Two weekends ago, Dudefriend, Peter, Richard & myself went to Point Dume, not only because the weather was outstanding, but to also give Richard a proper last day in California. We couldn’t have him leaving thinking it was all smog & bad public transportation now could we?
So we get to the beach & walk for like a mile & then climb all these rocks & get to what is normally a secluded cove that is perfect for drinking hot whisky out of a bottle, practicing cartwheels topless & ripping mad bowls.
But on this particular Sunday, there was an entire tribe
And you know what?
They weren’t retarded.
THEY WERE ROCK CLIMBERS.
I’ll admit that it is mad impressive for four to seven year olds to be climbing mad rocks on the beach with a couple of asshole parents who apparently think it’s safe to send children careening down rock-faces with just a fucking helmet, but they totally botched my plans of laughing in the face of drunk-in-public ordinances.
Instead, I had to resign myself to tactics usually reserved
for alley ways, dark corners & office bathrooms.
I give you,
The Concealed Crouch & Swig.
Applicable in almost any situation, granted you have supplies in tow,
The Concealed Crouch & Swig is versatile & imperative for maximum boozin’.
You see, you can always find some rocks or maybe a row of trash cans
or the jukebox at that stupidly expensive bar your one friend insists on going to,
to crouch behind & keep your shakes at bay.
It’s a great move, truly.
Although, I would have to have been
kidnapped, raped, murdered & left for dead
to be caught barefoot in an alley.
Or an office bathroom, for that matter!
I’m technically in a dark corner right now,
I’m not barefoot but I mean, I’d be okay with it if I was.