I Can Haz a Dream by Blasphemy Rottmouth

12 11 2009
Dave Mailman IS Awesome

Dave Mailman. The man, the myth, the commentating legend.

Editor’s Note: I do not know Blasphemy Rottmouth well. From his passionate and cryptic comments, 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. This is his dream.

I can haz a dream last night!

I had a dream that one day even the Pipeline Masters, a contest sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, would be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I had a dream that my three little children would one day live under an ASP tent where they would not be judged by the color of their jersey but by the content of their character.

I had a dream that one day every excellent wave would be exalted, and every fist pump and claim was made low, the monotony of Mick Fanning was made plain, and the gays were made straight; and the glory of the Laird was revealed and all flesh saw it together.

I can haz a dream last night!

And that dream is now partially laid bare before your very eyes by the miraculous pairing of Dave Mailman and Peter Mel in the commentary booth for the 2009 Pipeline Masters. What follows is a snippet of that dream:

D.M.: “Well Pete, here we are. Another beautiful day on the North Shore of Oahu. I can’t get over the irony of those subtle cyan hues swirling about the channel matching my new pair of Santa Cruz corduroy Crocs perfectly. And to top it off, I’m working on my fourth gin and tonic of the morning.”

P.M.: “Fourth? You dainty little twat! I just polished off that case of Fosters in the back. Tastes like rabid dingo jizz, but the buzz is killer. That ridiculously hot broad wearing Chas Smith’s favorite yellow panties is bringing me another during the next break so eat your Frenchy heart out.”

D.M.: “Ummm, that WAS Chas Smith.”

P.M.: “Really? Chas? Dude knows how to tuck like a pro. Trust me, I know. (Licks melted Velveeta cheese from his index finger) But I digress. Let’s not forget that we’ve got some primo swell on tap, Mailman. Six to eight feet and a lumbering offshore breeze dusting the tips of those hucking A-frames – perfect for deciding how many points Mick will win his second championship by. Let’s take a look at who we got bobbing around in the lineup for this heat, shall we?”

D.M.: (shuffles papers around before burying a bubble of flatus in his plastic chair) “According the latest draw, we’re looking at Nathaniel Curran, Ola Eleogram, Dave Wassell, and Joel Parkinson. (Pauses) In other words, Billabong wants Joel to win their flagship event. And speaking of gas, Wassell just cartwheeled down the face of a bomb and got throat-fucked by the reef. Hopefully his Pipeline expertise will help him locate the rest of his teeth.”

Read the rest of the story here…

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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…