I just want to formally apologize for not living up to my non-existent promise to provide you with a thought-provoking, meaningful, zany, hilarious post every single fucking day.
Some of you may be experiencing a paranoid suspicion that I'm putting less than 100% into PostSurf lately. But why???? Some speculate that it's because I'm on a surf trip, and care more about surf than Postsurf. Others suspect it's because I have another job which I'm actually paid to do - in contrast to this volunteer fuckery. Who knows what my motives actually are.
Luckily for me, PostSurf is home to the most creative and mentally ill team of commenters in the whole wide surfing blogoshphere.
Don't believe me? Take a look at Blasphemy Rottmouth's response to the Hieronymus Bosch Reader Challenge. If I actually had advertisers, sponsors or a budget, I'd certainly provide Mr. Rottmouth with the prize he most certainly deserves. And by prize, I mean years of therapy.
Blasphemy Rottmouth says: April 9, 2009 at 8:22 pm
Here’s my take on this thought provoking post:
1. Christian Fletcher: Easy. He is God. Located in the first frame, He is the father of modern aerial surfing, backdoor soul, and fellow lowrider who loves old Fords, like myself.
2. Quiksilver: The mountains on Hell’s horizon. They vomit forth the glow of Kelly Slater’s throbbing gristle, minutes after he took Giselle Buttchin from behind.
3. SUPers: Those who frolic amongst the serene lake in panel two. Ironically, their gasoline fumes caused the fish to mutate, sprout wings, and fly.
4. Billabong: Duh, the primordial puddle of ooze in the first frame. Birthing a limitless supply of knuckle dragging creatures yet to evolve into creatures possessing enough self awareness to use their opposable thumbs to jack-off the flaccid maggots that dangle betwixt their webbed-foot clad legs.
5. Buzzy Trent: He sits ‘ponst his throne of big wave surfing in the last frame. There, he surveys the carnage of professional surfing about him, and dines on the meaty thigh of Carlos Burle. “Where were you fifty years ago, putz?” Buzzy ponders as femur shrapnel rattles about his cavernous mouth.
6. Sean Collins: Somewhat hard to locate this pile of rotting flesh amongst so much filth and debauchery. Then… SMACK!! There he is. Right before our astonished eyes. Smack dab in the middle of the last frame. His smug expression is subtly obscured by a sombrero sporting various corporate lute players who proudly espouse their keen knowledge of all surf spots heretofore unbeknownst to the peasant masses. His smile reflects the shudders his colon is experiencing as the next wave of “young guns” foolishly make their way up the ladder of success to the gaping asshole of reality. So it goes.
7. Shane Herring: Who? Where? Here? Oh, yeah, he’s the washed up coulda-been who’s passed out on the table in the lower portion of the last frame. It’s probably best he’s not lucid enough to witness any more Slater victories at this point.
8. Richie Collins: Richie resides in the last frame. His exposed buttocks lies just below the gallows, his head buried in the decadent sands of Newport Beach’s obscurity, and his prolapsed rectum dispensing hand-shaped surfboards resembling the fingers of an arthritic geriatric patient.
9. Flea Virostko: Darryl emerges, though it’s hard to see, from the bathhouse in the lower right portion of the middle frame. What he was doing in that bathhouse with other sweaty, nude men… I cannot judge. I only calls it like I sees it. No offense Darryl, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with alternative lifestyles.
10. Chris Cote: Amazingly, he shows up in all three panels. In panel one, he climbs from the primordial ooze with the sad look of realization on his face that, his mind will never evolve beyond that of a tadpole. In the second panel, he has morphed into a tower of Menos Tiny Phallus; in the lake on the upper left corner… and there he spouts forth his devout love of seeing corporate men. Finally, in the last frame, Chris manages an extremely heavy petting session with a swine in nun’s garb – a Mother Teresa, if you will.
All in all, a brilliant masterpiece by Bosch. The painting itself is sexy… like a sexy nightmare. Now, I pray my nightly dose of whisky and Ambien drowns my sorrows for having pained my retinas with this post.