Untitled Document

Surfers Parlay Poopoo For Peace

PLAYA DE POOPOO, CA

A strange occurrence has befallen this humble beach enclave of near 37 millionaire families: the children no longer wish to surf.

On a typical winter's day, nothing can stop these silver-spoon-fed brats from frolicking in the run-off tainted breakers. Notorious 70's era locals like "Rolls Royce Ryan" and "Haute Harry" sired litters of the short-boarding shredders years ago before discovering it was easier to make heaps of money and wear large Hawaiian shirts on Sundays than compete with the crowds of barneys they, with their insatiable greed, paradoxically helped to overrun their shores, by fertilizing the economy at a grotesque rate. But now the younger, privileged generation has been stricken with a curse which is anathema to the community's utopian lifestyle.

Their kids think surfing is stupid.

"I don't know," laments Austin Goldbar, a thirteen-year-old Playa de Poopoo local, "It just seems like…a waste of time."

Austin's friend, Olivia Wheathersworth agrees. Her surfboard is now mounted on her bedroom wall next to a poster of Che Guevara. On the weekends she decorates the obsolescing fiberglass with beads and flowers.

"It's sort of like, what's the point, you know? There are like, a million people dying of AIDS everyday, or starving, or at war. Surfing doesn't do anything. A bunch of us are holding a candlelight vigil tonight for Ugandan puppies at pier if you want to join us."

The surfing legacies, who used to enjoy doing nothing all day unless it involved a skate ramp or bong water, now have taken the moral high ground. Specialists from around the world have been flown in to monitor the youngsters, who seem convinced that surfers are nothing more than a bunch of egotistical assholes. So far the scientists have come to no concrete conclusions, other than to remove all doubt that fools and their money are soon parted.

Understandably, the parents are aghast.

"I came home and Olivia was on the phone…" the middle-aged housewife (with a respectable, almost real looking rack) explains at the brink of tears, "transferring her trust fund to Tsunami victims! If she gives away her money, what will the neighbor's think? We'll be kicked out of the marina."

One Jeremy Dauderdaft sees it another way. He is class president and last captain of the Playa de Poopoo High School Surfing Team. We climb to the highest point in town and discuss world population, global economics, and the new White Stripes cd.

"You know, some things are just meant to die. People don't hula-hoop any more. Haven't seen a bowling balls selling-out at Wal-Mart in a while. Maybe surfing is just…dying."

A pod of dolphins jumps in synchronicity at the horizon while a middle-aged man, way down there by a Range Rover, threatens to beat the living crap out of Jeremy if he doesn't come down to the house and watch "Litmus" with him.

"Besides," Jeremy reflects calmly, pointing. "it's not healthy. Look at all the poo out there."

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