Mahalo, guppies. Welcome to surf school.
First things first, I need you to separate into two groups based on what type of surfer you are. Now I know what you’re thinking: “But, Bump, I’ve never surfed before. How do I know what type I am?”
Because there’s only two types of surfers: braindead fuckheads, and guys who have checking accounts.
Yup. Split it up. Exactly. Good wor—
Hey! You! Yeah, you! The guy who somehow has frosted tips and dreads at the same time. You really got a checking account? At what bank?
Five Below isn’t a bank. …No it’s not. You’re a fuckhead. Get over there.
Now I know what you’re thinking: “Bump, how come there’s so many more fuckheads than checking account guys?”
Because, like dolphins, surfers form pods. These pods consist of four or five surfers and they become your straight up boys, no bullshit. These pods are led by one alpha. His name is always Laird. Right, fellas? Exactly.
You’re Laird. He’s Laird. He’s Laird. He’s—huh? Your name’s not Laird? Really? It’s Leslie? Heheh. Tight.
Anyways, the Lairds are the alphas—the podfathers. It has been this way since Kemo Kemoleau surfed the very first wave and established modern surfdom, back in like the 80's or something. Whenever the jeans were, like, super light.
Fuckheads, go find your Laird. You’ll know him when you see him. He’ll smell like Rally’s and have a halo. He drives the same car as your granddad.
Now I know what you’re thinking: “Bump, who is your Laird?” My Laird is my best friend. He came up with the saying “That’s gnarly Davidson” when something is stupid rad. Every time you throw him a beer, he catches it. His dog is a turtle. He started dating my ex, but they’re way chill togeth—
Spread it out, guppies! Spread it out. Lot of Lairds out there. Leslie can’t be everyone’s Laird…
Leslie, do you crank a lot of dong? Heheh. Yeah, you do! Heheh. No, but for real. Like, my buddy Kim has a chick’s name too but he cranks so much dong. It’s wacky.
Everybody find a Laird? Ok. Good.
Fuckheads, your Laird will now give you your surf name. Lairds, here are the rules:
- One member of the pod must have a one-syllable surf name that is either onomatopoeia or onomatopoeia-adjacent. For instance, my surf name is Bump. It’s not exactly a sound, but it’s almost a sound. Like, it’s a thing that makes a sound. It could also be something like Crunch, or Smash. Give that name to the most braindead fuckhead in the pod. He’ll be your consigliere, advisor, and the glue that holds the pod together when waters get choppy.
- There will be a member of the pod who drives a Subaru Outback. He doesn’t have a house. It is obligatory that he sleep on a pod member’s sofa every night, and nobody’s girlfriend can complain about it. His surf name is Futon, Sleepy, Wink, or Snooze.
- Look in the eyes of your poddies. Whose burn with a combination of rage, conjunctivitis, and methamphetamine abuse? This is Ace. He is the most gifted surfer you know, but he is reckless. He will one day betray the pod.
Now I know what you’re thinking: “Bump, I’m ready to paddle out with my wake brothers and cork some pipe. When do we learn to carve tube?”
I will respond thusly: Surfing is a spirit quest. It requires a bond deeper than Limp Bizkit’s “Faith.” Until you and your pod get loaded off wood glue and shoplift Walgreen’s, I can’t trust your brotherhood to withstand high tide at Virginia Beach.
Hang ten, alohas.