Does a child die if you give him a moderately strong vodka and pineapple? Does a garnish of fruit make it a healthy treat? And, should it be served in a paper or plastic cup lest the child drop the vessel and cut himself on the glass?
The answers, of course, are, no, yes, and yes.
Equally obvious, once you read this magazine, is the haste with which it was thrown together. For a manic kick, and because I have such an inflated sense of my own ability, I thought it would be the most fabulous thing in the world to make a magazine in two weeks.
The results aren’t pretty.
The mag-in-two-weeks includes perfectly stupid interviews with two of our favourite surfers, Bruce Irons and Mitch Coleborn.
“Why don’t you ask Bruce if he’d let KS suck him off for a million bucks?” we asked our writer Charlie Smith, chortling at the idea of him asking it, Bruce thinking about it, and the 14-time world champ reading about it. Read about Bruce’s million-dollar sex date on page 32.
We asked Mitch to tell us how much money he has, the details of his property portfolio, if Bruce Irons had ever given him anything of value and whether he was considering buying Quiksilver shares now that Quik shares were skidding at under a buck. “I’d rather put my money on black on the roulette table,” said Mitch.
We had sunglasses for a product shoot. So we shot em. At a shooting range in San Diego. The hospitality we were shown was touching. Writes Charlie Smith, who organised the event: “If you and Sambo ever get a hankering to shoot anything else just let me know. Those boys gave us half the facility to work in. Jammed all the paying customers in a little corner. As long as they get their Oakleys we could probably shoot children in there.”
Fred Pawle has shortened his lifespan considerably with the piece, The Aloha Blues, which starts on page 78, Fred’s imminent murder ironically proving his theory correct.
The dumbest thing in the mag are the nude chicks inflating the style section. Like, who wants to see two lightly-salted broads showering, lolling around in a bed kissed by salt and breeze and inspecting the sides of their underwear?
This is the worst-issue ever. I’m sure you’ll concur. — Derek Rielly.
