucking Web.
hey funboys, get a room.
First time comming here, I like your blog. Very good content, I will definately be comming back. Keep up the good work, cheers.