The Drugged Monkey checks out next year's skis. Someone oughta check him back in!
Next season’s boards are going to be sick and by sick I mean something other than an illness. Something more along the lines of cocaine and baby manatees. Something more like Jesus in a bathing suit. Something like an apocalypse filled with jolly ranchers. Something like an unfulfilled promise to an infant that later fills that child with an urge to kill. Something like a starfish sitting at the bottom of the ocean questioning whether or not he is really a starfish or just a practical joke played by those that came before. Seriously they’re awesome.
The preview show for the gear suffered a little due to the sound system, but other than that I just about crapped myself. And by just about, I mean did. And by did I mean the whole row had to move. And by move I mean they escorted me out of the theatre. And by escort I don't mean prostitute, I mean skinny kids in vests with a lot of zits that are emotionally fragile. And by fragile I mean I said some things I shouldn't have and two of them started to cry. And by cry I mean they wept like children rocking back and forth pleading for their dead loved ones to return. And by dead loved ones I mean corpses that died and left little Timmy alone with matches and a lust for trailer park stampedes. And by trailer park stampede I mean scorched fat people stumbling out of trailers with TV dinners in hand. And by TV dinner I mean "Hungry Man Meal" (if you weigh your dinner on the bathroom scale and it's not at least two pounds you better go ahead and remove that penis). And by remove I mean unzip your pants, place the genitalia in an open drawer, and slam. Repeat as necessary. And by repeat I mean multiple times. The same number of times as the number of dirty thoughts you had for your cousin.