It has come to my attention that minimum days have the capability of being “the shit,” as this became very apparent to me halfway down 280 on our way to la playa, with the playa himself Matty Ebert. Yes that’s right, about ten minutes after that shitty ass school bell rang, we were on our way to skim the foam. Lindamar was our beach of choice, the one that usually sports testicle hardening temperatures year-round, but it hazza freakin taco bell on it, and it doesn’t get much better than that. So upon seeing this rare oceanside treasure, we agreed that we would love nothing more than to enjoy some fine dining before we tore shit up in the wah wah. Oh good heavens it was a sight to be seen, listening to those waves crash in, watching the seagulls draw circles in the sky, feel Matt’s warm foot run up my like, all while I sank my fronts into some grilled stuft! So after all that was said and done, and Matt had finished planting his poopseed, we began the labourious process of fitting into our wetsuits, Matt’s suit was custom fit for all his wonderful curves and contours, while mine was custom fitted for his father, a huskier gentlemen who may very well be the next president of the United States. So I got my wetsuit on first which gave me just enough time to snap some shots of Matty’s bum-bum! So we caught some waves kid, yes we did, Matt being the veteran boogie man is now my benchmark for what a pussy wave is and a grilled stuft wave. Got out of the watah about two hours latah, showered off, cleaned up I saw some dorks’ dongs, andddd Matt peeled off his suit and made me want his bod, hopped in the car, and I proclaimed the day as Happy Times.