"Get lost bums!"

Public beach access is very much taken for granted in the windy and cold (this morning) state of California. Oh there are certainly some crotchety homeowners in enclaves like Malibu who dillydally with fences and/or sit on modern steel and glass decks gripping 1928 Purdey hammerless shotguns but they are the exception as opposed to the rule.

Across this great nation, however, in the state of Florida, the public beach is on the verge of extinction as one-time governor of Arkansas and prominent television host Mike Huckabee leads a campaign to shut out the masses and, very likely, put an end to that degenerate surfing life he so loathes while also having them pay for upkeep etc. with their dirty, wax tainted pennies.

It’s almost too fantastical to believe but let us turn to the Tallahassee Democrat and stoke our outrage.

Beachfront property owners, aided by high-priced lobbyists, have stripped local governments’ power to oversee your ability to enjoy the beach.

In 2016, Walton County adopted a “customary use” ordinance, reorganizing the public’s long-time use of the coast for traditional fishing and recreation, while codifying the ability of residents and tourists to continue to do so.

Wealthy beachfront property owners, however, led by former Arkansas Gov. Mike Huckabee, rebelled. They lobbied the Legislature into passing House Bill 631, making it easy for beachfront owners to employ the courts to block the beach. Threatening signs, fences and security guards have been employed to block public beach use.

Similar efforts are being planned throughout the state. Indian River County for instance has been forced to file suit to establish public access to a large portion of its beach line, while beach blocking attempts are being looked at in Sarasota, Pinellas, Palmetto and elsewhere.

Threatening signs? Security guards? I wish there were more than thirty-thousand surfers in America so we could stage an impressive march and carry our own threatening signs.

What would they say?

What is the surfer version of the wonderful pussy hat?

Maybe we should march anyhow? All twelve of us?

Dreams come true.

When opportunity knocks you’d better drop what you are doing and answer that door and right now, knock, knock, knocking is a very handsome plus-sized model in a stylish jaunty beanie. Very punk rock tee. The knock is extra loud, thanks to the many rings that adorn his salchichas. Impossible to miss. The rhythm reminiscent of T.S.O.L.’s Sound of Laughter.

You’d better drop what you are doing and answer because you just might, just may, just could get to be Ashton Gogganses’ second hand.

His senior editor.

Oh not so fast. You think the last hire just raised a delicate French hand and was allowed to sit in the presence of greatness?

No.

And we must go directly to the source for more. To a Stab job offer.

Put Your Thinkin’ Caps On, Kids: Here’s Your Homework:

1. The Nike/Hurley sale is perhaps the biggest surf industry story of the last decade. How would you cover it, what stories would you want to read?

2. You can interview one current A-List surfer. Who do you call and what questions do you ask?

3. Pick two products from brands that you think would be good fits for Stab’s audience, and give us 150-300 words about each.

4. Grab your two favorite short surf clips from the last year from YouTube or Vimeo, and give us a 300-word write up for a post on our site.

5. Send a one-page cover letter and single page resume to: [email protected]

I would have failed the first question, even though Ashton will likely win a Pulitzer for his wall-to-wall coverage of the “biggest surf industry story of the last decade,” as I would have accidentally answered, “You should look into Hurley’s new beard oil offering as yours was feeling very rough when I last felt…”

It would have been a lie, a pure vicious lie.

Ashton’s beard felt as soft as a chinchilla. As potently delicious as cotton candy and any man, any woman, who has the honor, the privilege, will count themselves lucky.

But that’s why I am completely undeserving of the senior editor title for, you see, I am a sick man. … I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don’t consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors.

Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will not understand.

Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can’t explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot “pay out” the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than anyone that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don’t consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad, well–let it get worse!

My diseased liver and I will also never be Stab’s next executive editor.

Go, dear reader. Run to the light and bring venti white chocolate cremé frapaccino on your first day.

But also, Ashton will be reading these comments so you will be very well served to post Cliff’s Notes version here.

Pick two products etc.