Small Talk with Alana Blanchard at the Surfer Poll and Video Awards

18 09 2009
The Women of Surfer Poll or Blaphemy's Harem? Thrailkill

The Women of Surfer Poll or Blasphemy's Harem? Thrailkill/Surfer

Editor’s Note: I do not know Blasphemy Rottmouth well. From his passionate and cryptic comments on PostSurf, it is clear he’s a witty, and perhaps an inherently drunk individual that captures the embodiment of the working-class surfer like no one I have ever seen. Somehow, he made it to fabulous Anaheim, California for the illustrious Surfer Poll Awards. This is his story.

This past Tuesday evening, I was afforded the supreme privilege of being whisked into the annual Surfer Poll and Video Awards Show under the shelter of my longtime friendship with the former North Shore big wave pioneer Chuck Noll. In all actuality, it was my friendship with his old gardener, Alejandro.

As per house rules, I made my way directly to the bar, where I began tipping back the first of many whiskey and rocks. The scent of alcohol, mixed with cologne, coconut-butter lotion, perfume, and nervous ball-sweat that permeated the room, perked my senses enough to keep my eyes from being lulled to sleep as various industry bigwigs, professionals, their entourages, and a few lucky peasant’s called ‘fans,’ filed into the Grove’s stifling main gallery and terrace.

I was about to send another squadron of malted-rye practitioners of liquid death to quell my thirsty liver, when I was stopped short by the entrance of something altogether lovely. There at the doorway, stood a golden-haired goddess in a generously low-cut, black evening dress, with a zipper that wouldn’t quit.

“Ye gods!” my loins screamed to me from within. But all I could think about was how badly I wanted to build a summer cottage in the small of her back. I pictured myself galloping through the hand-tilled barley fields outside that cottage’s front patio, while Sigor Ros played in the background. I envisioned our evenings together, where I read her chapters of Silas Marner: The Weaver of Raveloe, by candlelight, while she stared at me like a dog that had just been shown a card trick. Later we would no doubt retire to my bedroom where I’d gently nuzzle the underside of her ankles before engaging one of the head posts in soft-focus coitus.

Read the entire story here…

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8 responses

18 09 2009
Jay

That’s may be the most beautiful piece of prose ever translated into English. That was English…right?

18 09 2009
Mark

Your faux intellectual garglings make me vomit all over my Television screen. Hey…Glenn Beck looks kind of cool with a corn chowder goatee.

18 09 2009
Alana's Bottom Turn

Any post about Alana is okay in my book.

18 09 2009
Greg Noll

Uhhh, I think you meant Greg Noll.

18 09 2009
Taj's Burro

Blasph, Chuck Noll….. heh.

BTW Greg Noll posting above… good thing you have a flat top. Makes it that much easier when shit goes right over your head!

21 09 2009
Dave Mailman

Greg Noll? Chuck Norris? What difference does it make? The man was drunk and inspired! Journalism rule number 1: Never let the facts get in the way of a good story. Nice job, Rott!

23 09 2009
m

HAHAH (up until the AB sighting) that pretty much sums that event!!! Without a limo outside allowing you to get supremely shit faced that shit is boring.

23 02 2010
Tom

More pictures of surf-nymphos!!!

Sigh, drool.

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