You can't script this!

The end is officially here and don’t it feel grand? Don’t it feel thrilling? Better than you could have even imagined? A Volcom tagline victory 20 years late but better late than never?

It is better than I could have even imagined and I’m only glad I have the luxury of witnessing it now instead of later.

Today instead of tomorrow.

Ding dong the establishment is dead.

Officially, unequivocally dead. Lying there on the floor, eyes rolled back, belly protruding, pulse gone.

Laying there too.

Youth won.

20 years late but won.

The fraudulent debacle that is Iowa and its caucuses (bringing a harsh association shame to Chechnya) is laughably rich. Love Trump or hate him he destroyed establishment Republican politics with a hammer four years ago. Love Bernie Sanders or hate him he just destroyed establishment Democratic politics and the final death rattle, the last gasp, escaped the establishment’s chubby corpse last night in Iowa.

Pete Buttigieg.

Yeah.

#MayorCheat.

If you haven’t been paying attention, the first political primary in these United States of America was conducted last night. It is a normally staid affair but this year a candidate the ailing establishment didn’t want was threatening to crush before rolling to an easy victory.

So salt was thrown and a completely false Wall of Positive Noise™ narrative pushed forward, claiming after an almost 24 delay and after a poll got scrapped because it didn’t align with the desired outcome of a complete bland corporate patsy and now the Democratic Party is in the same exact position as the Republican Party.

Absolutely broken but better yet controlled by outsiders.

Owned by outsiders.

Brought low by a billionaire-funded app.

The billionaire-funded World Surf League is next with it’s bland, transparent appeal to some false, cowed, idiotic, shrunk-to-nothing audience and its “punk but bloated” surrogate is next.

The People™ are outside and in numbers great enough to rip the Wall of Positive Noise™ down brick by brick, spraying the whole thing with gasoline then pitching a match while the roof, an unfortunate casualty, motherfucking burns.

I ain’t young anymore but so fucking long establishment.

It was almost fun.

Thought provoking.

But do you belong to any helpful organizations like PETA or NOW or Teamsters Local 542 or the Surfrider Foundation? I’ll admit to being perpetually intrigued but generally lack the courage of my convictions when it comes to filling out paperwork etc.

Still, jealously bubbles and FOMO too when I see activists having a fine time. Enjoying themselves etc.

On a similar note, the very famous South African surfer Grant “Twiggy” Baker proposed a provocative question on BeachGrit’s semi-famous Instagram account late last night. Derek Rielly, reporting on a second possible Great White carcass stuffed under Margaret River’s famed reef, posted a little teaser and encouraged people to visit BeachGrit’s anti-depressive website for more.

https://www.instagram.com/p/B8IiAXtD_xD/

In the comments Mr. Baker wondered, “Crazy shit, only 10000 whites estimated left in the world and 7 Billion people. Who needs a culling more”.

A very interesting hypothetical but before I could come to a conclusion @jordossr asked where he got the stat to which Twiggy replied, “NatGeo said 5000 I just doubled it Incase”.

Is it true? Only 5000 Great Whites left worldwide?

As the leading shark-cum-surf journalist, I immediately got down to work and discovered that treehugger.com claims only 3500 “left in the wild” while phys.org declares there are 8000 in Australian waters alone.

Hmmm.

Still, both numbers are very much less than the 7.8 billion people on earth.

Culling people is a very slippery slope, though Shirley Jackson might have been on to something with her famous short story The Lottery.

Did you read in school?

Did it terrify?

Also, do you think Twiggy is more famous than Jordy Smith?

I would make the argument that he is.

But back to this human cull. Could shark cages filled with children (above) be a possible answer? A lottery for which kids go in and how long they stay down?

No?

"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.