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  • i wrote this in high school. this is the only story i wrote over the first twenty years of my life i still have.

    There was this couple, Jane and Fred, and they lived in the Southern California suburb of Corona. One day in August the temperature was 100f, so they decided it would be an excellent day to go to the beach. So they packed the towels, boogie boards, kids, suntan lotion, lawn chairs, cooler filled with beer and colas, the new Jackie Collins book for Jane and a Mechanics Illustrated for Fred, into the family Vanagon and went to the beach.

    The kids, three boys and two girls, were thrilled about going to the beach. The oldest boy, Trigger, had one hell of a time getting his surfboard into the car. The other boys, Motorhead and Skip, grabbed their skateboards and Agent Orange tapes. The oldest of all children, the girl named Green, who was seventeen, grabbed her bikini and put it on, then a Budget Press t-shirt over that. The youngest of the kids, the girl Gertrude, was only a few months old so she just spit up and drooled.

    It took them about 40 minutes to get to the beach, although it took them about an hour and a half to find a parking place. They finally spotted someone pulling out, and Fred, being a former Indy car driver, beat the other 437 cars trying to park there.

    The second the car stopped Motorhead and Skip put on “Everything Went Gray” and skated off into oblivion. Trigger ran off to pound some waves. Green took off her t-shirt to expose her ample breast to some surf punks walking by. They clubbed her on the head and drug her off. That left Fred and Jane to carry everything to the beach. It took them two hours and four trips to move everything to the perfect spot.

    Neither Fred nor Jane actually wanted to go in the water. They just sat there and acted like they were reading, when actually they were secretly having orgasms at every turbo tit of delicious dong that walked by. Fred was drinking Jim Beam and coke in a can and Jane was drinking Lite beer from Miller. She commented on the great taste of the beer, at which time the northern side of the beach said “LESS FILLING!” The southern side countered with “TASTES GREAT!” after which there was a riot that equaled any RUN-DMC concert. Fred stayed cool through it all, though. He pulled out a Swanson Hungry Man Veal Parmesan t.v. dinner and flung it into the microwave which was plugged into a cord that ran ten blocks to the lighter of the family Vanagon.

    The surf punks took Green under the pier where a gang-bang proceeded. Green was conscious by then and was proceeding like a trooper. After about 37 guys, 6 girls, and a platypus had finished, she went and got a pepperoni pizza. Sex made her hungry. Trigger happened to walk by and sat down and ate a piece.

    “Why aren’t you pounding?” Green asked.

    “They won’t let me surf because I munched on some dude’s skull. Look! It scratched my board!”

    “Those assholes!”

    “It’s this entire bourgeois Orange County establishment system! Any outside surfers are labeled insignificant turds on a fly’s sphincter muscle! If it was Joe Mission Viejo who cracked a guys skull he’d be pounding right now!” Trigger then whacked some dirthead with a Metallica t-shirt with the fin of his board. The blood spurt out through his eyes. “I don’t want no more pizza,” he said. “Let’s go check out that riot!” So they did.

    When they arrived the riot had just been broken up. There were a few skinheads lying in a pool of blood with cops bludgeoning them, but besides that, the only ones around were Fred eating veal parmesan and Gertrude drinking her mother’s beer. Nothing unusual.

    “Where’s Mom?” Green asked.

    “Oh, she was taken off to be a human sacrifice by some Slayer fanatics.”

    “Oh”, Green and Trigger uttered simultaneously. Henry Rollins of the band Black Flag walked up to them and puked. He then walked away, never to be heard from again. This upset Trigger. He wondered what band Greg Ginn was in this week. Was it WURM? Black Flag? October Faction? Gone? He walked away, thoroughly perplexed by the situation.

    Trigger went walking all up and down the beach. A couple of girls tried to pick up on him, but he had been fucked over by so many girls that he had decided to be celibate. He figured he could satisfy his wants by himself. That way he could do it anytime, anyhow, anywhere possible without the headgames of a selfish egomaniacal female present. He spotted his brothers riding their skateboards off the pier. He started walking down the pier when he saw…her. Beautiful purple hair…large tattooed breasts…all available for the once-in-a-lifetime price of $69.95 plus tax and blood tests. Trigger swung his board around and hit a dirthead with an Armored Saint shirt with his fin. Blood spurt out his eyes. Trigger walked towards her. She walked towards him. She kicked him in the balls. He through her off the pier into the jagged rocks below. He came. He threw $69.95 plus tax off the pier to her disfigured body below. “Maybe celibacy isn’t quite what it’s cracked up to be,” he thought to himself.

    Trigger then continued over to see what his brothers were doing. Motorhead, Skip, and about fifteen others were skating off the pier. They had Barry Manilow tied to a buoy right off the pier and they were trying to skag him. John Denver was trying to protect him, but soon they tied him up. Suddenly, Don Ho popped out of the water. All 17 skaters jumped off the pier to get him, but it was to late, Don had already saved Barry and John and they had went swimming back to Hawaii.

    Fred decided to go swimming. He grabbed one of the boogie boards and went off into the ocean. Then, all of the sudden, the moon shifted, and the lunar pull scorched the waves to ten feet. Fred started tripping. He did some intense boogie surfing. Trigger saw him and yelled. The entire beach ran over to watch. The wave got bigger and bigger, until it was 45 feet high. In the crowd a dirthead saw Green, her ample breast only slightly covered by her wet, white bikini. He walked up and asked for a fuck. Trigger picked up the microwave and threw it at the dirthead. He then stuck the fin of his surfboard into his skull. Blood spurt from his eyes on to his Saxon t-shirt. It started to rain. Fred jumped off the wave. All the surf punks jumped on all the dirtheads. All the dirtheads jumped on all the surf punks.

    The dirtheads started playing “The Crunge” by Led Zeppelin. The surf punks played “Rise Above” by Black Flag. People’s heads were being smashed to and fro. Trigger speared 15 dirtheads with the fin of his surfboard at one time. Blood spurt from all their eyes. A dirthead named Bob threw Gertrude in the wave. The impact crushed every bone in her body. Roman Polanski picked her up and cried; “Why are all the women I love killed!” Trigger ran up and smashed the fin of his surfboard into his skull. Blood spurt from his eyes onto his Venom t-shirt.

    Green looked down into her hand, which held Bob’s torn out heart, and suddenly realized what was going on. “STOP!!” she yelled.

    “STOP!!!!” yelled a blood drenched Green, until all on the beach had come to a standstill.

    “I don’t understand why we are fighting each other! We have so much in common!” The crowd grumbled.

    “We all wear leather and chains and spikes!” The crowd mumbled in approval.

    “We all listen to loud, socially demoralizing music!” The crowd started to cheer.

    “And we’re all treated like shit on this beach!” A roar of approval.

    “Who should we be killing?”

    “The Mission-Viejo, shag haircut, KROQ-listening, Bad Boy Club mini-truckers!” said Fred.

    And they did. And they played “Skankin’ to the Beat” by Fishbone.
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