The US team prepares for surfing's Olympic debut in Tokyo.

Surfing laid bare in devastating Associated Press exposé as culturally appropriated from Hawaii by Whites and soon to be exploited in grand Olympic debut!

Neither John John Florence nor Carissa Moore are “eager to discuss” their views on appropriation.

The morning sun is gently caressing old Amalfi town.

Italians going about their day Italian-like, drinking espresso, driving motor scooters, gesticulating.

The dolce vita made for them, by them, and observing from the water, so wonderfully and wholly theirs.

Not like surfing which has been laid bare in a devastating Associated Press exposé.

Culturally appropriated by whites, twisted in into ugly financial instrument benefiting only them and soon to be on a sneering, ugly, white display in its grand Olympic debut.

Very uncool.

Author Sally Ho dives into Hawaii’s history, how white missionaries came and stole the land and outlawed surfing but then also stole surfing and smuggled it back to dirty California. She discusses how the surf industry, based there, juices the interlopers and how frustrating that is for native Hawaiians, Hawaiian historian and activist Isaiah Helekunihi Walker telling her, “You had Native Hawaiians in the background being a part of the development of it and just not being really recognized. There’s an element of them taking over. That’s when there’s no more aloha.”

What is most interesting in the piece, though, is her chatting, or attempting to chat, with those directly involved in surfing’s Olympic debut.

She writes that neither John John Florence nor Carissa Moore are “eager to discuss” their views on appropriation. Florence goes entirely silent. Moore says she wears the Hawaiian flag on her heart.

Tatiana Weston-Webb goes full denial. “I don’t think that (Hawaiians) are being overshadowed. It just depends on how you look at the situation.”

International Surfing Association chief Fernando Aguerre declares, “Everything we do has a connection to Hawaii. I think it’s impossible to detach Hawaiianness from surfing. The ocean doesn’t really care about hate, war or governments. Surfing is that way, too,” before telling the author he named his son after Duke Kahanamoku.

She ends the piece thusly:

Didi Robello, a descendant of Kahanamoku, said none of his family members have been contacted to participate in any Olympic celebrations. He said his grand-uncle’s name and legacy are exploited, which has become a great source of pain for the family because the trademark rights to the Kahanamoku name are owned by outsiders. “We’re getting ripped off,” Robello said. “It’s embarrassing.”

The dolce imbarazzante.

Australian scientists applaud move to reclassify shark hits as ‘bites’ not ‘attacks’: “It helps dispel inherent assumptions that sharks are ravenous, mindless man-eating monsters”

"The terminology can also be important especially if words such as 'attacks prompt people to demand culls of what are already often protected animals."

Coming off the back of Australia’s deadliest year of Great White attacks in ninety years and two surfers hit by Whites in 2021, the ink barely dry on the death certificate of one, it may surprise that authorities in Queensland and NSW are moving to extinguish the use of the word “attack”.

At a shark symposium at Noosa in May, a senior Queensland offical told attendees the state gov would preference “bites” over “attacks.”

And, in NSW, the Department of Primary Industries now prefers to use “incidents” or “interactions.”

Surfer hit by fifteen-foot White, leg destroyed, dies on beach? Incident.

Surfer disappeared by twenty-foot White, never seen again? Incident.

As explained in the Fairfax Press,

The choice of words can be potent since public fears about beach safety can be inflamed by alarmist language by politicians and the media, said Leonardo Guida, a shark researcher at the Australian Marine Conservation Society, who attended the May gathering hosted by the Noosa Biosphere Reserve Foundation.

A change in language matters “because it helps dispel inherent assumptions that sharks are ravenous, mindless man-eating monsters”, Dr Guida said.

“We sat up at the mention,” said Lawrence Chlebeck, a marine campaigner with Humane Society International, who added he later approached the official and her boss. “I congratulated them for their change of terminology.”

The terminology can also be important especially if words such as “attacks” prompt people to demand culls of what are already often protected animals. Shark numbers are globally in decline because of over-fishing, pollution and the increasing impacts of climate change, including around Australia.

And, you, my ol friends?

You think we should stop calling shark attacks “attacks” ’cause it might adversely affect peoples opinions of Great Whites?

I'm writing a poem to Ruby-Lee if you wanna know: "Thousands of sperm, looking like pins in a pincushion, fight for admission to the egg's inner sanctum. Only one will make it."

Fourth Coffey sister joins world of X-rated entertainment as millionairess Ellie-Jean goes next level with double-headed dildo!

Relatively unsafe for work.

On a recent Discord thread, a link was posted to a film featuring the former world number #25 surfer Ellie-Jean Coffey “sucking on both these black cocks”, a double-pronged dildo, designed to fill ass and pussy, with a suction cup base, the device fashioned from a dark brown-coloured silicon. 

An earlier post had featured a still from the short film, although some on the thread were concerned there was a sleight of hand, a retractable dildo possibly.

“How would you know it went in?” asked one. “Can’t see anything, looks like it’s rubbed outside if anything.”

After the link to the video appeared, and which quickly dispelled any doubt as to why the dildo disappeared, the reader, still disgruntled, wrote, “Fair enough I’ll cop that. Still a shit vid where you see fuck all.” 

Ellie-Jean, who turns twenty-seven this year, broke the seal, so to speak, on the porn game for the four sisters last September. EJ spoke of the one million dollars a month she is making from her channel and says it was her desire to liberate and empower other women that motivated her to do porn.

Holly-Sue, Bonnie-Lou, quickly followed up with X-rated sites of their own. 

And, now, the fourth of the sisters, Ruby-Lee, who is twenty-one, has promised to reveal the power and the glory and the grandeur of the female to screams and barbaric yawps of people with phalluses.

At, lonely souls pay $13.36 a month for “exclusive photos and videos”

Early offerings, include “My top can’t contain my tits,” “Extra sexy G-Banger! meowww” and “Feelin’ myself (three photos)”. 

Ruby-Lee made the announcement, naturally, to her almost half-a-million followers on Instagram.


Surfing’s Olympic debut, as you know well, is mere weeks away and as of time of writing, there is no typhoon headed Japan’s wave in the forecast. Can gold be won on two-to-three-foot lappers without flying? | Photo: Florence Marine X

Can a just-out-of-surgery John John Florence win gold at Tokyo Olympics without flying?

Eyewitness on the North Shore says Florence surfing very fine with many hacks, carves, wraps and hand jams. Everything but everything but airs. 

Miles Davis is playing on the radio and I am eating eggs lightly dusted with parmigiana plus a potato, red pepper, onion medley while gently rocking in front of a Tyrrhenian cave just a stone’s throw from Positano.

The water is a ridiculous cobalt blue and clear, turquoise near the cliffs and while my life has entered a comically decadent period Hawaii’s John John Florence’s has not.

Eyewitness accounts from the North Shore suggest he is out daily and shredding.

Surfing very fine with many hacks, carves, wraps and hand jams.

Everything but everything but airs.

No board leaving lip.

Surfing’s Olympic debut, as you know well, is mere weeks away and as of time of writing, there is no typhoon headed Japan’s wave in the forecast.

Can gold be won on two-to-three-foot lappers without flying?

I think no. I think not at all. Kelly Slater likely thinks the same as me but he will have to think that from his couch while watching history like the rest of us.

John John and Kolohe will be part of this history.

I think Kelly will be sad. I think sad and lightly depressed.

Italian fans markedly different to the British.

Chas Smith anchors on the island of Ischia in the Tyrrhenian Sea; goes to bar; helps Italy win Euro 2020: “A bottle of Belvedere was brought to our table in a bucket of ice but this time the ice had glowing cubes!”

"Italy won by blocking England’s last attempt and the Pescatore exploded and its staff collapsed on us, smothering us in hugs and kisses."

Arriving in Napoli before noon, we were underway by two and anchored off the isle of Ischia, terraced and quaint, by four. The Mediterranean air a perfect 80. The water an equally perfect 75.

The bay fronting the small hillside town of Sant Angelo was alive with Italians curating perfect tans on million dollar motor yachts and house wide catamarans. Our 48 foot sailboat an outlier.

We dinghied into town before sunset, tried to get a table at the blue-awning’d restaurant Pescatore but were denied by a catlike Sri Lankan.

“No tables. Full.”

Not one table was full but we skulked off without making a scene to the nearby yellow-awning’d bar and ordered vodka sodas.

After a few, jet-lag spinning, hunger took hold and we wandered around the miniature streets looking for a better dining option but Pescatore was clearly the spot and I had to try once more.

This time an older Italian manager looked me in the eye. I looked in his. There was some odd frisson of understanding and he had table brought over and set up overlooking the patio with a perfect view of a movie screen that had just been hoisted. He explained the menu for the night was prix fixe and all of a sudden it made sense.

The Euro Cup Finals between Italy and England set to air at nine in the evening.

Waiters bustled around dressing the tables with finery, managers overseeing their work barking orders. The Sri Lankan pounced by prix fixing us with a playful sneer.

At eight, perfectly tanned and now coifed Italians began filling in. By eight-thirty the patio was packed. The waiters were now at a furious pace, the managers sweating rivulets and running to and from the kitchen.

Children dressed in team Italian blue, faces painted red, white and green, marched around blowing horns.

After we had landed in Rome, the people seemed listless, like they had lost their love of soccer. I even wondered if sport was officially dead but now I realized it was just too early in the morning to be excited about anything at all and also too hot.

Everything in Sant Angelo’s warm evening was alive and tense and alive.

The manager who had seated us came by right as the game was starting. We looked each other in the eye, again, and suddenly I knew what the odd frisson of understanding was.

As long as we stayed at this table, Italy would win.

Without a word he nodded then I nodded then a bottle of Beluga was brought to our table in a bucket of ice.

England scored almost right away and the crowd groaned a sick groan. Heads thrown back, hands gesticulating, tables pounded in frustration. It was a dominant goal and England, in white, looked proud and dominant but I knew it didn’t matter. Knew like I’ve never known anything that those proud hearts were on a collision course with disaster.

The manager knew too and said, “My wife told me Italy would win 2 -1.”

I responded, “I don’t know about the 2 – 1, but they will definitely win.”

He nodded while placing our first course, anchovy, octopus and tuna crudo, on the table.

Another manager brought me a sort of powered horn. “Press this when we do good,” he said pointing to some odd pump mechanism.”

The game continued, ball moving from side to side, up and down. Italy looked disorganized and frantic, missing clear opportunities, not passing crisply. England looked strong but could not put the ball into the back of the net again.

The crowd on extreme edge as halftime came with the second course, a stuffed pasta.

England still 1.

Italy still 0.

The manager stood near our table as analysts analyzed on the movie screen. Many slow motion clips of England’s goal but more of Italy’s blunders.

An Italian woman in a calf length Gucci wrap dress walked by and flared, stopping to say, “Where are you from? English?”

“California,” I answered but that was unsatisfactory too.

The Sri Lankan skipped by, elbowing me, whispering, “I’m for England”

I punched him in the shoulder.

The main, a white fish in lemon, was brought and I noticed ours arrived before anyone else’s with special care. More waiters were hovering around our table now, both managers too, all feeling that frisson of understanding for themselves. Knowing we were tied to the fate of their Italy.

And, like that, their Italy scored.

It was a messy ricochet but a score nevertheless and the patio exploded while I smashed my power horns pump

A bottle of Belvedere was brought to our table in a bucket of ice but this time the ice had glowing cubes in it.

The game, now knotted, had entered gridlock. Neither England nor Italy could gain the advantage and the crowd’s elation returned to pure tension.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Nothing and regulation time ended.

England 1

Italy 1

More analyzers analyzing on the movie screen but this time the slow motion clips were all Italy.

The first overtime began with the players looking exhausted. We were exhausted too having been awake for well over 30 hours now, traveling from home to Rome to Napoli, setting up the yacht and sailing to Ischia but had to hang on.

If we left, Italy would lose, our dinghy would get sunk and our anchor cut by the woman in the Gucci dress so we did the only thing we could and ordered double espressos.

Both managers, now in charge of us exclusively, snapped and yelled. They came within minutes.

The first overtime ended with no score.

Analyzers analyzed. The crowd restless and nervous and tense and gesticulating and swelled. A verge of tears everywhere.

The second overtime began with players looking crazed and us feeling crazed and the crowd near insanity.

It, too, ended with no score.

Penalty kicks to end a soccer game is one of the sweetest tortures in all sport. The entire universe resting on one foot and one goalie.

The crowd ready to implode and I wished that could hug them all and tell them it would be ok, that we had not left, mustering every ounce of our fortitude, and therefore Italy would win and therefore I would hug them all soon but that would also rob them of that sweetest torture.

Both managers, most waiters, the entire cooking crew, having abandoned the kitchen, surrounded our table. The Sri Lankan too looking positively giddy.

Every time Italy score, or blocked a score, the mangers, waiters, cooks could smash our backs, grab our hands, rub our shoulders. Every time England scored, or blocked a score, I would punch the Sri Lankan’s shoulder.

Italy won by blocking England’s last attempt and the Pescatore exploded and its staff collapsed on us, smothering us in hugs and kisses.

The owner was brought over, booming, “Show me the men who brought us the luck tonight!”

We shook his hand and dipped our heads accepting his thanks, complimenting him for hosting the best night on earth, then we slid out back to dinghy un-sunk out to boat with anchor firm feeling like magic.