Https://twitter.com/RustedAloha

The Rusted Wives Club

by Rusty

About every 3 months or so, I undergo a Cardiac Stress Test. It is not by any means a pleasurable medical experience and normally leads me to examine many of my life's questionable decisions. But none the less, this medical inquiry offers my loved ones a measured sense of reassurance that my old, rusted butt is going to keep paddling around this watery planet… just a little bit longer.

The seriousness of this medical procedure really should not be understated. To ensure that my heart - and head - are in the right place before I undergo this test, my wife encourages me to find my “Happy Place” by hanging out at the beach and surfing with the boys. She understands that a good morning in the surf helps relax me, calms me down, puts me into that zen type place, “that only a surfer knows.”

It took me three wives to find the right lady, but #3 totally gets me.

With my toes freshly sanded and hair still salty, I am ready to have all the wires and electrodes attached to my wrinkled body… I have to say, it sucks getting old. With each year the probing and prodding of my anatomy gets deeper and deeper, sometimes reaching soul piercing depths.

So this is how the test normally starts; again, this happens about once every three months... I come home from a sunny surf session and find all three of My wives, in My living room, sipping several bottles of My wine… 2 Former Wives + 1 Current Wife = Spousal Overload... Instant Heart Attack or what my doctor has diagnosed as a Cardiac Stress Test!

If I was actually hooked up to an EKG machine, at that shocking moment, it would fucking blow up!

These “Tres Señoras de Rusty” love to do this to me; they love to see the horror on my face, the fear in my eyes, the sweat build up on my upper lip. They love to redline Rusty’s old ticker!

Once the initial shock wears off, after I gulp down a glass of wine, the inevitable questions of my actual health come up. Because folks, here’s the bottom, without me, this “Rusted Wives Club” would have no financing!

This medical farce is actually a quarterly business meeting, called to order by the three owners’ of “Rusted Beauties.” Each quarter’s agenda consists of only one bullet point and that is simply my health; or rather their complex, non-medical assessment of my well-being and how that could affect their lavish purses. For the three of them, it is a fun afternoon of risk management done over a few bottles of wine. For me, it’s the fuel that will ensure that I outlive them all!

Aloha.

Doctor My Eyes - Jackson Browne Doctor, my eyes Tell me what is wrong Was I unwise to leave them open for so long

https://twitter.com/RustedAloha

The Death of Body Surfing

I just came across a comment about Body Surfing that I had never really taken into account before...

“The surf leash broke up surfing and bodysurfing, which up to that point had been united since the beginning — wipeout, lose board, bodysurf, repeat…” — Matt Warshaw

As I think about it, this is totally, freakin’ true… The leash did squeezed the life out of bodysurfing! Read More - Da Bob - Medium

Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Model Makes Waves At 56 - YEW!

SI has included, amongst its usual bevy of young beauties, the most attractive 56 year old swimsuit model I have ever gazed upon.

by Da Bob for YEW Of course...  I look forward to this annual pageant of beauty ever year. However, the older I get, the crustier I grow, the more uncomfortable and creepy I feel about ogling SI’s annual Swimsuit Edition.  In short, I just don’t feel right about gawking at the assets of Generation Z. Read More - Da Bob - YEW

Tanned & Toned… to Chubby Chaser!

In my tanned and toned Twenties, I was lucky to marry to a young, sexy surf goddess… We shared sandy days and salty nights.

Later, in my mature… middle-age years… I met and wed a romantic lady who loved to stroke my balding dome. Now in my sunset and packing a few more ~ chunks in my trunks ~ I am blessed to have wife #3… and even more blessed that she’s a titillating… “Chubby Chaser”!

Alabama Fixin To Keep Yoga Ban

by Da Bob In Alabama they don’t… Call you “Pretentious”… They say you’re “too big for your britches.” Don’t say “I’m about to”… They say “I’m fixin to.” Don’t get “Upset”… They “Throw a hissy fit.” Don’t say “It’ll be okay”… They say “God willin’ and the creek don’t rise.” And fervently believe that “Yoga”… Will make their chitlins Hindu! Read More...

Shark Week Becomes Squalene Chum

We are only a few days away from one of the most loathsome weeks for surfers. A week of nightly TV that most of us salty, nasal drippers do everything to avoid. It happens every summer, that one week where the fun vibe in the lineup gets a bit frosty and sketchy; where freaky thoughts about oversized fish with multiple rows of sharp teeth swim through our collective domes.

It’s Shark Week on Discovery Channel. Oh, how I love this freakin’ week… Read More - Da Bob - YEW

Burnett’s Cocoaine Hair Oil

Besides my daily saltwater dip, this is the only hair product I use… Good old Joseph Burnett’s Cocoaine Hair Oil! Now don’t get all preachy on me and say, but Rusty “Just say no to dope” or “Ugh to drugs”. I am not dousing my grayish locks with Amazonian March Dust… Nope, the “Coco” is just coco-nut oil. It’s Rusty approved!!! Conditions the hair I have left, smells great and keeps the ladies sniffing around. #StokedTillDeath

When did Weed become Kush?

by Rusty

I share this story as a cautionary tale for all of my rusted brethren to heed; and when I say “rusted”, I mean the old school, vintage crew of malcontents that I am honored to still creep, or rather creak, around with. Gentleman, because of some crazy, technical circumstances, I recently discovered that the weed kids are smoking today, is some powerful shit!

As with most stories involving drugs, this all begins very innocently… And as a caveat, to those readers who may not know me personally, I am very fond of Mother Earth’s wacky tobaccy. The truth is, that I have been inhaling since my buddy, Rocco the “Roach”, passed me a joint while sitting in a dank, swampy delta near the Cambodian border… It was only my third day in country and nothing could make that place any better, but it sure helped.

But that was 1968… And this bad trip happen last week, 2016.

Ok, so back to the innocent beginning of this story. My favorite of three wives recently bought me a new sound system. It’s what Barney at Best Buy called a, “A wireless home entertainment system.” I guess my wife got tired of my stereo and classic Hi-Fi speakers taking up half the space in our living room. Even though, I especially felt that the speakers nicely accentuated our shag carpeting and lava lamp, but she disagreed.

This new sound system has basically has two pieces, a speaker bar and sub-woofer, but no freaking wires to connect them. After a few hours of trial and error and a few beers, I finally figured out how to hook-up the speaker bar to our TV, avoiding a serious spousal crisis - She must never, ever miss her telenovelas!

Everything basically stayed the same for the next three weeks… speaker bar hooked up, woofer behind the couch, inoperative and next to a huge box of technical instructions.

That is, until one sunny afternoon, when I cut out of work early to slide a few Boneyard peelers. It was a classic sessh, logging at high tide with a bunch of the old crew. As always a few young interlopers, “Jetty-Rats”, crashed our geezer party; led in particular, by one kid, whom I have watched grow up for many seasons. He is the spawn of a great family that I have known forever. A respectful young man who rips Salt Creek on a shortie and oozes serious style on a log everywhere else.

For whatever reason I shared with him in the line-up my wireless dilemma and he gave me a few pointers to fix it. Then afterwards in the parking lot, while we were packing away our boards in the day’s last light, he offered to fallow me home and fix my technical headache.

We got to my place and Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Mam, the kid hooked up the sub-woofer, adjusted the sound and room settings; even hooked up my old turntable and showed me how to operate everything from my smartphone (now if I could only make the font bigger on that “smart” phone, I’d be stoked!)

The kid got everything working and did it all within ten minutes of walking through my casa’s door, barefoot!

Afterwards, while we were flipping through some of my old vinyl the kid spotted something I normally have tucked away... “Stella”… my favorite of many bongs, like wives, I have collected throughout the years. The kids eye’s were completely transfixed on that smoking apparatus! He reached for it and with the complete reverence of a Kung-Fu Grasshopper asked if he could spark that sucker up! I, being the good influence, I have always been in this young man’s life... Agreed.

Trust me, this is still all very innocent… This kid is actually in his early twenties, a graduate of a local university and works hard as some kind of app coder in the tech industry. I am not subverting some unknowing tween. In fact, it was I, who unknowingly was being introduced to elements by this kid that will forever color my world.

We took Stella out to the back patio and I loaded up the bowl up with my standard herb, buds that I still get from my buddy, Roach (He has been my lifelong friend and weed supplier. Actually, since his retirement, Rocco's product has gotten even smoother. I think much of it has to do with how he intermingles his home-grown weed amongst his award winning roses.)

We both shared a few hits that I really enjoyed, yet the kid seemed disappointed.

“Rusty, I need to bring you into the 21st century dude,” the kid mumble as he got up and walked out to his truck.

He came back to the patio with a zip lock baggy of buds and a what looked like an ID.

“Rusty, this is my Medical Marijuana card,” he slid across the table. “And this is what eases my ‘Anxiety’. Without it, I would have never graduated last year.”

The professional looking sticker on the side of the bag read,  “Cannatonic Granddaddy Purple Kush.”

Well, he opened that baggy and sprinkled just a little bit of it into Stella’s bowl and we began to hit that kush hard! Drawing in smooth, silky purple hits of medical grade marijuana. It was Goodddddd!

Then this old fart hit the Granddaddy wall… or most of that shameful wall crashed down upon me… brick by brick!

I don’t know what really happen, I Can’t Remember!!!

My favorite third wife informed me the next morning that she came home and found the kid and I on the back patio. I apparently was higher than all of the Merry Pranksters who partook in Ken Kesey’s Kool Acid Test. She and the kid carried me into the living room where I proceeded to blast my favorite Barry Manilow album on my new wireless home entertainment system.

The wife nicely got rid of the kid and things only got worse… my clothes came off as Barry began to croon about “Mandy”. She threaten to divorce me, and Stella, as I attempted to reignite it during “Copacabana”, which then caused me to bust into a chorus of “I Can’t Smile Without My Bong.”

My wife clearly had her hands full. She told me that somewhere around Manilow’s tune, “I Write The Songs”, she locked herself in our bedroom, with the bong, and called my previous wives for advice.

I guess the cannatonic portion of the purple kush kicked in as side two of Manilow Greatest Hits scratched the end. I pasted out, face down, nude, on the couch only to be awoken by a kiss on the cheek from my favorite wife. Her affection overwhelmed my aching head. Then she slapped my bare ass and screamed at me, “You are now officially forbidden to ever smoke dope with anyone more than 40 years your junior!”

To which I replied, “Oh, Mandy!”

Aloha.

Barry Manilow - Mandy

The Toyes - Smoke Two Joints

Self Quarantine / Social Distancing

Everybody talking about... #SelfQuarantine??? #SocialDistancing??? What's the big deal? The wife and I have been quarantined from one another since she discovered @Amazonand I found @Pornhub!