Friday, October 26, 2012

Send Money!!

Well, as you all know, the web site has been seized by the feds and I'm currently behind bars. So let's get to the point. I need a stack of pornos and a cheese grater like a mutha fucka. Don't ask questions, just send that and/or some money to the following address pronto:

Attn: Cellmate 206#B
Homeland Security Headquarters
Cell 101
Guantanamo Bay, Cuba 70672-1106

Cellmate 206#B
If anyone's wondering what I'm up to in here... basically skating. Trying to update the Coiler and shit when I can. Writing poetry... plotting downfall of Western Civilization.

Oh bitch pig whom
my ass betrayed,
Mutha FUCK Homeland

You swiped my site
and fucked up my shit,
But my chainsaw
you did not git.

I used it to,
hack out my cell
then make your face
a living hell.

Your police state,
it don't mean shit
And can't stop my love
of the butt clit

Needs work. Send money.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Every Man Skate Legends: Beaver

John "Kid Beaver" M., universally known simply as "Beaver," is a skate legend where I grew up. As a Team Radster veteran whose family had owned Albuquerque's Blue Sky skate park back in the '70s, John was from New Mexico skate royalty. He showed up down south in 1985 or so along with a bevy of northern locsters to extend their kingdom's realm and, in so doing, transformed the area skate scene by taking our generation of young riders under their benevolent wing and "rasing us" into the New Mexico skate family the proper way.

Beaver's impact on us was profound because his ripping stoked us out. He schralped ditches, ramps, pools, hills, even what passed for street skating back then. John brought with him a larger than life aura--he was a spirited, legendary hell raiser--and, as he cruised along the ditch bank, chest puffed out, Budweiser in hand, he appeared to us impressionable youngens like some sort of skate god sent to bestow radness on our previously isolated skateboarding community. John was known to call you out: "Too manly for you, huh?" But he always backed up his shit talk: He had the best stand up grinds, the most tweaked out lay back airs and the most textbook, toe-hanger backside bonelesses; he was always the first to roll in; and often did so (and I say this with no disrespect to John) under the influence of a variety of substances--licit and otherwise--that would have left a lesser man comatosed.

Beaver taught us a lot about skateboarding and doing it the right way. Whereas we'd previously looked--as kids did back in the early '80s--to the magazines and whatever videos we could find for guidance, John taught us to scoff at such skate industry shenanigans and make our own scene happen. He utilized an entire dialect geared toward skate edification to get his main ideas across to us. Through John, we learned that we should always "run amok," whether skating or otherwise; that you should never act like a "cur" or be a "kook" (Beaver was the first person I ever heard say the latter word); and even imparted wisdom through phrases I've yet to decipher fully (was it "unbow down" or "humble down?") yet got their points across perfectly: pay respect to your skate elders and pay your dues. Beaver took offense when anyone skated so as to be competitive, and would bestow his highest praise through simply commenting that your skating was "bold." In the densely Catholic, Blue Law New Mexico of the 1980s, we also learned from Beaver that "the brew always tastes better on Sunday." And by God it fucking did.

Beaver taught us a lot about partying as well. We'd go down to Ju├írez on Sunday afternoons and get fucking annihilated. As a fifteen year old, that shit was rad. He'd take us to parties and direct us to "split up" and (you guessed it) "run amok." He got me into my first bar, hooked me up with my first gravity bong, suggested I try my first hit of acid, and gave me my first rail. He gave me my first crack hit. But beyond those firsts he never really pushed any of that shit on me. He turned me on to the Hellcats and used to copy all his raddest music for me. We'd cruise up to Albuquerque to party and skate ditches with Tom and Kevin. In the early days of all that chaos, back in the late '80s, things were genuinely fun. Eventually, bands like Johnny Hot Hit and the Sizzling Rocks started showing up, the fun got wrung out, the cliche happened as it does, and skating didn't seem to matter as much anymore.

John experienced serious problems. He hit his head down hilling and the brain swelling, along with continued, serious drug abuse, caused him to have difficulty reasoning. He suffered at work, had problems with debt, burned some bridges, moved to Colorado and Texas, and seemed to take trouble with him. Eventually, he had brain surgery which he described afterward as being akin to giving the stem of a bong a "poke" that seemed to turn things around for him. He moved to Maine and has lived well, sober, for several years. He ran a 5K race recently. He rides snowmobiles and I'm sure he rips that shit.

I asked John about a decade ago whether he'd ever skate again and he flat out told me "no." Understood. Beaver gave all he had to skating while he did it, and he's still a part of skating any time anyone in New Mexico steps on a ride, whether they realize it or not. I don't have any heroes, but, if I had to choose one, he'd be up there. He embodied skateboarding in his approach to it: he literally ran amok on an epic scale, skating and raising hell like no other. He never held back, which is a major reason why he knows that it's probably best for him to stay away from skating and everything he knows goes along with it. For those skateboarders who epitomize the essence of the thing, separating skating from the skate "scene" just can't happen. Beaver lived it and thus doesn't have anything to prove. But, simply put, John couldn't possibly keep doing it and live much longer. Unfortunately for skateboarding, Kid Beaver is dead and gone, a casualty of war, a fallen soldier the likes of whom, perhaps, is needed in this war now more so than ever. But John lives on, and that's a hell of a lot more important.

Monday, December 26, 2011

Albuqueerque Exposure

There I was, staring death right in the face as I put my foot on a skateboard for the first time in three decades. I gaped at mile after mile of Indian School ditch as it meandered menacingly downhill from the Whites of Albuquerque into the valley somewhere below. Indian School was like so many other ditches--Morris, Comanche, Four Hills, Jefferson--that I'd talked shit on SnB about but had no intention of ever riding. How had it come to this? I thought of stabbing myself, shooting myself, hanging myself: where was that crack that ConcreteMolotov was talking about? Let me overdose, now! I'd take a hatchet and gash a pussy into myself and offer to bang the whole crew... maybe then they'd let me live! But no. I'd have to skate. Or would I?

"My attempts to skate uphill only angered the crowd further..."
I realized then and there that I was facing certain death for no reason other than having aced high school typing class (where I fucking ruled shit and will still fucking out-type your bitch ass!). How god-awful ironic. Despite having earned millions as an astronaut, raising six kids and sending them to Ivy league schools, having directed the school Christmas play, I'd secretly longed to live a life of danger as I'd grown older, ultimately running across SnB and posing as my death-defying alias, speedcokeshitwhore. Chat room thrills had completed my cushy life, but I'd never guessed it would come to this.

So, with Deathpunkhatekill grinning devilishly at me, waiting to send me to my literal death down Indian School ditch in Albuquerque, NM, my life passing before my eyes, I realized that being a rich family man with a lot of good, safe years left in me to hang out with the grand kids and collect skateboards wasn't so bad, after all. "Fuck you," I told him and took the walk of shame back to the limo, directing Jeeves to the sunport.

As I relaxed on the flight back to Rhodesia I had to laugh at the barrage of SnB posts calling me out as a pussy assed bitch who got straight exposed in Albuquerque. Hey, I thought, in all the talk about the proper dimensions necessary for ditch skating leading up to this event, no one ever bothered to mention the most important dimensions of all: that is, the difference between my two dimensional computer screen, behind which I was able to talk hella shit under some ridiculous bullshit fantasy alter-ego handle, and the three-dimensional reality staring one in the face when considering actually riding one of these arroyos.

In the end I had to thank this experience for so expertly delivering such a clear and unforgettable message: not everyone has to be into skateboarding, even if they technically skated back in the '80s or whatever. As the term itself implies, skateboarding is probably best left to those who actually ride skateboards, and maybe those people aren't really interested in whether a bunch of geriatric skateboard collectors with a lot of time on their hands think they're doing it right. Maybe, just maybe, having a grip of money and free time doesn't automatically qualify me as an expert in something I don't do... But then again, I thought to myself as I logged onto Silverfish, I always did like the handle: Turfripperhardcorefunkyflexesupreme!

Saturday, December 3, 2011

Suspicious Autotext Faux Paseses

Man, I don't know... maybe I'm just overreacting. But it seems to me that a lot of the obnoxious texts I've been getting lately that the homies are blaming on "autocorrect" aren't just innocent faux passesses. I mean, check out a couple of these text exchanges and tell me what you think.

Or how about this one?

You're right! Now that I look at them again it's clear that these are in fact just autocorrect errors. Ha! Those raucous skate jesters! Their jocularity knows no bounds! What a joy to consort with such merry mirth makers, and just in time for the holidays!!! Soldier on, my comedic skate companions! Might that mere mortals grasp your immense hilarity!

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Guantanamo Hey

Damn. Lock down here at Guantanamo Bay sucks a fat warm one, let me tell you. The torture regimen is carried off like clock work daily and, in case you haven't seen any updates on the news recently, is getting more and more creative. Luckily, after our 6am testicle-ocution wake up call followed by the usual Doberman Pincer hide and go seek game at 7am, the guards give all us (alleged) terrorists a few minutes to update our blogs for the folks back home. Ha! The dumbass guards keep forgetting that I'm up in dis he-ya bitch for the crime of "blogs against humanity" to begin with, so this is especially fun stuff for me.

Anyway, I know I've wasted a lot of cyber space bitching about supposedly "inauthentic" forms of skateboarding, such as longboarding and snowboarding and such. But, if you'll permit just one more rant to that effect, nothing, and I mean no form of skateboarding mimicry is lamer than waterboarding. I mean, I don't see the thrill in this one at all, what with you being held upside down, your face smothered, and water poured all over it for hours on end... all to an endless loop of Britney Spears singing some Star Spangled Banner shit in the background... I mean geez, it's so goddamed annoying I'd almost prefer snowboarding. But fuck it. This waterboarding shit's all I got til I break out this mutha fucka... so if Tom and Elmer are reading this, you know what up!... aw shit. Here come the fucking Dobermans... Just enough time to type one last "FUCK YOU HOMELAND SECURITY ASSED BITCHES!!!!"

Friday, November 11, 2011

Butt Clit

A magical flap of skin packed with nerve endings that exists just inside the anus of some special women, such as Natalie.  One can also sing "Natalie butt clit" to the tune of the Living Spaces furniture store commercial theme. 

Natalie came multiple times while being pumped in the butt (fucking ass --ed.) because of her highly sensitive butt clit.


I have to say that I'm surprised and disappointed to know that this phrase is so widely understood and used. I thought old C made that shit up. Just goes to show you can learn something in the goddamn can. And, if you're wondering: Yes, the Coiler has been seized by the fucking pigs; Yes, I'm in goddamn jail; and Yes, I still love butt clit, no matter how cliche it's become lately. And to all you Homeland Security assed bitches who think you got my shit on lock just cuz you seized this site and got my shit locked up and shit: FUCK YOU!!! --Ed.

Friday, November 4, 2011