Memo from the Surf Desk: The Walrus

Lemme tell you a lil' tale about a man we call The Walrus. A salty scoundrel. Rotundus. Rude. He wears a wide, white mooostache and looks at you through small, black, beedie eyeballs. He surfs a SUP sometimes. You've probably seen him, surfed with him, been snaked by him, shot the shit with him in the parking lot, E: All of the above. He's there, and that's unfortunate. Because unlike a lot of other places, we put up with his bullshit. We let him bitch. Complaining when it's crowded. When you're suiting up and he's standing on the shore - "This would be fun for maybe four people." Then he starts counting: cars, kooks, boards and bystanders - "Six, seven, eight..." He'll choke it, the stoke, his fat fingers around its throat, and all you can do is stand quietly at his side and watch as it fights for it's final breath. The Walrus always wins. That heavy breathing sea sweeper. Bastard! But we musn't let him any longer. No more rides in the back of the bummer bus. No more bullshit excuses about crowds and kooks and senile stoke seniority. You can go to hell, Walrus!

Sincerely,

Duke Dangerpants
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