This was a weird week. andyO tripped over a bull mastiff and broke his arm, and Mrs. Blog had her hopes crushed by an octopus named Paul. I coulda swore all this time that Paul was the walrus. In any event, I’m not going to have any undue discourse with animals for a while and have resolved not to look Blogdog in the eye until next Tuesday.
I’m also going to stop looking at swell models, because they aren’t yielding anything of any use to anybody unless you have a ton of bonus-points and boards stashed strategically in time-zones that involve some degree of jet-lag. I’ve used three hyphenated words in one sentence. So at least someone is showing some initiative beyond King Neptune’s.
Which is less of an achievement than thinking there might actually be surf out there somewhere. That’s according to Mrs. Blog, who said that, according to Mrs. Vinnie, Vinnie refuses to leave the house and has become catatonic and calcified by staring into the computer screen and trying to force surf to come our way by sheer will. As if the magnitude of the injustice of it all will cause a great big ol’ sneaker swell to start rolling in and he’ll be the only one watching.
Makes perfect sense to me. I’m thinking of ordering him up a case of No-Doz on the Internet and having it shipped direct. Maybe a little more concentration will tip the scales in our favor. He’s probably been slacking off on us — goin’ to the bathroom, sleepin’ and eatin’ and stuff just when the systems start cookin’ up in our swell window. Just a little more grit and determination on his part and we’d probably be lying around at night nursing a nice wax rash and a couple of cold, green Heinekens with an octopus named Paul.
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