The WHACKED boys at Surfing magazine played a funny (though unsightly) prank on the SURFER mag crew this winter. Normally, this isn't the kind of thing we'd mention, largely because we basically try to pretend in these pages that our competitors don't exist. But this stunt should GET PROPS. OH YEAH.

Here's what happened. One morning in mid-December the SURFER Magazine guys woke up to find that someone had delivered a box of donuts to the house we rent each year at Rockpile. Fortunately, most of the crew (including me) had already come back to California, but it's pretty easy to envision our best photographers and writers stumbling toward the sweets in a Homer Simpson trance: "Mmmm. Donuts."


A couple of days later, an envelope arrived containing a picture of six unidentified men with their pants around their ankles, bent over, each holding a "tainted" (get it?) donut to his butt crack, like so many BUTTERY BATONS. The photo came with a note: "Season's Donuts!! From your good friends at Surfing."

In other words, the guys at SURFER ate donuts that the guys at Surfing had stuck up their butts! It's an old fraternity prank, and we bit, so to speak. But you got to give the Surfing guys credit. They're FREAKS. GENIUSES. TRUE HELLMEN.

But we've got some freaks of our own. For instance, Photo Editor Jeff Divine came up with an ingenious payback plan: during the upcoming ASP contest at Todos Santos, bribe some federales to arrest various members of the Surfing mag crew on bogus drug-possession charges. The Mexican cops would take the frightened journalists back to an isolated room, tell them to bend over for a strip search, then put those donuts back where they came from.

Unfortunately, we're too chicken to retaliate in such a drastic way. But that doesn't mean we're letting their attack slip by without some response. And so, one final word of advice to the folks at Surfing: you probably don't want to eat any foodstuffs that arrive by mail or courier over the next couple of years--no matter how secure or tamper-proof it may appear.

Other than that, REST IN PURE PEACE, BROS.*

* My friend Steve Zeldin of Surfing magazine gets props for the cool, upper-case slang in this column.


On a less sarcastic note, the SURFER house was honored to sponsor a year-end barbecue for the Roxy team and some of their friends. It was a fairly star-studded affair, with the ASP's top three women (Lisa Andersen, Pauline Menczer and Layne Beachley), and many of the North Shore's best female chargers (Rochelle Ballard, Megan Abubo.)

These women are on a mission to undo the image of the quiet, deferential "surfer girl," when they surf and when they party. First, they all but atomized a couple of piñatas, connecting with powerful swings that suggested one of two things: either they've played a lot of baseball or they've got a lot of hidden rage. Most of the men on hand felt a moral obligation to avert their eyes during the all-female Twister game, and the all-female tackle-football game. And by the time the all-female cake fight broke out, the guys were upstairs watching Letterman.

Actually, it wasn't that much different than an all-male North Shore party, with one notable exception: they came back the next morning and cleaned up their mess. -- Steve Hawk

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