Jack Robinson is Australia's prince. Blue eyes, hacksaw haircut, beaming, gleaming with enthusiasm. A Joel Parkinson-esque style married to a John John level of skill. Today he won the Pipe Invitational, and a wildcard into the Pipeline Masters, with… one wave. A nine-plus, leaving Jamie O and Mason Ho to scrap over second place. | Photo: WSL

Just in: Jack Robinson wins Pipe Invitational!

Beats Mason Ho and Jamie O’Brien with one wave in a piss monsoon!

Sometimes it’s hard to believe you’ve reached adulthood. Time flies by so fast!

Do you remember when Jack Robinson was a tween with a hacksaw haircut and squeezing the trigger on five-foot oops at Gas Bay? You could almost imagine him sitting in your lap cooing like a pussycat.

Today, surfing against men almost twice his age, including the fleshy, but not really fat, Jamie O’Brien, who finished second, Jack’s vigour and skill was announced. In every heat, but his semi, he had the highest scoring wave.

In waves heavy enough that Sunny Garcia wasn’t even sure the contest should’ve been called on.

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From his first heat, Jack Robinson was maddeningly perfect.

And there was a quarter final where he served his opponents nuts.

A semi-final walkthrough.

And the final where he cut open Jamie O’Brien, Mason Ho and Kekoa Cazimero with… one wave.

“Jack absolutely killed it,” said Jamie O’Brien afterwards.

He did.

Welcome to adulthood.

 


"Listen, just because I have cheek bones doesn't mean I won't throw down."

Just in: Actor Rob Lowe in surf fight!

Belts local surfer in head! "Don't let the pretty fool ya!"

Once, Rob Lowe was the hottest thing in Hollywood. In his twenties, he banged off consecutive hit films: The Outsiders, St Elmo’s Fire, About Last Night, Tommy Boy. 

And so beautiful, god he was beautiful. Brownish hair, sculptural cheek bones, tits like plums.

All my little girlfriends at the time would stick posters of Rob Lowe on their wall and compare, and in my case contrast, his beauty to the rest of the world. I was satisfied when a video-taped threesome of Rob and two gals, one a 16 year old, was fed to the world and he spent the next decade scrapping around for work.

Anyway, he surfs. And fights!

On the Late Late Show with James Cordon, Lowe proudly admitted to belting a local surfer who’d grabbed his leash.

“People, don’t let the pretty fool ya,” he says. “Listen, just because I have cheek bones doesn’t mean I won’t throw down.”

Beautiful, a sense of humour and… brutal! How can you not admire?

 


Strider Wasilewski, the owner of the greatest tits that ever lived! Sea Bass ain't even game to look at those attack dogs!

History: The hottest surf words!

Attack dog tits! Chopes! Club Sandwich! Seven-mile miracle! Who coined 'em?

You talk like a surfer don’t you? Of course! We all do! Because we are!

We say things like punt, froth, tail waft, stab, tube, tub, slash, carve, nip and tuck. We go to places named Chopes, the Superbank, the Seven Mile Miracle. And we look, longingly, at hot, hot attack dog tits.

But where did these words come from? They were not etched into stone from God’s mouth by Moses’s hand, if you can believe. They were, instead, coined by surf writers! So let’s give them their credit!

Matt Warshaw: Seven Mile Miracle

Our beloved historian used it as the title of a story and I don’t know if a finer turn of phase has ever been.

Vaughn Blakey: Punt, froth, tail waft

Where would we be if we couldn’t say punt? Air? Did you see that air? That was a nice air? Boring! But not anymore. What a punt! I am sooooo frothing!

Sam McIntosh: Chopes

Dear Sam elevated Teahupo’o to legendary status by dubbing it a thing that western tongues can utter.

Derek Rielly: Club sandwich, Superbank, Strider Wasilewski’s attack dog tits

Derek coined “superbank” referring to that man-made wonder wave that once  stretched from Snapper to Cairns, though he first named it “supabank” because “supa” was cool back then.

More importantly, first called Strider Wasilewski’s gorgeous chest “attack dogs” in a story headlined:  Strider’s Steroidal Tits Overwhelm Day One Fiji! Kelly is deposited into round two (so what’s new!), Gabriel makes a sharpish return and we gaze at Strider’s attack dog tits! 

That was six months ago!

And six months before that, there was this! 

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Watch here as Strider makes those those tits dance and announces that his “attack dogs” are open for biz.

And now you know!


When I die, writes Rory Parker, I want you to avenge me, keep cock away from my wife, encase me in resin (to scare children), send pointless bouquets and… clone me.

Confession: If I Die Tomorrow

Please force celibacy on my wife and encase me in resin to scare children… 

Off to Oahu tomorrow morning for yet another damn ear surgery. Oof, no fun. But I’ve been here before, recovery’s not a problem, just some pain and patience and before you know it everything is a-okay.

I’m going under general anesthesia though, and I hate that shit. Plenty of people don’t wake up, and that’s not how I want to go out.

“Count backwards from ten…” Transition to endless nothing.

In the event that I don’t wake up, that an out-patient procedure proves to be my pathetic undoing, I’d like to leave behind my final requests.

We’ve talked it over, and I’ve myself very clear that she is NOT to move on with her life. No remarriage, no finding solace in another’s arms. In her wedding vows she swore to throw herself on my funeral pyre so she could continue to serve me in Valhalla (that’s what you get when you make me write them for you), but I know she won’t.

Not that I’ll know if you follow through. If there is an afterlife (there isn’t) I’ll be too busy haunting everyone who’s ever wronged me (I keep a list!) to make sure my wishes are followed

Avenge me!

Don’t worry about who deserves what, just deliver some good old fashioned frontier justice on my behalf. I’m talking post French revolution Reign of Terror vibe. Hold everyone accountable, regardless of culpability.

Make sure my wife remains celibate

We’ve talked it over, and I’ve myself very clear that she is NOT to move on with her life. No remarriage, no finding solace in another’s arms. In her wedding vows she swore to throw herself on my funeral pyre so she could continue to serve me in Valhalla (that’s what you get when you make me write them for you), but I know she won’t. Cuz Valhalla ain’t real, and if it were I’m damn sure dying on an operating table wouldn’t get you there.

Don’t donate in my name

Send flowers. They’re wasteful, pointless, and won’t mean a thing to the rotting hunk of meat that previously contained my identity. And I think that’s kind of funny.

Speaking of that hunk of meat…

Disposal of corpse

I’d like my former body to be arranged in a suitably scary position, sealed in a large block of resin, and used to scare children. Like, kid won’t eat his broccoli? That’s two hours locked in a closet with Rory.

Everyone wants to leave a legacy, an entire generation of emotionally scarred children should be mine.

Clone me

I know the technology doesn’t exist, yet. But, when it does, I’d like a few dozen Rorys grown in a lab, then pitted against each other in a winner-take-all death match. This will create a sort of super-me, bigger, stronger, faster, smarter, more cunning, which will then overthrow the galactic empire and take control of spice mining operations on Arrakis.

You can likely find some usable DNA in one of the crusty socks under my bed that the wife is always telling me to clean up because “they’re fucking disgusting.”


Surfer Magazine fan enjoying the latest edition. | Photo: Matt Warshaw

Rumor: Surfer drops Mag!

And it only costs $40,000.00!

Your favorite elderly gentleman’s leisure lifestyle publication is, allegedly, going to have a radical make-over! That’s right, the surfermag.com come that you know and love is on its way to becoming……drumroll…..just surfer.com! And that bit of cosmetic surgery cost, maybe, a mere $40,000.00!

Where Surfer came up with $40,000.00 is one very good question but why they did not own surfer.com to begin with in the first place is maybe a better one. The magazine is our grand dame, in existence since 1960, long before the Internet was a twinkle in Al Gore’s eye. Did maybe Steve Hawk or Sam George, editors in the 1990s and early 2000s think that the World Wide Web was a silly fad or did they like the trendy sounding mag tail that was trendy in the mid-2000s but now clearly dated?

Who can ever say, but what is more, how will the new surfer.com look? Will it feature an online store selling comfort boardshorts and Old Guys Rule t-shirts? Will it host a forum where grumpy octogenarians can complain about never being respected/listened to/cared about? Oh wait! That’s already there! forum.surfermag.com!

Will the print magazine disappear entirely? And is the squatter who owned surfer.com going to use his $40,000.00 to build a real life Star Wars Speeder Bike and visit Comic-Con for the first time? So many questions! Hopefully answers coming soon and, as always, we’ll keep you up to date.