Welcome to Surf School, Where Everyone is Raw AF and Nobody Slept in a Bed Last Night
There's only two types of surfers: braindead fuckheads, and guys who have checking accounts. Now, split up accordingly everyone.
There's only two types of surfers: braindead fuckheads, and guys who have checking accounts. Now, split up accordingly everyone.
Now you know, you can't just sweep your problems under the rug and hope I don't build them up into metaphors for my failures as a parent.
Adam was friendly, smart, and best of all, my first gay roommate. I couldn't wait to paint our nails, make out drunk, and go shopping together.
Your high school guidance counselor forgot to tell you that you are not special. Actually, you ARE special, but in all the wrong ways.
It should have been easy—they're basically small, furry cows devoid of complex needs or even souls. What I could not foresee was rebellion.
All I ever wanted was to be the fourth son of Mike Brady on that killer 1970's TV show, The Brady Bunch. Instead, my life veered off course.
Waking up handcuffed to a deck chair and duck taped to the point of suffocation was exactly what my girlfriend and I needed to stop fighting.
Specific sweater styles that tell him you're open to the idea of talking about maybe taking it up the butt, maybe. But probably.
Have you ever lusted after Bernie Sanders' egalitarian utopia but then felt you were cheating on that copy of Reagan's "City Upon a Hill" speech?
Recently I have reactivated my Instagram account to post pictures with #worldtraveler, #nomad and, most importantly, "not a bad view for a Monday."
I do want to settle down and get married. But I'm also stuck in the San Diego Zoo's rhinoceros cage and it's way harder to meet women in here.
No, I'm not sure when my episodes will be aired. Like I said, you won't be able to watch any until they're filmed. Show business, am I right?