There were no public health laws in Indo nite clubs. It would be like installing smoke detectors in Hell.

One day, a man named Chris Cote lit a cigarette and smoked it down to the filter in one breath. He silently thanked the cigarette company for being thoughtful enough about his health to include a filter to protect him. So he lit up another. This time he didn’t exhale the squeaky-clean filtered smoke, but just let it nestle in his lungs, filing his body with that good menthol flavor. Some more smokers knocked on his door and they came in and all started smoking along with him.

“How wonderful it is that we’re all smoking,” thought Chris.

Everyone smoked and smoked, and after they smoked, they all talked about smoking and how nice it was that they were all smokers - and then they smoked some more.

Smoke, smoke, smoke. They all sang “Smoke That Cigarette” and “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” Then the smokers smoked one more cigarette and left Mark alone in his easy chair, about to relax and enjoy a nice quiet smoke.

And then his lips fell off.

Barton won a title surfing well, not spectacularly. Consistency was the barrier destroyed by Slater.

Sponges soak up water and history records sinking ships collectively….. as in they should have known better. The ultimate price.

Kinda like placing a skate rail in the shorie with a moron attempting to ollie up with other morons holding onto it. Good TV if you could produce it. Or not.

I see myself walking into an Indonesian club after a long day of double overhead barrels. There I spy Chris Cote flopping around in the center of the dance floor trying to get his groove on with some chicks. Thankfully, I like to take advantage of this behavior and apply an ounce of prevention before I enter the club.

First, I microwave a few Twinkies, spritz them with Grey Goose, poke my thumb in one end and ring the hole with MAC lipstick. When I enter the club, I toss these “pigballs” into a dark corner. Chris Cote, unable to tell one soft, drunken hole from another, will zero in on them and be busy for hours. In nicer clubs, the bouncers will eject anyone found fucking a Twinkie and I’m in the clear. In skeezier clubs, pigballs are usually on the bar menu, which saves me some prep time.

You look at him and say, “I loved you on that one website bro. Now go brush your teeth and buy me a Bintang.”

Kieth Sasaki was rad, but not as rad as Paul Roach, my bro.

Not to be outdone in the anals of surfdum until the night after the pipe masters when Kelly and Rob tag teamed a cougar cub and gave each other another “high five bro” only to realize the kitten had left the room and Slates was still balls deep while Robs finger was not in a tight pussy like he had thought. It ended Robs career and caused Slates to have chronic problems with relationships but…..

So it goes in the sport of pros

This batch was heap better than the first two go rounds. Looks like King Louie is warming up to the task again.

Onward you cheap bored bastards.