MIKEY WRIGHT pulls up in a rusted pickup truck, gets out, and heads around to the back. He reaches past his standard thruster for a garage-sale single-fin he recently acquired, but is stopped abruptly by a voice coming from just over his shoulder.

(Greasy and visibly agitated)
Oi! The f–k ya doin', mate? You're not gonna grow a soul patch and start doin' yoga on us now, are ya? How you gonna throw a sick punt on that piece o' driftwood? Do us a favor and smash that thing into kindling, mate. The world will be better off, I reckon.

(Takes a long pause, sets the board down, and takes a deep breath)
Mate, I've been meaning to talk to you about something. We've been together for a while now, and we've had some hell times; I don't want you to doubt that for a second. But mate, I need a new haircut. I need one bad. Don't get me wrong—you're the life of the party, always have been—but I just feel like you take things too far someti—

(Hairs getting rigid)
Oh yeah? Think your gonna trade me in for the ol' high and tight? Maybe keep the bangs, ya reckon? Throw in a little mousse for good measure? That's piss-weak, mate. What are ya gonna do after? Put on some Celine Dion and wax up a soft-top? Paddle out with a long-sleeve rashie in front of all ya mates? Think any of 'em will still crack a VB with ya without this mane?

(Furrows his brow)
This is my point, mate! You can't just fly off the handle and interrupt me like—

(Louder, with ends splitting)
Mate, you listen now, and you listen good. If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even know how to skull a beer, let alone throw a sick f–kin' punt. I made us a legend, mate. I took us to places you'd never dreamed of, like corked out on ya backhand while flippin' off ya mates in the channel. Or rippin' dougheys in the desert like Mad Max with heaps of chicks in the back seat. That was all-time. Let's face it, mate, you're nothing without me. So how about we forget all this, put on some Rage Against the Machine, and get a few VBs down ya neck?

(Slams hands onto the truck bed)
Mate, I don't even like VB. It tastes like piss, for Christ's sake. Would it kill us to drink a craft beer now and again? And maybe sip it instead of skull it? And why can't we ride mid-lengths and try to just slide around out there, connecting to nature 'n' shit, instead of just attacking the lip over and over again? Maybe there's more to life than sick punts. But I'll never know as long as I've got you on my shoulders…

(Hairs softening and hanging lax)
You…you're serious about this, mate?

Yes…yes, I am.

Well…I support you, then. Whatever your decision is, I'll back it all the way, mate. We've got too much history for it to go down any other way.

(Eyes moist from a profound feeling of gratitude)
Do you really mean that?

Nah, mate, that was a piss take. We're not doing any of that lame shit. Punts are legend. F–kin' oath.


[Editor's note: "Corndogging" is a satirical column in which we take serious surf issues, dunk 'em in the ocean, and roll them around in the sand for awhile.]

[This feature originally appeared in our June 2017 Issue, “Influencers,” on newsstands and available for download now.]

The definition of a sick punt. Photo: Bosko

[Top photo: Bosko]