'When you get to the, 'FUCK YOU' stop, you're here.

For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge. FUCK. Fuck is a great fucking word. Think about it. How many words in the English language can actually be used as a noun, verb, adjective, adverb & infix? Oh yeah, an infix is when you insert a word into another word, like 'abso-fucking-lutely.' Not many other words can prompt such a strong reaction. Would you really be that upset if somebody yelled, 'Burrito You!!!!' Didn't think so. As you can probably guess, this story involves a whole lot of 'FUCK' & how this lovely word became part of the directions that Dennis & I would eventually have to start giving out to people when they came over to our house in Philadelphia.

The Doctor Seuss house(For further information about said Doctor Seuss house, please see the previous blog entry entitled, 'The Martini Incident.' 'Natch!) that Dennis & I lived in was a duplex. Our neighbor was the landlord's son, let's just call him Mr. Ed. Mr. Ed was your typical trust fund baby, burnout douche-bag. You know the type, old enough to be an adult, but never truly will be. He smoked alot of weed, drank profusely & loved to cruise the local high schools to pick up chicks(Because he could buy them beer & cigarrettes.). He worked part-time for the city & dipped full-time into the $$$ that daddy gave him. If you ever needed him(Which really was never!), he could be found on the back deck that we shared shotgunning Milwaukee's Best beer cans & the occaisional gravity-bong hit(If you don't know what either of those things mean, Google that shit. I obviously had much more fun in college than you did!).

One Friday Night, Ed invited Dennis & I over to his palatial estate for some drinks. We reluctantly accepted. There was a distict, pungent smell of spilled bong-water as we entered his Man-Cave of doom. A stained yellow couch was the centerpiece that that tied his living room together where 2 empty kegs & a piece of plywood made for a makeshift coffee table with various porno mags strewn about the floor for good measure. I stepped on a crunchy Hustler magazine that stuck to the bottom of my shoe much like melted gum on a warm, summer pavement would. Ewwww!!!

The evening started out innocent enough with some Pabst Blue Ribbon tall boys, but then Mr. Ed decided to break out the Jagermeister & red bull. Wikipedia describes Jagermeister as follows:

Jahermeister is a type of liquer called Krauterlikor. Jagermeister's ingredients include 56 herbs, fruits, & spices including liquorice, anise, poppy seeds, saffron, ginger, jumiper berries & ginseng. These ingredients are ground, then steeped in water & alcohol for 2-3 days. Afterwards this mixture is filtered & stored in oak barrels for about a year. When a year has passed. the liquer is then filtered again, then mixed with sugar, caramel, alcohol & water. It is filtered one last time & then bottled.

My definition of Jagermeister is as follows:

Milk from a witch's tit is mixed with the tears of a child, blood from your 1st born & unicorn urine. This concoction is blessed by the dark lord on Arbor Day & then marinated with crack cocaine & pixie dust for good measure & delivered to your local dive bar!

If you've ever habitually drank Jagermeister, then you probably side with my definition. This tart, sugary liquer is liquid crack. Moreover, it used to make me destroy furniture(Hell, one time I drank almost an entire bottle & built 'Stonehenge' with all of the living room & kitchen furniture, then proceeded to throw a few of the couches off of my balcony into the bay('What??? Don't judge me. It was a Tuesday night & I was bored!'). If you mix Jagermeister with Red Bull you create a 'Jager-Bomb.' 'Jager-Bombs' taste just like Welch's Grape Soda & are technically a legal 'Speed-Ball' which is the term used when you combine an amphetamine & a barbituate(An upper & a downer-'Natch!). In lamens terms, 'It fucks you up real good!'

About halfway through our 'Jager-Session' we started talking about previous pranks that we've pulled off & how coincidentally the Annual Philadelphia Bike Race would be going right past our house tomorrow with a live-feed camera set up strategically beside our front deck. I jokingly infered that somebody should paint, 'FUCK YOU' on the road in front of our house just to screw with the live feed & local newscasts.

Mr.Ed: 'Hey man, that sounds like a really good idea!'

Me: 'C'mon Ed. Not really! But I tell you what, if we ever decide to deface a public road with obscenities, we'll give you full credit!

We all had a good laugh & continued to drink ourselfs into a 'Jager-Bomb' induced oblivion that could only end inevidably with a hugging of the porcelain-god. What I forgot to realize was that in my heyday, I was so good at instigating anarchy amongst my peers that I could practically do it in my sleep. I planted a seed in Mr. Ed's brain that grew that night & spread like the fucking ebola virus. When Dennis & I stumbled next door, Mr. Ed went to his work truck where he had phoshporescent highway paint. Just what the fuck is phosphorescent highway paint you ask? Well it's the reflective paint that they use to paint the lines on highways. This reflective paint contains thousands of little glass spheres, designed to reflect lots of light, even at night! Mr. Ed began painting what would become his masterpiece....

Flashforward to a hungover, headache-laced morning. I stumbled to the bathroom, fumbled with the aspirin bottle(Stupid child-proofed piece of shit!) & the brushed my teeth. I was half-singing a song & brushing my teeth to the beat in my head.

'Kitty at my foot & I wanna touch it! Kitty at my foot & I wanna touch it!' Kitty at my...What the FUCK!!!?????'

I looked out of our living rom window & did a triple take. The bike race had already begun. There were literally hundreds of people lining the streets & right in front of our house in 20-ft high letters was spelled out, 'FUCK YOU.' My toothbrush hit the floor. Holy shit Mr. Ed had really done it. My drunken lament had become reality & it was being broadcast live locally on CBS for all of Philadelphia to see!

I ran downstairs & started pounding on Mr. Ed's door. After what seemed like an eternity, he answered.

Me: Ed, what the fuck did you do????'

Mr.Ed: She sure is purty ain't she?'

Me: Ed, I'm actually more inpressed than pissed, but I'm using my Plausible Deniability Card on this one ok? You didn't do this. I didn't give you the idea & we have absolutely no idea how a 20-ft high 'FUCK YOU' was pained in perfect Queen's English in front of our house ok???

Mr.Ed: Word.

Me: Word it is you silly bastard!

And with that I marched back upstairs where Dennis was watching the local race on tv.

Dennis: 'Biff, check it out, they haven't computer-blurred the 'FUCK YOU' completely yet. You can totally tell what it says!'

That Monday, the City desperately tried to remove the painted 'FUCK YOU' in front of our house to no avail. This was after all phosphorescent reflective paint that you literally cannot wash away. After about 2wks of trying various power washes & paint-dilutes, they City of Philadelphia's Road Maintenance Department conceded defeat & we were stuck with a big, fat 'FUCK YOU' in front of our house.

There's a funny caveat to this story, Mr. Ed didn't use up all of his 'special paint' that night. He walked up to the top of our hill & wrote 'LICK MY BALLS!' in 20-ft high lettering as well. So now every time we gave directions to our house it went a little something like this;

"Make a right on Lewis Street & start driving up the hill. When you get to the 'FUCK YOU' stop, you're here. If you get to 'LICK MY BALLS!' you went too far & have to turn around.'

Is Biff spelled with one F or two???

Confucius say, 'That man who fall asleep with hand in pants, wake up with sticky fingers!' But I digress, Holy fucking shit did I digess! Almost an entire month! But do not fret dear readers, I have a yarn for you that involves oral sex, bi-polar schizophrenia & poor spelling! Let's dig in shall we?

In 1987, a movie was released that scared the ever-loving-shit out of every red-blooded man in the United States. I'm talking about a little opus entitled, 'Fatal Attraction.' I was currently in Junior High & women were just starting to pay attention to my akward advances. One fatefule weekend, I decided to sneak into an R-rated movie to maybe catch a glance at some boobs & walked out with a morality lesson that involved broiling a fucking bunny-rabbit! It's a simple equation that rings just as true today as it did back in 1987, 'Psychos-Good sex, but hard to get rid of!'

Fresh with this new nugget of wisdom about crazy ladies, I went back to school on Monday determined to not find my own personal bunny-broiler. But you can't fight fate & sure enough, I met Mandy, the new goth-looking girl in 3rd period Social Studies. She was cute & most importantly, into me. Jet black hair with an attitude. She introduced me to bands like The Cure, Joy Dvision & Depeche Mode(I still listen to all 3 to this day & if you don't like Depeche Mode, you suck! I'm not sayin' I'm just sayin!'). It was a fun 2 weeks until one fateful evening she called me & said,

'Hey sweetie what'cha doing?'

'Not much. How's about you?'

'I'm just redecorating my room. Do you spell Biff with one F or two???'

'Um, two F's, Why?'

FFFSH! FFFSH! FFFSH!

'What's that noise?'

'Oh, I'm just spray-painting another F on my wall.'

'I think that we should see other people!'

CLICK!

I hung up the phone horrifed. My cute goth girlfriend went all 'Fatal Attraction' on my ass! What the fuck!

Thus began a series of dodging acts avoiding said 'bunny-broiler' during & sfter school. It was like I adapted my own personal 'psycho-spidey-sense.' Every time Mandy was near, the hair stood up on the back of my neck & I would get the hell out of dodge!

Flashforward to the winter of '96, I'm with some of my fraternity brothers downtown Pittsburgh in the now-defunct nightclub, Metropol(At least I think that it's defunct. Well shit on me & call me a sundae, I just Googled Metropol & it's still open!) & I'm making my way across a busy dance floor. Suddenly I get butterflies in my stomach. I can't quite place the feeling & then the hair on my neck starts to rise. I turn around slowly & there's Mandy, all stoic & brooding, glaring at me. I'm trapped. With nowhere to run or hide, I take a deep breath & mutter,

'Hello Mandy. How have you been?'

'Fucking fascist!'

'Really??? It's been, what almost 10 years? Can we be just a wee bit mature?'

'I gave you a blow-job & you blew me off!!!'

'Technically it was half a blow-job. Your brother knocked on your bedroom door & you stopped.'

'It still counts!!!'

'You spray-painted BIFF on your bedroom wall. I freaked out & literally thought that you might broil a bunny rabbit or something!'

'I HOPE THAT YOU GET DICK CANCER & DIIIIIEEEEE!'

'Wow, dick cancer. Is that a technical term?'

'HA, HA, HA , HAAAA Fascist!'

And with that, she threw a beer bottle at my head. I ducked away from the bottle & it smashed up against the wall behind us. Almost instantly a bouncer promptly picked her up & carried her out of the club kicking & screaming.

I stood there a moment with my jaw dropped, just dumfounded. She was indeed a 'Fatal Attraction bunny broiler' & I felt like I had dodged a fucking cannonball in junior high. Just then one of my fraternity brothers caught up to me.

'Dude I pulled my balls out on the dance floor & technically at least 20 chicks touched them!'

When I told him about my psychotic encounter, he exclaimed;

'You know what they say about those psychos-Good sex, hard to get rid of!'

Indeed!

Ocean City Chronicles: Fight Song

Have you ever had to fight your way out of a situation? I'm talking about a sink or swim series of unfortunate events where physical violence was the only alternative. No rationalizing or cooler heads prevailing, you had to kick some ass or your ass was going to be kicked! The funny thing is that I never wondered how I'd react to this type of situation until I got a bar job in Ocean City.

My day job at the Beach Patrol paid well enough, but if you could find a job a few nights a week that paid you cash under the table, fed you free drinks, & still freed you up to hit on women would you take it? Well unless there was something mentally wrong with you from being hit in the head too many times with a tack hammer, fuck yes you would take it!

This very type of employment came my way in the form of a bouncing job at a dive bar called Spanglers(For those of you here were there with me & are calling shenanigans on this, I've obviously changed the bar name to protect the guilty, mainly me!!! I'm sure the statute of limitations has run out, but it's better to be safe than sorry bitches, Natch!). Our bouncing crew consisted of myself & some of my roommates & lifeguard buddies . To ake matters even better, my buddy Etzio(E-Z) was even hired on as a bartender. Booze & hook-ups were taken care of & all we had to do was check a few id's 98% of time time. The remainig 2% dealt with breaking up fights & a little of the ultraviolence. Let me tell you, that 2% was no joke! Before the Summer of '95, I'd been in a few scuffles, but I had no idea that my cake-ass night job was at Patrick Swayze's fucking 'Road House!!!'

One night in particular stands out & I still have the gap in-between 2 teeth in my lower jaw as a reminder to this very day! Every local bar had their own night for drink specials to keep the local alcoholic population drunk & happy. My crew & I worked at Spanglers every Wednesday & Sunday for their 50-cent draft night. You heard that right, 50-fucking-cent draft night. I think it's common knowledge that if you put a large gathering of college-age fucktards in a building & start shoveling cheap 50-cent beers down their gullet, that something bad can & normally will happen.

So Spanglers has a deck outside of the bar beside the bay that has tables & chairs out during lunch & dinner, but around 9pm we, the bouncing crew, have to shoo the patrons out of said chairs & tables as nicely as possible while the herds of of drunken, retarded, hormonal co-eds file into the bar to find oblivion at the bottom of a cheap plastic cup. Sometimes the dinner patrons didn't take too kindly of us lowly minions moving their precious seats & could be a wee bit belligerent. Normally they'd just bitch us out & threaten to, 'tell the manager' about our boorish behavior & how we 'ruined' their evening(Bear in mind most of these patrons were clearly finished with their dinners & just wanted to jockey for choice spots on the deck for the fucking drink special!). I don't know what the cosmic joke on me was that summer, but it always seemed like the biggest steroid abuser in the bar wearing a tank top(Any guy who's wearing a tank top in a bar at night is a fucking asshole! Go ahead & try to disprove this theory, I dare you!!!) would have to start some form of ruckus in my area. The night in question was obviously no exception & a particular dreg of humanity sporting a white tank top that said 'Bad Boy Club' across his chest(See my theory is proven yet again!) & tight acid washed jeans with combat boots. Oh yeah, he was also about 6'5 & 250 pounds & was clearly not happy with me, oh no not one bit!

'Why the fuck do you have to take our chairs you little bitch? Can't you see that I'm with my woman(Also, I almost fogot to menation, his 'woman' was a real catch who would've given Miss Piggy a run for her money, but I digress!)???!'

'I can see that, but we have to move out all of the tables & chairs now to make room for all of the patrons coming in for the drink special.'

'Fuck them & fuck you! We wuz here first!'

'I know that, but it doesn't work that way. We have to move all of the tables & chairs.'

'No!'

'What do you mean no???'

'I'm not letting you take our chairs! I stand for my job all day & you're not taking them!'

I was kind of bemused at this verbal volleyball, so I retorted:

'Well I sit at my day job all day lifeguarding & now I have to stand at this job. We all have to stand sometime buddy, so why don't you just let me take the chairs.'

Apparently this notion still did not compute with Dreg(Dreg is not this meathead's name, it just means, 'the least valuable part of anything' which I think describes this shithead to a T!) & he began jabbing his meaty index finger into my chest.

'I said no you little bitch!'

'Do not touch me.'

'What?'

'I said do not touch me!'

This is right about the time that my blood began to boil & my anger was just beginning to percolate. If you've spent any extended periods of time with me or drank with me, you'd know that this is very bad, or at least very bad for the person who my anger is directed towards.

Dreg then proceeded to punch me directly in the jaw.

I stumbled back on one knee & a low, gutteral growl started emanating from deep within my body. I defiantly stood back up & walked back over to Dreg, loooked up at him & smiled.

'You little asshole! I shit bigger tha---

KA-RAAAK!!!

My Father has given me multitudes of sage advice over the years, none ringing more true than these pearls of wisdom:

'If you ever find yourself in a fight with somebody who's much larger than you remember that these guys are probably not used to many people fighting back. When your opponent starts into his initial diatribe about how he's going to kick your ass, punch him as hard as you can directly in the nose. You will probably break his nose which will cause his eyes to water & next comes the disorientation. As he stumbles back, wrestle him to the gound & finish him off.'

The lovely comic book sound that you read in the previous paragraph was me making my Dad proud. I punched this meathead directly in the nose with all of the fury that I could muster. As he stumbled back I could hear him bellow,

'You broke my fucking nose!!!'

But it was too late. I was quite possibly the angriest that I have ever been in my life. My eyes rolled back into my head & I pounced on him much like a cheeta does chasing down a gazelle in the wild during a kill. I wrestled him to the ground & wrapped my legs around him & began repeatedly pummeling his face over & over with my fists.

Right around this time somebody yanked me of off Dreg by my ponytail & punched me in the face. Dreg had friends there. I was momentarily stunned, but the adrenaline & anger coursing through my veins kept me moving. I regained my balance, dodged the 2nd punch & then kicked my new protagonist in the balls. When he doubled over, I round-housed him in the face, knocking him to the floor. I was then able to get a glance at the rest of the bar which just happened to be in a full on brawl! Apparently Dreg's friends & my friends decided to join in on the fun which spead the voilence far & wide.

At this point of the fight, I had completely lost track of Dreg. He was no longer on the deck & I wasn't finished with him yet. I started punchinig & kicking my way through the bar in an anarchic, ultraviolent dance looking for my prey. All the while the dj was playing that god-awful Right Said Fred Song, 'I'm Too Sexy' which pissed me off even more. 'They had better not fuck with this animal!' I muttered as I gradually made it over to the dj booth & screamed,

'Turn this shit off & play me a fight song or I kick your ass next!!!'

Before I could say another word, I was hoisted up into the air & thrown down through a table. Dreg had caught me off guard. I was hurting & clearly seeing stars at that point, but then I heard a familiar baseline'

'Bam-Ba-Dam-Ba-Da-Bam-Bam!'

It was the opening to Motorhead's 'Ace of Spades.' I picked myself up out of the splintered rubble that used to be a hardwood table & could literally feel the music making me stronger!(Fun fact: Lemmy, the leadsinger of Motorhead was asked in an interview one time to describe his band's music & he said, 'Well if we moved next door to you, your lawn would die!' That my friends is why Lemmy is a god & you're not!). I charged Dreg & bulldogged him to the ground & wrapped myself around him much like the stingray looking monster did in the movie 'Alien' to it's victim's face & commenced to using his face as a punching bag again while simultaneaously trying to rip off his right ear(My good friend Reo once told me that you can rip a person's ear clean off of their head with 12 pounds of pressure. I wanted to see if this would work!). Dreg jumbed up, screamed & ran through a side door ripping it off of the hinges while I was still attached to his face playing 'Wipeout' with my fists. We spilled out onto the street with about a dozen people following us. Eventually, we were pulled apart & Dreg was twisty-tie cuffed to a telephone pole.

I spit some blood on the gound & said,

'Do you still want to keep your chair asshole!???'

This was around the time that I noticed I had a new space in-between 2 of my teeth on my lower jaw.

'Haw-haw! Exclaimed Dreg.

'Oh yeah, just wait till you take a look in the mirror pal! Your nose is about an inch further to left than when you woke up this morning!!!' Good luck getting laid the rest of this summer looking like Sloth from 'The Goonies!'

Defiantly I leaned down & looked him into his eyes & said,

'I did this to you!'

Exhausted, I walked back into the bar with a safe assumption that I was probably going to be arrested soon. I went into the back bathroom by the kitchen. My hands were still shaking from the previoius rush of adrenaline & the blood dripping off of them clearly was not my own. As I washed my hands I noticed in the mirror that I had a black eye & a cut on my chin, also my right hand was throbbing(I thought that I might have broken it, but later found out that it was just badly bruised). 'Well that should make for a pretty mug shot' I thought to myself as I wrapped my right hand with some silver duct-tape for support.

I walked back out to the deck bar & E-Z lined up some tequila shots for me. The irony of the situation was that it wasn't even 10pm yet, so I had to work for 3 more hours(I didn't really work. I just self-medicated with the free shots E-Z kept feeding me.)! I thought that Dreg had been arrested & that I was next, but as the night progessed, I was never taken away. It wasn't until the next day that I found out that Dreg & his cronies were actually local off-duty police officers! Apparently they were so embarrassed about participating in a near-riot where they got their asses handed to them, that they never wrote up a report. Everything was swept under the rug & the owners of the bar were actually happy with how we handled the situation. So to recap, I didn't get arrested or lose my cushy night job!

I still have the space between my teeth & haven't been in a fight of that caliber since. And oh yeah, I've mellowed out a bit!

Free beer tomorrow

Free beer tomorrow.

Brad

You'd better wipe that shit-eating-grin off of your face, because this is a sad one! I've been putting off this entry for a while now, but I feel that enough time has passed & I can impartially write about Brad's passing from this earth.

Lots of people just thought that Brad was crazy, but I never bought that. I'm not a shrink by any means, but crazy doesn't explain him. Not to me. I always thought that he was a big, sometimes overly sensitive man-child that just never truly learned the basics as to how people are supposed to act around each other. I always felt that Brad was just born at the wrong time in history. He would've felt right at home on some ancient battlefield or arena slamming an axe into the side of somebody's head. He & William Wallace(Braveheart bitches!) definitely would have gotten along.

Brad arrived on the scene in Ocean City the Summer of '95 where he became a member of the Beach Patrol. He just started coming over the house after that & would stay for days at a time, so we pretty much ended up adopting him. He was an intimidating 6'2, 220 pounds with a crooked nose that made him look like he was on the receiving end of a cast-iron skillet to the face. He was the youngest in our crew & would do anything that we told him to do.

'Jump off of that bridge Brad! Sure thing. No Problemo!'

'Finish that beer bong! Sure thing. No problemo!'

'Take off on that 10 foot wave Brad! Sure thing. No problemo!'

When we surfed, he'd take off on the biggest close-out wave just for shits & giggles. One time he stepped on a huge rusty nail which went completely through his foot right before we were going surfing. Nonchalantly, Brad ran home, grabbed a sandwich bag & duct-tape, then put the baggie over his wounded foot & duct-taped it around his ankle. He hobbled out to the beach & paddled out into the lineup ready to go bloddy bag & all!

He would just take so many chances, it seemed like he truly didn't have any fear or he was just retarded. If you ever had an extended conversation with Brad, you might have found out that for as big & crazy as he seemed, he was truly a kind, sensitive soul & a 'closet intellectual.' I say, 'closet intellectual' because Brad didn't like to let on how smart he really was. One of his favorite sayings was, 'I hate him like I hate books!' This coming from a man who had almost a perfect score on the SATS(He told me.) & could have in-depth conversations about Buddhism, Middle-East Politics, & could freely quote Friedrich Nietsche & philosphy from Voltaire. He just never wanted to apply himself intellectually, he was more interested in gaining experiences & seeing how far he could push himself physically & pharmaceutically. This would unfortunately lead to his undoing.

After the Summer of '97 our Ocean City Crew went our separate ways to find our own paths & adventures, but still work to maintain the beach lifestyle that was so dear to our hearts. Greg & I ended up in San Diego. Brad, Cliffy & Stroh ended up on the North Shore in Hawaii. Those initial years were new, fun & hard for all of us, but moreso on Brad. He was a huge consumer of life & had an extremely addictive personality which unfortunately led him to a drug addiction. I'm not sure what drugs Brad was taking, but I'm not here to judge because I'm no fucking saint in any regards, but we'd hear stories start to trickle in about how Brad was isolating himself on the island & almost being homeless & how pale he'd become. I spoke with him intermittently through these times & you could just tell that something was 'off' about him. There just wasn't the same spark in his voice.

Eventually I made my 1st trip over to the North Shore & ended up staying on Brad's couch for a week of surfing & catching up with old friends. I was kind of taken aback when Brad wrapped his meat hooks around me & lifted me up off of the gound at the airport. He was pale, disheveled with a ZZ Top starter set beard. Things started off well though. He had a Budweiser pounder & a bong waiting for me in his car as we drove over to the North Shore for a quick sunset surf. That session & that evening we drank & it almost seemed like old Ocean City times. He was working part-time in downtown Honolulu, so Stroh & his roommate would have to drive me around to surf the majority of the week & we'd hang out more in the evenings. I was having a blast surfing the North Shore & hiking behind Wiamea falls, but I didn't see nearly enough of Brad as I'd hoped. He kept disappearing for extended periods. Things came to a head my last evening on the island after dinner when I finally asked him if he was still doing drugs. He flipped out on me cursing up a storm & told me to catch a cab to the airport. Eventually he relented & drove me. You could have cut the tension with a butter knife. Finally as I got out of his car at the airport, I spoke up.

'Look Brad. I only asked you the drug question because I'm worried about you. You're my friend & I don't want you to hurt yourself.'

'You don't know my PAIN Biff!'

And then he was gone. That was the last thing that he said to me & the last time that I saw him alive. That conversation haunted me. 'You don't know my PAIN.' It was the way that he enunciated the word pain that scared me. Just what exactly was this pain that he was obviously self-medicating excessively?

It was definitely a fucked up end to what was a great vacation up to that point! About 6 months later Brad e-mailed me & apologized for his behavior. He told me that he was working on taking some community college courses & there was talk of eventually moving over to San Diego to find a better job & catching some Souther California waves with the rest of the Ocean City crew. But then a few months later I received a phone call from a somber sounding Cliffy over in Hawaii.

'Hello?'

'Biff it's Cliff, I have some bad news?'

'What happened?'

'Brad's in the hospital on life support.'

'What the fuck!!! How???'

'He was skating these steep hills outside of Honalulu with out a helmet & he smashed into a car. He had a major head injury. He split his head open so bad that his brain was exposed. He's in a fucking coma & might be brain dead.'

'Oh God no. Not Brad!!'

I always feared that I would eventually get this phone call. He always took too many chances. Cliffy promised to keep me updated on Brad's status & then 3 days later I got the 2nd call. Brad was gone. He was pronounced brain dead & his father had given permission to take him off of life support. Our friend was dead. I was beyond upset. I felt horrible. I racked my brain wondering if there was something more that I could have done to help Brad out. I really wish that I would have called him more. Even though I was 3,500 miles away I could have been more available to him.

What was even harder was the fact that I was tasked with calling our extended Beach Patrol/surfing family to deliver the news of Brad's death. I made about a dozen phone calls the following week having to excruciatingly describe how he had died over & over & over. Finally I just lost it & started crying. He was so fucking young & was just starting to straighten his life out. Why him God? Why did you have to fucking take Brad???????????? Enraged, I grabbed my surfboard & hopped into my car. I drove up to my favorite break & paddled out. It was completely flat, but I didn't care. I needed to do something, anything! I looked up at the sky with tears in my eyes & screamed out,

'Hey you big, goofy sonofabitch! That's right Brad I'm talking to you! I don't know what else to do but surf for you, so the least you can do is give me some fucking waves so that I can do that!!!!!!!'

I then turned my attention with a steeled focus out to the reddish hued horizon & waited. Within 5 minutes, perfect 4-6 foot set waves started rolling in. I ended up surfing for over 3 hours until I was exhausted & my arms were like wet noodles. I could honestly feel his presence with me that afternoon as I rode wave after wave in honor of my friend.

I'd like to finish this entry off with one of my favorite Brad stories from Costa Rica.

We had just finished off a 45-day maration surf trip all through the western coastline of Costa Rica & were boarding our flight back to the states. It was an amazing experince & none of us really wanted to leave(Hell, I could have done a year easily down there!), but the real-world(If you call college life real!!!) beckoned & we had to answer it's call. We all filed into our prospective seats Greg & I in the front & Brad, Conlin & Scott behind us. Before the flight had even taken off, Brad had downed 3-4 rum & cokes & was getting rowdy or as we liked to call Rowdy Brad, 'Waking the Baby!' You get free drinks on international flights & we took full advantage of this luxury! Brad & Conling began shooting spitballs, boogers & phlem at Greg & I from behind which ignited kind of a mini-food fight. This went on for a good 5-10 minutes until a small, perplexed man that actually looked like the Monopoly guy w/the spectacle, approcahed us & said,

'Gentlemen & I use that term loosley, you're going to have to calm down or I will be forced to log a complaint!'

Brad took one look at Monopoly Guy & let out a bellowing laugh.

'Dude I shit bigger than you. I am a gentleman so go fuck yourself!!!'

Incensed & obvioulsy imasculated from Brad's comments, Monopoly Guys grabbed a steward & demanded a seat as far way from the heathens as possible! The steward took one look at our motley crew, relented & moved Monoply Guy up to 1st class for the flight. Not a bad trade-off. Then the steward who was visibly terrified of us gingerly approched our seats & meekly retorted,

'Now guys! C'mon I know it's exciting being in a foreign country & all but you have to behave yourself! Please stop being so loud & throwing food!'

This didn't sit well with a clearly inebriated Brad at all. So he decided to let the steward know about it.

'Fuck that guy! He insulted my intelligence & I'm going to kick his ass! Could you tell him that when we get to Miami airport that I'm going to break his nose at the baggage claim?'

(Now bear in mind this was December 1996, long before the events of September 11th 2001. Nowadays we'd have been kicked off of the flight & locked up!)

The steward looked like he was about to faint at this point, so I stood up & jumped into the conversation.

'Our friend is clearly drunk & there's going to be no nose breakings or ass-kickings of any kind I can assure you!'

This seemed to please the steward. He walked away & I turned around to yell at Brad, but at this point he was laughing uncontrollably with such a look of satisfaction on his face that all I could do was laugh too. By the time we reached Miami Brad had patched things up with Monopoly Guy to the point that they hugged. That's the thing about Brad, he was always quick to fly off the handle, but the 1st to apologize. Just a misunderstood gentle(Sometimes!) giant!

If one good thing came out of Brad's death, I do my best nowadays to keep in touch with my friends & always return phone calls. You just never know when their time might be up(Or yours!) & then that last opportunity is gone.

I miss my friend Brad. But knowing that he's somewhere up in Heaven right now pissing off God, makes me smile!

Fade to black........

Hot Garbage

What do you think of when someone utters the phrase 'Hot Garbage???' Something grotesque, repulsive & stinky perhaps?

The Urban Dictionary definition of Hot Garbage is as follows:

'An extremely foul smelling fart, usually created by a mix of beer & foods including, but not limited to garlic, broccoli & beans, that slowly creeps across a room & lingers in the nostrils. Usually of the Silent But Deadly variety. Reminds you of the vicious, rotting scent of your trash cans waiting to be picked up on the hottest day of summer.-My stomach is a mess today. Can you smell that hot garbage?'

That extremely detail-oriented definition sure paints a rosy picture doesn't it? Well today's yarn of incredibly(Unfortunately!) true(With slightly altered names & locations to protect the guilty!!!) exposition is all about how the term, Hot Garbage was introduced into my vernacular(And is brought to you by the letter E!).

During my tenure in Philadelphia(One year & ten months to be exact!), the majority of my weekends consisted of Drinking at night & driving to LBI on the Jersey Shore to surf whatever waves the Atlantic Ocean deemed fit to spit out to us during the day. This short, little drive to the coast was about an hour & a half each way. When you shove enough hungover(Sometimes still drunk!) guys into a car for a surf trip, with little sleep & even less common sense, interesting events can happen!

These surf excursions were how our weekends(At least during the daytime!) were spent. I always likened them to male-bonding sandwiches that were stuffed with delicious waves with extra sea-salt added as flavor! Rain or shine. Snow, sleet or hail, this was standard modus operandi. We had nothing else better to do. We weren't the most domesticated lot! A weekend without a surf trip really wasn't considered a weekend at all in our eyes. Then there was the horrible five-day-wait until next Saturday to get those precious waves that would carry you through the tedium ad nauseum which was our mundane work week. Pranks & bodily functions/noises were not only tolerated, but encouraged. This was our entertainment during the drive to kill time. Dick & fart jokes were all the rage. No topic was ever taboo. Our goal was to 'out-gross' each other & by any means necessary & just laugh as often as humanly possible.

One particular Saturday my roommate Dennis & I woke up hungover on a sunny yet brisk morning & we were stoked! All of the surf forcasts were calling clean 4-6 feet waves. 4-6 feet in the sufing world is pretty much pefection. Fun, rideable waves with long workable lines. It doesn't get much better than this! I was actually up a little before Dennis, so I wolfed down some eggs & toast for some paddling energy. A short while later Dennis was up. Much to his chagrin, I rushed him out of the door before he could eat anything because I really wanted to get on the road. The thought of all of those beautiful waves not being ridden by yours truly was just too much to bear!

On the drive down, I was taking much pleasure in the fact that Dennis was more hungover than I was & his stomach was on the wash-cycle making him simultaneously nauseous & hungry. About 3/4 of the way to the beach, Dennis decides to pull into a McDonald's to relieve himself. That left me in the car, pissed off because I could smell the saltwater in the air at this point which had me completely frothing at the mouth! I was panting like a junkie that needed a fix. I had an extremely stressful work week & needed my surfing release! After about ten minutes, which seemed like an eternity to me, I decided to throw caution to the wind. I hopped out of the car with a purpose, I was going to fuck with Dennis in the bathroom for making me wait in the stupid McDonald's parking lot which was keeping me from my precious waves!

I stormed into the bathroom & checked out the scene. There was one nasty looking urinal & right beside it was the blue divider for the toilet. It was closed & locked. I surmised that Dennis was still taking care of hus business, so I began pounding on the door playing 'Wipe-Out' with my fists.

'What the fuck are you doing in there Dennis! Did you fall in??? What did you eat? It smells like Hot-Garbage! Your ass smells like fucking Hot-Garbage!!!!'

BOOM-BOOM!

I began pounding harder & harder on the stall door.

'HOT-GARBAGE!!!!!'

BOOM-BOOM!

'DENNIS SMELLS LIKE HOT-GARBAGE!!!!'

BOOM-BOOM!

You would think that my pummeling of the stall Dennis would say something. Perhaps yell out a 'Fuck You' or 'Stop It Asshole1' But there was no retort. This perplexed me.

'Say something you silly bastard!'

Nothing. You could hear a pin drop at this point.

I really wanted to provoke a reaction, so surveyed my surroundings once again & saw a full trash can off to my left.

'AIR-RAID!!!!!'

I began lobbing half-eaten burgers, fries, & snot rags over the top of the bathroom stall like they were grenades.

Still nothing.

I went back to the trash & found the cherry for the top of my Hot-Garbage birthday cake, a dirty diaper full of baby shit!

I started to gag as soon as I picked up that bio-hazard of a diaper & blindly tossed the bomb over the stall.

Still nothing.

'That's it! I'm fucking you up!'

BOOOOM!

I kicked in the stall door & to my horror I found a small Mexican man cowered in the fetal position in the corner beside the toilet. He had some baby shit smeared on his cheek & shoulder. I'm not sure who was more terrified @ this point, him or me.

'I no Dennis!'

'I no Dennis!'

'Please no hurt me!!!!!'

Do you remember that scene in the movie 'Animal House' when Bluto, D-Day & Flounder realize that the horse in Dean Wormer's office just had a heart attack & died? Remember how they ran out of the building screaming? That was me. I turned away from the little baby-shit-covered Mexican & bolted out of the McDonald's.

'OH SHIT!OH SHIT!OH SHIT!OH SHIT!OH SHIT!OH SHIT!OH SHIT!'

I was screaming like a little girl running across the parking lot. I did a 'Dukes of Hazzard' hip-slide across the car & dove into the passenger seat. I was cowered down below the dash shaking uncontrllably when Dennis finally came back.

'Um Biff...why are you on the floor???'

'Dude, where the fuck were you!???'

'I took a piss & then decided to grab an Egg McMuffin to go. Was there any particular reason that you ran out of the McDobald's bathroom screaming bloody-murder???'

'Please turn on the car & start driving & I promise I'll explain everything. Just fucking drive right now!!!!'

By the time that I finished telling Dennis the story, he was luaghing uncontrollably & was randomly yelling, 'Hot-Garbage!'

I can laugh about it now, but at the time, I had myself convinced that I was going to be arrested. As we drove the rest of the way to the beach, I was picturing myself in a holding cell with hardened criminals.

'What are you in here for?'

'Assault & Battery on a Mexican midget with baby shit.'

To this day, Dennis still explodes with uncontrollable laughter anytime someone utters, 'Hot-Garbage!'

Ocean City Chronicles: Dan The Glue-Sniffer Gets His Revenge!

From time to time I'm going to journey back to a simpler era long gone, when all I really had to worry about was where my next beer was coming from & who I was going to hook up with that night. Of course I'm talking about Ocean City!!! This little ten & a half mile peninsula off of the coast of Maryland had a profound effect on yours truly & my short 4 summers there is one of the main reasons that I ended up in San Diego.

To say that I met some, let's just call them 'Interesting' Individuals' during my tenure there is an understatement and a half which is why I'm using this entry to discuss Mr. Dan The Glue-Sniffer. This kid was a piece of work. He came from a well-to-do middle class family in the midwest & clearly did too many drugs in his teens. According to some, it takes just 9 hits of acid to be clinically insane. Dan once boasted that he did 12 hits of acid on his last day off from work. You know that guy that you see across a crowded room that just looks 'off' like he's a few tacos short of a platter, that's Dan. He was tall & lanky & just looked perpetually stoned. Kind of like Forrest Gump on LSD(The crazy thing was that apparently he was diagnosed with ADD @ a very young age & had been on Ritalin since he was a child. Go figure!). Now I'm not sure if Dan had in fact ever sniffed glue, but he had the nickname long before I met him & he talked with a slow, articulate drawl, 'Kiiiind offff liiike thiiiiiiiiiis.' The mother-fucker even had his own catch-phrase that he'd constantly interject into sentences so that when he became 'rich & famous' he could 'Patent that shit & make bank!' The catch-phrase was, 'TA-DOW!' That's right. Now just let that roll off of your tongue, 'TAAAA-DOOOOW!' Dan The Glue-Sniffer had his own crew he hung with that consisted of twins, Let's just call then Dee & Dick(I don't want to use their real names because I'm pretty sure @ least one of them is spending quality time in a penitentary somewhere in Southern Florida!). I'm pretty sure that Dee & Dick shared just one brain in-between the two of them. They were scrawny little tow-headed surf rats that finished each other's sentences & mainly just cared about taking as many drugs as they could get their grubby little hands on, surfing & dogging chicks(Not always in this particular order!). The three of them were collectively known around town as the, 'Surfing Retard Triplets.' Funnily enough they were all on the Beach Patrol with me & they always hung out at the bar that I was a doorman at which is how we started haning out. It was fun to wind them up & just let them scamper about bars & cause trouble. Kind of like drinks & a show! One night out I came across Dan The Glue-Sniffer hiding out in a darkened corner of the bar with the twins. The twins had a black marker & were doing what looked like some kind of touch-up work on Dan's face.

'Glue-Sniffer what are you fuck-tards doing hiding back here away from all of the women???'

'Weeeell Biiiff, I kinda got myyyseeelf a bit of a prooooblem.''

Dan turned around to face me.

'Holy shit Glue-Sniffer! Where the fuck is your left eyebrow???

Dan The Glue-Sniffer's left eyebrow had been completely shaved off & the twins were using the black magic marker to draw the worst fake eyebrow ever on Dan's face.

'It looks natural right Biff?' asked Dee.

'We spent a whole 15 minutes on it. He'll still be able to get laid right Biff?' exclaimed Dick.

'If she's good & drunk or possibly on some sort of medication, then you're golden Glue-Sniffer!' I said trying to help raise the poor bastard's spirits.

'Dan, who the fuck did this to you?' I asked.

'Iiit was my fuuuucking rooommate Andy.'

Dan The Glue-Sniffer's roommate Andy was a douche-bag. In fact if you were to go & look up douche-bag in the dictionary, there's probably a picture of this smug fucker off to the right of the definition. Andy wasn't on the Beach Patrol. Andy was am SBF(Surf Beach Facilitator). This job was for hot girls & guys that couldn't pass the Beach Patrol Tryouts(I think that you can guess which category Andy falls into!). This job requires a bit of explaination. Ocean City has a rotating block of beach reserved each day so that people have a place to surf while the lifeguards are on duty. The problem is that a block of beach can be hard to monitor & you constantly have surfers surfing outside the boundaries. The SBF then has to blow their whistle & use flages to get that surfer back inside the reserved block. The reason that you hire hot girls for this job is so that the surfers will hopefully listen to the hot SBF girl. The guy SBF's were usually mocked & disrespected incessantly. In most walk of life, if a person is fucked with, said 'fuckee' will look for someone else to fuck with in order to continue the vicious cycle(Think of it as passive-agressive Darwinism for twenty-somethings!). Well Andy used to like coming home & fucking with Dan The Glue-Sniffer.

'Laaast night I come hoooome & passsed out druuuunk. I woke uuuup in the moooorning with one less eyebrow & Aaaandy wuz braaaging 'bout it to all of his asshooole SBF frieeends.' 'I waant to get baaack @ him, but I doooon't know whuuut to doooooo?'

'Well Glue-Sniffer I'm advising that you don't get into a fight with him. He's way bigger than you & most definitely would kick your ass. I tell you what, I accept your request for retaliation help.'

'Buuut I didn't aaask for yore heeeelp Biff.'

'That's clearly inconsequential. Nobody except for the beach Patrol gets to fuck with you & the twins. I demand justice! Go get some shots & hit on some girls while I flex my creative muscles!'

'TAAA-DOOOW! It's on then!'

I sent Dan The Glue-Sniffer & the twins off on their merry drunken, mind-altered way while I pondered how we could possibly get back at Andy without any sort of physical altercation. This prank was going to have involve subletly & finesse. As the bar was closing, I caught up with Glue-Sniffer stumbling out with a cute, inebriated blonde. Unreal. He speaks like he's brain-damaged & @ this point of the evening, his faux eye-brow had smeared up the side of his forhead(Making him look like a retarded Picasson painting come to life!)from sweat & he still hooks up! Glue-Sniffer had some game or that girl was so drunk that she couldn't see.

'Yo Glue-Sniffer! Do you have off tomorrow?'

'Yesum!'

'Cool! Come by my guard tower. I've got the perfect revenge strategy completely mapped out for you!'

'TAAAA-DOOOW Biffman!'

That morning a dieshevled Dan The Glue-Sniffer looking like death, hiding his one good eyebrow with dark sunglasses, comes stumbling out to my guard tower.

'TAAA-DOOOW Biiiifman!'

'Mahalo to you too fuckface! How was your blonde?'

'She waaas fuuun. But she was pissed that most of my fake eyebrow was on her faaaace when she woke up.'

'Classic! Anyhoo here's what you're going to do in order to get back @ that douche-bag Andy. You're going to drain out about 1/3 of his shampoo & conditioner bottles & then you're going to piss in the shampoo bottle & jerk off into the conditioner bottle!'

'Um, whuuut?'

'Think about it Glue-Sniffer! It's the ultimate undercover prank that pays the most dividends repeatedly!'

'Aww I don't know Biff...'

'I do know Dan! You're too small to beat him up & what's the one thing that Andy loves more than anything???'

'His hair!'

'Exactly!!! Now every time that he showers you will have the satifaction of knowing that your fucking DNA is mixed in with his precious mop-top!'

This point of the conversation involves some explaination. When living in Ocean City, you crammed yourself into 'lifeguard halfway-aninal houses.' The more people living in a house/apartment, the less rent you paid individually. People sometimes quite literally lived on top of each other. Personal toiletries were coveted & guarded. Fucking with someones shampoo was a big deal. Plus douche-bag Andy loved his hair & had a basket full of expensive tioletry goodies.

So again I sent Dan The Glue-Sniffer off on his mission. A week later @ my bar job, an excited Dan comes running up to me.

'Biff, Biff, I diiiid it! I diiiid it!'

'Glue-Sniffer that's great!'

Of course right behind Dan were the twins.

'Biff, Biff! Guess what?'

'I'm kind of afraid to ask, but what Dee & Dick???'

'We did it too?'

'You did what?'

'We pissed & jerked off into his shampoo & conditioner too!'

'Wow guys that's alot of piss & sperm.'

'I shoved his toothbrush up my ass too!' Exclaimed Dee.

'Oh God! Ok you little monsters need to stop! Promise me that you won't fuck with any more of Andy's toiletries. That's overkill you fucking amateurs! Too much will get you caught & get your ass kicked!' Comprendes?'

'Comprendo!'

'Ok, good. Now go do some whip-its or something so that you can kill those pesky last couple brain cells in that bong-watter ridden brain that you two share!'

Later on that night we ran into Andy.

I opened with, 'What's up Andy? Heeey, wow man your hair looks really shiny. What kind of shampoo do you use?'

'Oh Biff I order that shit special. Sorry but it's a trade secret!'

'Ok man. Are you gonna try out for the Beach Patrol again next year. I'm sure if you train really hard you'll make it!'

'Fuck off Biff!'

'Aaah, looks like my work here is done! Fuck you very much Andy!'

The best part of this conversation was Dan & the twins standing in the background fake-jerking off & fake-fellating each other & then acting like they were wiping their sperm on Andy's head. It was all that I could do to hold myself back from busting out laughing!

For the next 2 months, once a week, Dan would put his DNA into Andy's shampoo & conditioner & would then dance around like a child on Christmas morning unwarapping his presents when we'd see Andy out in a bar.

'Hee has mah peeee & speerrrrm in his haaaaair!'

'Yes he does Glue-Sniffer. Yes he does!'

I'm sorry to say that I lost track of Dan over the past couple of years. The last I heard from him, he was moving to Utah to try & become a professional snowboarder & in his words, 'Find the elusive Jack-Mormon girl that will let me stick it in her butt!' Godspeed Dan The Glue-Sniffer, wherever you are! Now go & take your medication!

'I think that we broke Brad!'

Right around the time that I had decided to move back to San Diego, I was stuck in a dead-end job literally in the ghetto just outside of Philadelphia. The problem is that I just couldn't immediately react on my new found epiphany to move back to San Diego. I had to tough this job out for at least 8-10 months to finance my move back. Nothing's worse than when you have to go to a job that you hate every single day. My commute consisted of fighting the Pennsylvania Turnpike for about 30 miles & then funneling my jeep through a small 2 lane highway into the hell on earth which is Levittstown.

Just past the Budweiser Brewery you could literaly see the property values plummet with each deterioratingly gutted hovel of housing projects. On the corner by the 7-11 each day stood a little old lady with a sign that said, 'End War Now!' which is a nice sentiment, but most days her sign was upside-down. I'd then round the corner to my building which was riddled with bullet-holes in certain parts(I'm not even exaggerating here. Some of the lower floor's walls looked like swiss-cheese!). Each morning I'd shake my head & mutter expletives to myself as I marched up the small steps to the gutted office that had exposed wires hanging from the walls & a large fucking hole that stored all of our electronic component inventory. That's right we sold old, rusty connectors lower than cost price. One morning there was even a hostage situation right across the street from our shitty building. I distinctly remember while taking my morning shit, hearing gunfire & I thought to myself, If I get shot & die on this tiolet, I'm going to haunt this fucking place!

Why did I take such a shit job??? For the money of course(We're all whores for money at certain points in our lives kiddies!)! I was offered a base salary higher than I'd ever previously earned with a promise of amazing leads because my newly hired colleagues & I were going to be the future of this shitty company once we moved into a new, safer building. Extending this offer to me was a shyster, Donald Trump wannabe of the highest order who I'm pretty sure after working with him for almost a year was a sociopath. The man would stomp over his grandmother to make an extra fucking buck(More of that in future posts!)& is the purest liar that I've ever encountered. There were 4 new hires all from a slighty less, but still extremely shitty safety products company; Myself, Jay, Greg & Brad.

This, let's just shorten it to JFH(Job From Hell) was all lies. The current employees were old curmudgeons who hated us & would incessantly work to make our lives a living hell while trying to get us fired. I hated every single one of those miserable bastards! When I'm thrown into these types of no-win situations, I have particular defense mechanisms that instantaneously kick in so that I can function like a human being & not burn the fucking building down; humour & passive-aggressive pranks. That's right, I fuck with people! And who do you ask fell victim to my vile, insidous machinations??? Poor, dear Brad! Brad apparently had ADD(Attention Deficit Disorder) & just didn't take the time to think about situations before he reacted & he was just gullible as all get out! Seriously, he fell face first into every trap that I would set up. It was sooo easy & soon I found myself planning more elaborate, drawn out pranks that had more of a long-term bang for your buck(Bear in mind this all started as a way for me to keep my sanity & cope in a fucked-up work environment & snowballed into a full-blown out Brad character study with my 2 cronies Greg & Jay actively participating! Seriously, by the time we all left this shitty company, I could have written a Master's Thesis on Brad,). Here's some of the highlights:

RATE MY POO

Brad never locked his computer when he went to lunch. Big mistake! One day I hopped onto his computer & saved the nastiest picture of overflowing shit from a tiolet that I found on the website ratemypoo.com(This is a real website. I just checked & it's still active!) where people take pictures of their shit & post them on this website & you can rate said shit picture on a scale of 1 to 10(Do people have too much time on their hands to make shit websites? Abso-fucking-lutely!). Now before you label me a fecal-philiac, I'll ahve you know one of my bastard buddies e-mailed me the site. If I had a doller for every time somebody said, 'This is weird, distgusting, & just pain wrong, but I bet you'd like it!' I'd be a millionaire! Anyhoo, I saved this nasty shit picture on his desktop as his screen saver. Flashforward 5 months later, a very distraught Brad hustles over to my desk.

'You sonovabitch I know that I was you!'

'Whatever do you mean Brad(Putting on my best innocent face.)?'

'I know that you put that shit picture on my computer as my screensaver!'

'Brad, I'd neeever do that to you.'

'C'mon man please show me how to fully take it off of my computer!!! I changed it 5 months ago, but every time that I turn my computer on & off, the shit picture pops up for about 10 seconds! Every time I show up in the morning I see shit! Every time I leave to go home I see shit! It's really gross man!'

'I'm sorry Brad, but I don't have any idea what you're talking about.'

'You're an asshole Biff(Yes I am!)'

Brad stormed off in a huff & it took him about another 3 weeks before he finally had the IT guy show him how to get the shit picture fully off of his computer.

THE SCHWARZENEGGER

Did you know that you can assign any type of mpeg that you want to incoming e-mails on your computer? Well you can! One afternoon I pulled up sound bytes from The Terminator movies. I settled on the line when, Arnold says in that famous thick Austrian Terminator voice, 'Fuck You Asshole!' I then assigned said sound byte to Brad's incoming e-mail & let Jay & Greg in on the fun. I cranked the volume on Brad's computer as high as it would go & then we all waited for him to get back from lunch. Brad came back & began making phone calls to customers. We proceeded to e-mail Brad like mad. All of a sudden in mid sales pitch, the office erupts with,

'FUCK YOU ASSHOLE! FUCK YOU ASSHOLE! FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!'

Then all you hear is Brad exclaiming,

'What??? No sir I didn't call you an asshole. I think that there's something wrong with my computer.'

Brad cupped his phone & screamed,

'You guys are assholes!!!'

It took him about a week to get that one fixed. I think that he unhooked his speakers. Smart move Brad!

But the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back would have to be what came to be known as:

THE WARREN SAPP

Brad was a diehard Eagles fan. Every team that the Eagles played, Brad just hated. How dare they even attempt to beat my precious Eagles & Troy Aikman from the Cowboys is a fag(His words not mine.)!!! Well the Buccaneers were coming into town & this was when Warren Sapp was still playing for them. All week Brad had been smack-talking Warren Sapp, droning on about how big of a cheap-shot artist he is & how he was going to get his ass kicked on Sunday. At this point Jay & Greg had already been actively participating in my shenanigans with Brad & they had a whopper of an idea. Jay started a bogus Buccaneers fansite & wote up a little rant about how the Buccaneers sucked & Warren Sapp was gay & signed Brad's name with his direct work line attached. We then told Brad about said site & showed him the webiste . As Brad was pulling this site up, Greg called Brad's work line from his cell phone outside & screamed into the phone,

'Hey you Brad mother-fucker! What's this shit I hear about you talking smack about my Buccaneers & Warren Sapp???'

Brad melted down & went complete apeshit screaming,

'You fucking assholes better take that my name & work number off of that site! That's so unprofessional! How am I supposed to do my job??? That's so not cool! AAAAAAAUUUUGGGHHHHH!!!'

As Brad ran out of the building screaming, Jay looked at me @ said,

'Oh shit! I think that we broke Brad!'

We caught up with Brad about half a block away & started to calm him down explaining that the webiste was bogus & it was taken down. We cut Brad alot of slack after the last prank & just concentrated on getting the hell out of JFH(Job From Hell).

I can't say for certain, but after 'The Warren Sapp incident' I could swear that Brad had a little tick when he'd talk to us. I was convinced that one morning he was going to come into our shitty office with a semi-automatic & kill all of us. I lost track of Brad after I moved back out to San Diego. Hopefully he hasn't killed anyone!

Pay Your Asshole Tax!!!

I have a dark gift. I can make you go from happy to pissed off in less than 10 seconds flat. I don't let this 'Hatchet-Man' come out of my psyche as often as I used to. To tell you the truth, I'm normally a pretty mellow guy. It's hard to pull off the 'Young Angry Man' bit when you're 36 fucking years old! It's actually quite sad. When I was younger, people used to say that I had only two gears, 1st & 5th. I was either so mellow that you'd swear that I was stoned all of the time or I was in fifth gear just going off like a manic, spastic sprinkler. Thankfully, as I became a little older(& some might speculate, a wee bit wiser!), I found 2nd, 3rd, & 4th gear to add a little balance to Mellow-Biff & Hatchet-Man(I'll bet you'd have never guessed that I'm a schizophrinic Gemini bastard!).

Well there was a succession of progressing events that lead to the rusty shackles loosening just enough so that old Mr. Hatchet-Man could wreak havic in sunny Souther California recently. I just want to let it be known that I'm not giving you lame excuses here to condone my behavior in the story that I'm about to tell you, it's just that I want you to understand where I was coming from with my bad behavior. Sometimes I feel shameful about my actions & eventually relent & apologoze, other times I just leave it hanging out there like an akward silence on a bad blind-date. Ok, here goes......

By all rights, I enjoy my new job(Yes, I am employed again, but I'm very much unemployed in many other facets of my life. Please see, 'Manic Introspection' for a futher explaination. 'Natch!). The one major complaint that I have with said new job would be the commute which is about 40 miles each way from Pacific Beach to Carlsbad(Yeah, yeah! I know what you're thinking, 'Fuck you Biff! I live on the east coast I we got 20 feet of snow this winter! You've got no right to complain! Well it's my blog, so if you don't like it, go read a blog about puppy dogs & ice-cream. If you do read a blog like that, I hope that you're lactose-intolerant & shit yourself!). Compund an 80 mile-round commute with some of the worst drivers on the face of the planet & you have a recipe for disaster! I left work & 40 minutes later as I finally exited off of Garnett into Pacific Beach I was fucking livid!

Oh wait, I forgot to tell you something!

-REWIND(Feel free to add your own sound-effects here!)-

I forgot to mention that I was smack-dab in the middle of a detox diet. Twice a year or so, I do this sort of thing. The rationale is kind of two-fold. When It comes to my own personal health & fitness, I'm a bit of a masochist(Hell, a few years ago, I was on this kick where I'd workout so hard that I'd end up making myself vomit. That calamity came to a screeching halt when I tore my right pectorial muscle. But I'm saving that story for a future blog post & yes it's even more painful than it fucking sounds!) & I have to stay thin because I'm a vain bastard & the type of women that I'm attracted to out here aren't usually 'chubby-chasers!' This detox diet was brutal. I wasn't consuming any sugar, coffee & almost zero carbohydrates. This fucking diet was for 5 weeks & let me tell you, 5 weeks without carbohydrates really messes with your mental state! Also, San Diego was going through a series of unusal weather patterns. It had been raining every weekend for the past 3 weekends! Since it rarely rains out here(I know woah is me! Rain!!!) & the drainage systems haven't been ugraded since the 40's, all of the nasty run-off finds it's way to the Pacific Ocean. Unless you like sinus-infections & hepatitis, you really should wait about 48 hours after a rainfall before surfing. You can see how this pretty much hara kiri's my weekend surfing plans! So if, 'All work & no play makes Jack a dull boy' & 'No tv & beer makes Homer go crazy' you can see how, 'No carbohydrates, coffee, & surf makes Biff downright homocidal!'

Ok we're caught up now.

-FASTFORWARD-

I am livid from the swerving bumper-car traffic on my 5 South commute home. I turn right to drive up Mt.Soledad Road. This is a back way into Pacific Beach where you can normally avoid the nasty Garnett Street rush-hour traffic. As the fates would have it, not today. Not today by a longshot! The traffic was backed up at least a quarter mile, so cars had to start lining up in the median between the yellow lines separating north & south traffic. I grudgingly took my spot in the median while silently hating & wishing colon cancer on the drivers in every single car in front of me. I immediately notice that the village-idiot in the car ahead of me has decided that he's too good to move his car into the median with the rest of us drones. What's worse, I can see that this jackass is texting away on his fucking phone(Which is illegal, while driving in the state of California by the way!). Then cars started to line up behind this asshole, completely snarling traffic. I literally could feel the steam coming out of my ears. 'Should I do it???' 'Reaaally, should I????'

Angel on my left shoulder:

'No Biff! Take the high road. That man might very well be an oblivious jerk, but do you really want to stoop to his level???"

Devil on my right shoulder:

'Fuck him! He's an asshole that needs to be taught a lesson!'

Angel:

'Biff don't do it!' You'll be home in 10 minutes. Why don't you go take a nice walk on the beach & forget about this?'

Devil:

'Just imagine that guy is sexting your-ex fiancee & let him have it! Hatchet-Man rides again!!!!'

FUCK IT!

I pull my car up into the space where Mr. Oblivious should have been & completely block him out. Mr. Oblivious suddenly becomes perturbed & rolls down his wondow & shouts at me,

'Hey buddy! Why in the hell did you take my spot! Let me in there!'

I look him square in the eye & say,

'It's called the 'Asshole-Tax' & you're paying it right now with interest!

Mr. Oblivious says,

'You're the asshole, asshole!'

I retort,

'Is that the best comeback that you can think of??? You're an asshole, asshole? How's about this? SHUT THE FUCK UP! ROLL UP YOUR FUCKING WINDOW & DRIVE UP THE FUCKING HILL SO THAT YOU STOP BLOCKING TRAFFIC OR SO HELP ME GOD, I WILL GET OUT OF MY CAR, RIP YOUR FACE OFF & FUCKING EAT IT!!!!!!!!!!'

Mr. Oblivious took my subtle advice & drove away. It's probably a good thing that he did as well because I come from a long line of angry Irishmen who have all dragged people out of cars for doing much less(I wish I was exaggerating in that last sentence, but unfortunately I'm not!).

As I drove to the supermarket to pick up some asparagus, broccoli & chicken breasts(I told you that I'm a healthy mother-fucker!) my anger began to subside, but Hatchet-Man wasn't completely re-shackled yet. I was strolling though the parking lot towards the entrance, when I came upon a girl-scout troop selling girl-scout cookies. I don't like girl-scout cookies because they are entirely too tasty(I seriously believe that herion might be a key ingedient!) & with every box that you finish(Because you can't ever eat just fucking one!), you lose a little-bit of your soul! These girl-scouts were aggressive & annoying. When I have a shopping agenda, I normally don't like to deviate from said agenda. So any attempt to peddle your wares in my general direction is usually met with a healthy does of sarcasm & distain.

C'mon mister buy some cookies! They'll make you feel real good!'

Angel on my left shoulder:

'Oh shit! Biff they're little girl-scouts, do not say it! I mean it! Do you realize how many karma points you're going to burn with this stunt???'

Devil on my right shoulder:

'Oh yes! Say it! Say it! Hatchet-Man cometh!'

FUCK IT

'I'm sorry I don't purchase girl-scout cookies becasue they make you fat.'

Angel:

'I've got to find a new gig!'

Devil:

'Hatchet-Man round two! Ding, ding ding!'

One of the girl-scout's mothers approaches me & says,

'What do you mean girl-scout cookies make you fat???'

I retort,

'Think about it. There's really no nutritinal value in that box. I'd be better of eating a twinkie.'

Girl-Scout Mom,

'What's wrong with you asshole???'

I say,

'What's wrong with me? You're the 'Obesity-Merchant' getting into people's faces, trying to make them feel bad & purchase your precious cookies! Plus you just cursed in front of all of these little girl-scouts. Now young ladies, should you kiss your mommy if she swears??'

Suprisingly most of them said, 'No.'

'Well did you hear that? From the mouths of babes. I do believe that my work here is finished!'

'GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!!!'

'Thank you very little, don't mind if I do!'

Driving home, with a bit of a smirk on my face I contemplated, Did I cross a line? Well yes, I fractured the shit out of it! Certain situations tend to bring out certain aspects of my personality. Sometimes you get the best of me & other times the worst(Thankfully in my older age, it's mostly the good.) Mr. Hatchet-Man was finally shackled back up as I entered my beach bungalow & turned on the television. One of those awful commercial with the sad Sara McLaughlin song playing in the background & the montage of abused dogs was playing. Oh God no! I hate these commcercials! The dogs just keep staring at you! I frantically began pounding on my remote to change the channel, but the batteries were dead! I'm paying the 'Asshole-Tax!!!'

An Evening With Henry

Last Wednesday I had the pleasure of spending the evening with one of my personal heroes, Mr. Henry Rollins. Henry Rollins is a punk rock icon & oh so much more. He'll always be known as the lead singer of the seminal Los Angeles punk rock group Black Flag & then his later solo work in The Rollins Band. He's an actor, author, philanthropist, tour guide, & my personal favorite; a raconteur. This man travels, everywhere & has seen & experienced some extremely cool shit! He's quite literally been all over the world doing his 'Spoken Word Performances.' Thankfully the man usually makes 1-2 stops in Southern California around my neck of the hood each year. The show was after work down in Solana Beach @ The Belly-Up Tavern(Is that the best name for a bar or what!?) & I arrived early. Well extremely fucking early(About 3hrs before showtime.) because I wasn't about to fight the rush hour traffic going home & then turn around in two hours & do the same fucking thing. I strolled up to the box-office, picked up my ticket(Shockingly I was the first patron there!) & noticed that the merch guy was already setting up the t-shirt stand. I perused the fine choices of shirts & settled on a black long-sleeve one w/Henry on the front that said, 'The Frequent Flyer Tour-Knowledge Without Mileage Equals Bullshit(And yes I wore this shirt to work on Friday because it was 'Casual Friday. Natch!).'

Once the doors opened, I settled into a middle seat right in the front row. The Stooges song 'Down On The Street' from their classic 'Funhouse' album(If you don't own this album, you suck & must rectify this situation immediatedly! Seriously, It's Iggy & The Stooges! Buy &/or download it now!!!) blared over the intercom & as we all patiently waited for Henry to make his entrance & start the show, my thoughts drifted back to the Fall of '91 when I first discovered punk rock. I was smack dab in the middle of pledging Phi Kapa Theta(Ooh Raah Fuck!) Fraternity & having the time of my life. I did notice that I was starting to get some grief about my choice of music from one particular fraternity brother though, Sluggo.

'Biff, seriously dude! How many Public Enemy & RUN D.M.C. t-shirts do you own?'

'Alot of 'em.'

'Is that all you fucking listen to?'

'Well, yeah.'

This was true, Somewhere around the ninth & tenth grade I discovered N.W.A. & I listened to rap non-stop for over three years, so I rolled into my college years being extremely, 'Down With O.P.P.'

'Dude! There's nothing wrong with listening to rap, but you're in college man! Broaden your muscial fucking horizons! Have you ever heard of Black Flag or Social Distortion???'

'No who are they?'

With the look of sheer disgust, that Sluggo threw me, you'd have thought that I anally raped his mother while puring sugar into his car's gas tank!

'Biff! You grew up in the suburbs! The boonies actually! Think about it! If you were ever dropped off in any form of ghetto, you'd get your ass kicked!' 'Even though some of that music's good, how can you really relate to it???'

'Well, you do have a point there.'

'No fucking shit I have a point! Now I'm gonna play a song for your stupid rap-ass & I want you to reeallly listen to it? Can you handle that Mr. Public Enemy???'

'Sure thing Slugs.'

Sluggo popped in a cd. The musiC started & I was immediately hooked. The song was Social Distortion's, 'Ball & Chain.' The lead singer Mike Ness nasally drawled out the lyrics,

'Well it's been ten years & a thousand tears

And look at the mess I'm in

A broken nose & a broken heart,

An empty bottle of gin

Well I set & I pray

In my broken down Chevrolet

While I'm singing to myself

There's got to be another way

Take away, take away

Take away this ball & chain.'

Thus began my love-affair with punk rock. It was like I finally found an outlet to express myself. I soaked in as much classic punk rock as my brain would take, much like a a sponge filling up with water. Thankfully Sluggo & the rest of my Phi Kap brethren were fucking punk rock oracles! They supplied me with a crash-course education in Punk Rock 101 & Black Flag was at the top of the curriculum. Black Flag was like my gateway drug into the world of loud, catchy three-string anthems. I started with their album, 'The First Four Years' & then moved on to 'Damaged.' 'Damaged' Henry Rollin's first album with Black Flag & from there I discoved some of his recorded Spoken Word Performances, most notably, 'The Boxed Life.' It felt like he was speaking to me & had a direct line into my thought-process. Then I discovered that he had written books as well(I highly recommend starting out with the first book in his 'Black Coffee Blues series, 'Smile You're Traveling.') & I tore into those as well with intensified glee. Needless to say, Henry's music, spoken word performances, books & movies have been a mainstay in my life. I've been hooked ever since. So as Henry came bounding out onto the stage @ The Belly-Up Tavern & lit into the crowd telling stories & opinions as only he can, I couldn't help but laugh & crack a warm smile. I will always support Henry & as long as he keeps coming to San Diego, I'll never miss a show!

'Don't try to justify your complacency with me. That's not adventure. That's a job!' -Henry Rollins

Fred Durst was right!

I've liked women ever since I could remember. My mother has notes from teachers explaining how, 'Young Timothy is entirely too interested in the young ladies in his class.' This was the third or fourth grade! Anyways, this healthy obsession of the fairer sex has led me to... let's just call them challenging quandaries.

Any guy that's ever been in a relationship with a woman has agreed or volunteered to do something that, if they weren't sleeping with or trying to sleep with said female, would never even consider doing. These requests can vary from the mundane, such as chick-flicks, watcing American Idol, landscaping(I actually did that for a girl once!) to complete bat-shit crazy, such as, 'Can you pick up my foreign friend in Mexico & drive him across the border? He lost his Passport & has a big bag of Ecstacy(A girl I dated for like a week fucking asked me to do that! Obviously I said no & we broke up shortly thereafter.). The problem is we as the male species, sometimes are very simple & revert back to our most base, feral instincts as hunter/gatherers(Eating, sleeping, & fucking-Amen!) & if the 'booty' is good, we'll usually fall right in line & say ok! As that sage prophet Fred Durst of Limp Bizkit so eloquently stated in his mid-nineties opus, 'I did it all for the nookie!!!' Indeed! Good 'booty', hell even just alright 'booty' will make a guy do some pretty strange shit.

Case in point, a few years back, I was dating a Korean woman named Chi. Chi means spirit & let me tell you she had it in spades! Chi was equal parts beautiful & blunt. She had this gift of 'blankness' where she would look deep into your eyes, monotonically call you a fucking asshole & make you believe that it was a compliment. She ran a spa that specialized in facials, manicures, massages & also laser-hair removal, which is where my stupid, horny ass comes into the equation. We had been dating for a couple of weeks & she had just purchased the latest state-of-the-art laser hair removal gun & hired a new nurse that she wanted to get some experience playing with said tool. Using her gift of 'blankness' she sweet-talked me into being the guinea-pig of this operation. Laser hair removal, as defined in the Wikipedia is as follows,

'The primary principle behind laser hair removal is selective photothermolysis (SPTL). Lasers can cause localized damage by selectively heating dark target matter, (melanin), in the area that causes hair growth, (the follicle), while not heating the rest of the skin. Light is absorbed by dark objects, so laser energy can be absorbed by dark material in the skin (but with much more speed and intensity).'

What they forgot to mention is that if not administered properly, it fucking hurts! But I digress, Since the 'booty' was good, & being a good guy(A.K.A. Thinking with my dick!), I reluctantly agreed. Since I did frequently shave my chest(I don't anymore.), I figured , 'what the hell, It'll save me some time in the shower right???' So I enter Chi's spa not entirely sure what to expect. I'm instructed to take my shirt off & lay down on a table.

'Does this stuff cause cancer?' I asked, 'Quit being such a fucking pussy Beef! Everything causes cancer. This air that you're breathing will probably give you cancer. Who gives a fuck(This is how she pronounced my name. It sounds much cuter than when it's typed, trust me!)!' 'Fine. Whatever! Just fucking zap me then, I'm here aren't I??? Do your worst!'

She threw me a sly smile & called in the new nurse. She looked like she was pushing 60 & not happy to be there. She picked up the laser gun & asked Chi how to point it.

'Wait a minute. Shouldn't she already know how to point that thing???' 'Shut the fuck up Beef!' 'Ok, sorry, fuck!'

So cranky-nurse begings zapping the hair follicles on my chest & abdomen. The first round wasn't so bad, but she didn't apply enough pressure, so taskmaster Chi insisted on a round two. This is when the pain started, but I kept my mouth shut until she finished.

'Why does it smell like bacon in here?' 'Stop being a fucking pussy Beef, that's your skin. It's just irritated, but that smell will go away.' 'Well that's just lovely. Are we hanging out tonight?' 'No, not until you heal & stop smelling like fucking bacon!' 'Gee thanks!'

Nonchalantly, she gave me some antibacterial ointment & sent my on my merry, bacon-smelling, way.

I went out downtown that night, got a wee-bit drunk & passed out accordingly. I woke up in the morning with the strangest sensation emanating from my chest & abdomen. It felt like a horrible case of poison ivy! I stumbled over to the bathroom mirror & let out a scream. My chest & abdomen were chunky, swollen & red. It looked like I had C-Cups filled with lumpy oatmeal! I grabbed my phone & called Chi.

'Hello?' 'Chi, what the fuck did you do to me!!!' 'Calm down down & tell me what happened?' 'My chest & abdomen are swollen like cottage-cheese& it looks like I have fucking man boobs! This is not a good look for me' 'Oh shit. That's fucking infected Beef!' 'No shit Chi! What should I do???' 'Keep using that bacterial ointment that I gave you. Oh yeah, you probably shouldn't drink, workout or surf until the swelling subsides.' 'Dammit Chi that's pretty much all that I do!' 'Well read a fucking book or something then because you can't do shit until you heal! Don't worry baby, I'll take care of you!' 'Ok cool, do you want to hang out tonight?' 'No way! Not until you heal cuz that shit's gross!'

Chi wanted me to do two more sessions for the procedure to take permanent affect, but I declined. We dated for the rest of the summer & then broke up when she started nursing school. Sigh.... The things that we do for love, or in my case, 'I did it all for the nookie!

Marine Psychology

Strange things can happen if you log enough time in the ocean. You're just so emboldened when you're catching wave after wave that this imaginary protective bubble seems to have encased you & your friends. It's not a bad way to spend a Saturday afternoon! Weird shit abounds my life on a regular basis on good old terra ferma, so why shouldn't it happen in the Pacific Ocean as well right???

For starters, my friends & I tend to get a little loopy at times after being in the ocean for a few hours. Think of it as a nitrogen narcosis of the brain, just without the nitrogen or lack of oxygen. Case in point; When I was in Philadelphia back in 2001, I spent most weekends down at Long Beach Island on the Jersey Shore surfing with my select crew of friends who lived in Philadelphia that actually surfed(They weren't too hard to find. There was actually a support group, Land-Locked Anonymous' where I found them. Just kidding!). We would be just hung-over, dehydrated & generally loopy & stupid shit would just start flowing out of our pores much like the alcohol when we perspired. One particular Saturday my friend Jeremy was in rare form. Let me restate that, he's always in rare form. He's a walking-talking 'Id.' There just isn't a filter when it comes to Jeremy & whatever pops into his brain, no matter how vulgar or profane, would just come spilling out of his mouth & he would smile like a toddler that just shit himself & was proud that he made a doody! One time in college when he was visiting campus, he spent 3 hours walking around to girls saying, 'Chicken or beef?' until one girl finally took him home with her(One time he just walked around saying that he'd suck Ozzy Osbourne's cock just to see how people would react!). He's a great guy to go out with as well obviously. He's pretty much drinks & a show wrapped up in a tight bow of good old-fashioned crazy. Just wind him up & let him run amuck! Anyhoo, we were out surfing & there were 10-15 minute lulls in-between sets & Jeremy started to sing,

'Turn around...'

And I responded, 'Every now & the I get a little bit lonely & you're never coming around...'

And Jeremy, 'Turn around...'

And I, 'Every now & then I get a little bit tired of listening to the sound of my tears..'

'Turn Around....'

'Every now & then I get a little bit terrified & I see the look in your eyes...'

Then all of a sudden, a big burly dude with a beard behind us bellows,

'TURN AROUND BRIGHT EYES...!!!'

Jeremy & I looked at each other & then turned to burly, bearded dude & together we sang,

'Every now & the I fall apart! And I need you now tonight! And I need you more than ever! And if you only hold me tight, we'll be holding on forever!'

You can only imagine the looks of disgust & horror as the rest of the surfers in the lineup furiously paddled away from the trio of grown men belting out Bonnie Tyler's power Ballad, 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' at the top of our lungs. It was one of the single most emasculating experiences that I've participated in & it was fucking hilarious!

You can cause strange events to happen in the ocean with yor idiot, degenerate friends & other times fate shines it's unforgiving high beams directly into your face & much like a deer caught in headlights, you have to just stand still & pray that car doesn't hit you & swerves. A few years back I was out playing in my backyard, A.K.A. the Pacific Ocean, & found myself surfing in an extremely uncrowded lineup. It was myself & a Hawaiian dude that I regularly see out at my main break where I typically surf. Now it's always safer to surf in a group, but occaisionally you will be out there by your lonesome because you need to get your wave quota for that week. This was one of those solo seesion days. The first hour or so was fine, even schools of dolphins were making their way North around me. This is a normal occurance. I see dolphins practically every time that I surf. At times they do come close to you, but on this fateful day they made contact with me literally! I had just caught a wave & was paddling back out into thelineup when 8 or 9 dolphins started precariously circling me clockwise. I just sat on my board dumbfounded at the sight. 'What the fuck are they doing???' I said to myself as they slowly closed the circle. Closer. Closer. Closer. Now they were walled up completely around my surfboard & BUMP, they made contact! 2 of the dolphins were literally against my legs!!! Their skin felt like wet sandpaper against my exposed flesh. I was pretty much shitting my pants at this point & my defense mechanism conisted of me stroking the dolphins on either side of me like lapdogs & I started saying, 'Good boys! Good boys! I'm your friend! I'm one of the good guys! One of them had a scar above his eye that looked like he'd been in a fight & he was calmly, calculatingly staring right into my eyes. It almost seemed like they were herding me away from something. This spectacle lasted probably for only 10 minutes, but it seemed like an eternity for me. I have never been so simultaneously excited & scared at the same time. Then as quickly as my 'Aquaman' experience began, it ended. They dispersed out into the deep blue sea & I sat there in shock. The Hawaian dude just south of me yelled out, 'brah, what da fuck was that! You got dolphin catnip or something?' I yelled back, 'Your guess is as good as mine. I don't have a fucking clue???' I caught a wave in & sat on the beach for an hour just staring out into the sea wondering, 'Why did you do that to me my dolphin friends?'

When I got home that afternoon, I did a little research online & found out that there have been instances where dolphins have encircled & herded humans who are close to their babies or are around sharks. My blood ran cold. Could it be? Were those dolphins protecting me from becoming a Happy Meal for a shark??? I know other times that I've been in the ocean & someone thought they 'saw' a shark that we'd always pull our surboards together so that from underneath the water we'd seem larger than we actually were. That way the shark would view us as a threat & move on(I've seen countless hours of Shark' Week' on the Discovery Channel that validates this theory.).

Did this experience deter me from surfing. Hell no! I went surfing at the exact same spot the next day. Technically, you have a better chance of being struck by lightning than being attacked by a shark. I refuse to live my life in fear & deny myself the pleasure of surfing. That's just not living & besides how the hell else can I sing(Badly!) power ballads from 80's pop divas???