WSL gives a beautiful demonstration of the sunk-cost fallacy…
I got a sick sense of joy watching the Vans US Open of Surfing unfold on my laptop today. It was a hopping, groveling mess; a beautiful demonstration of the sunk-cost fallacy that delivered on a promise of schadenfreude for which I’ve been eagerly awaiting the past ten or so days. The WSL’s first big outing was a flop, and everything surrounding it has been appalling.
A supposed $100k extension bought the men a taste of the women’s tour. God only knows how much the guys who washed out during their luck-of-the-draw shitfest heats enjoyed dishing out the dough for the last-minute airfare changes and hotel booking extensions that earned them the privilege of making a mockery of both their ability and the notion that surfing can ever be a mainstream sport.
How quickly we forget the pre-Dream Tour days when the athletes fought to ensure that the right thing would happen when a contest doesn’t deliver: the points get split, the prizemoney does too. Gabby doesn’t like it, and why should he? When Micro makes the surf look small no one should be in the water.
Perrow’s bosses are mad that Medina said a swear. Freddy P had a meltdown.
So did Josh Kerr.
Fustration/anger are emotions I really try to stay away from! Today that didn’t work!
The commentator clowns insist on referring to the WSL in the third person, as though it were a sanctioning body rather than a sideshow.
The cabinet beneath my bathroom sink sits slightly ajar. This morning, when I was shaving, I leaned in to get a better look at my throat. My thighs pressed against the door and pushed it shut, pinching the tip of my dick. It only caught a tiny bit of flesh, but it was enough to make me screech and jump back, totally confused by the sudden stabbing pain in my cock.
I’m sure it looked funny to an outside observer, but like today’s event, it was no fucking fun at all to take part in.
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