A Surfer's Tale

By Richard Davidson

It was Christmas Eve, and all the dudes and dudesses were tucked safely in their beds. I suppose they were dreaming of bitchin’ waves, and righteous breaks, but one may never know.

What one DOES know, however, is that while the aforementioned dudes and dudesses were tucked in so safely, a National Security Emergency was taking place. Now Federal Troops were on their way, to secure the area, and conduct house to house searches for Foreign Terrorists, who were intent on Killing Americans, and Threatening the American Way of Life.

None of the twice aforementioned dudes and dudesses would have wanted that, and would have been happy to assist Law Enforcement Agencies from the National, State, and Local Levels, had they been aware of the situation, but how can a dude, or a dudess for that matter, be aware of any situation while safely tucked in for a night’s rest?

One might ask a question such as this; yay, indeed one has. And with good reason, and yet the bear doth slumber.

One will easily see that what follows is an ill-begotten knock on the door, shattering the stillness of a peaceful night with the insane urgency of a Life and Death Federal Investigation with Suspects Still at Large. One would expect to hear earnest cries of “dude, there’s a dude outside,” or “dude, there’s some dudes at the door, and they have guns, and Sony Walkmans,” but no such thing was to take place this crisp December night.

No, our happy surfers slept blissfully, not hearing the initial pounding, as a Team of Federal Agents employed the tactic of Civilian Penetration, and forced their way into the private residence of American Citizens.

Perhaps later, in a courtroom in LA, you might have heard pensive pleas of “dude, I feel so violated,” or “dude, doesn’t the precedent in Wagner vs the State of California negate any mitigated findings under the Rand Act?” but again, this was not to be.

Elroy Jetson was a good dog. He was part German Shepherd, and part Great Dane, for all our empty headed friends knew, but what they did know was that he could catch pretty much anything. Frisbees were child’s play for Elroy Jetson. One time, Zeus Man took Elroy Jetson down to the Halbert Hills Country Club, and he caught several golf balls in mid flight, before some laughably slow security dudes chased Zeus Man off, threatening to call the cops.

“Call ‘em,” shouted Zeus Man, laughing as he ran, and flipping them the bird, big as a tethered Water Moccasin.

G-Purple had poured a few Malt Liquors into Elroy Jetson’s water dish that fateful night, and so the normally alert watchdog was sleeping like the comatose surfers crashed randomly all around him. But he was still the first to respond to Federal Agents breaking down the door, and as he scrambled across the polished wooden floor, he skidded a little; just enough to bring down a box of light bulbs, some of which exploded with popping noises, and giving the Federal Agents reason to believe someone was shooting.

Rule 175:(a) clearly states: When someone is shooting, or there’s lightbulbs being broken, or whatever, it is imperative that alert agents fire teargas canisters into every nearby nook and cranny with great abandon, as all humans, plants, and animals in the immediate vicinity will be woozified, and generally easier to deal with, unless they’re still shooting, in which case you will open fire with automatic weapons; throw in a grenade; or call in the air strike.

That’s a paraphrase of the rule, and it may not even be the right number, but there are rules, of that much we can be sure.

To make a short story long and tedious, we’ve got a whole bunch of hippie surfers sharing the same apartment, sleeping off whatever abuse they put their bodies through last night, and a dog with a hangover breaking lightbulbs, and Federal Agents firing Teargas Canisters around like lawn darts.

And the kicker is, this is all going on in Apartment 313, and over across the hall in 308, (don’t ask me how they number these damn things,) two members of a little-known Foreign Terrorist Network are talking on a Tapped Phone to an Operative Overseas about their Mission of Destruction, and Jerry Springer is on the TV with the volume turned off, and some Soft Baguin Jazz is playing on the Portable CD Player they bought at an American Mass Retailer. Whether it was K-Mart, or WalMart, or any other kind of Mart, has never been discovered, but practically everyone who worked on the case, or was just idly speculating agreed that it wasn’t Big Lots.

Frank Sinatra, who was just a regular guy that worked in a lumberyard, and not a Worldwide Idol with alleged Mob Connections, had been contracted by Stupid Dave to apply caulking to the Leaky Bathroom Window, and had showed up very late, but figured he might as well do it tonight, as there was a really good Stallone movie on tomorrow, and he still had some of those leftover cheese rinds.

Sinatra heard the bulbs explode, and heard the firing of the teargas canisters, and the howling of Elroy Jetson, and came running around to the front door, and without thinking, ran straight for Agent John Credenford, who shot him dead at point blank range.

“My God, what have you done?” berated Agent Norm Crowley, as documented in Federal Affidavit 31728934528749382239482993-293829003229987166-327b.

Sinatra’s fiancee, Nancy, had baked him twenty seven chocolate chip cookies, (well, thirty, but they’re so irresistible when they first come out of the oven. Nancy was treated for minor burns the next day,) and put a glass in the freezer so he could have a frosty glass of milk when he got home.

That glass of milk would never be poured.

Instead, after being treated for minor burns, and complete nervous breakdown, Nancy was interrogated for twenty three solid hours by Federal Agents Burns and Allen.

“What’dya mean you got a chicken, but it doesn’t lay any eggs?” asked Detective Burns.

“It’s a boy, silly,” answered Detective Allen, sending a shiver down Nancy’s spine.

“That’s a Rooster, not a Chicken,” quipped Detective Burns.

“Well, don’t tell him,” said Detective Allen, coyly.

“And why not?” demanded Detective Burns.

“We need the milk.”

Detective Burns did a comic double take.

“You need the milk?” paused slightly for comic timing purposes, “say, I almost hate to ask this, but how does a Rooster that thinks it’s a Chicken help you get milk?”

Nancy just couldn’t wait to hear the answer.

“Look, you better talk,” said Detective Allen, changing the subject. “We have plenty more routines, and in half an hour, Detectives Abbot and Costello will be taking over.”

This was too much for Nancy, and she confessed to every crime committed in the past two thousand years.

“Doesn’t that seem a bit odd to you?” asked Detective Burns.

“What?” asked Detective Allen.

“Well, she seems a bit young to have kidnapped the Lindberg baby...”

Detective Allen could only shake her head.

“They start younger all the time, don’t they?”

Neither had a moment’s pause about the Looting of the Roman Empire, figuring that really wasn’t their jurisdiction anyway.

Back at the moderately priced apartment shared by some idiot surfers in their early twenties, except for Fragile Pete, who was pushing 140, if he was a day, some of the illegal substances abused by the roommates reacted badly with the chemicals being sprayed by Federal Agents. It seems Gas Irritant 8967122 doesn’t combine well with Airplane Glue, or Peace, Man.

Within seconds, Surfer Gal’s lungs had collapsed completely, and only a few seconds later, Fragile Pete lived up to his name, as his heart quietly stopped. Crazy Dave awoke long enough to say “Gaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh,” as his stomach ate itself, causing massive internal bleeding. He was lucky enough to be unconscious until his death, a few hours later.

G. Purple and Zeus Man somehow survived, but they sustained heavy brain damage, which neither could afford. To this day, both of them sit quietly, and drool just a little. I guess G. Purple is fairly happy with that, but everybody knows Zeus Man lived for an adventure, and I doubt he’ll have any more of those.

The terrorists who had been across the hall in the stupidly numbered apartment 308 had slipped quietly out of the building when they heard the teargas being fired, and only a week later, blew up the Gas Station next to the Post Office, which I think was a mistake, or something.

That Gas Station never did any harm to anybody, and I think just about everybody in town’s got it in for that Post Office. They have the slowest clerks there.

Elroy Jetson is my dog now, because I think Crazy Dave would’ve wanted it that way. Elroy Jetson wasn’t designed to play nursemaid to drooling hippies; he was born to run free, with the wind blowing in his ears.

My only hope at this point, is that we’ll get some real waves, not this crappy little tourist attraction surf that’s got every moron who ever bought a pair of Bermuda Shorts slamming into each other in the greasy foam.

The only possible way to put this in perspective, at least, that I can think of at this time, is to throw this Frisbee into the air.

“Go get it, Elroy Jetson!”

“Good boy!”

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