Sit back. Loose the top button and shuck the tie. Pull on a pair of elastic waist high-ridin’ shorts, throw Slick Rick on that digital hi-fi of yours, sip on that cold vodka and coke and take a trip to a place that’s as Sexy as The Sun.
You are in summer. It is Sydney Harbour, thirty degrees, a north wind don’t gitcha cause you’re parked near an empty beach protected by wooded cliffs with a touch of the Gallipolis about it.
Two girls are arranged on a boat that measures 50 feet tip to tail with its giant pointed beak taking up half of the length. Retro plastic masks the girls’ faces; nothing masks bodies straining at the bonds of strict convention.
The water is warm and starbursts dance off the surface. Music plays: The Virgins (Rich Girls), Soft Pack (Fences), Ratatat (Loud Pipes), Slick Rick (Street Talkin’), Neon Indian (Deadbeat Summer), Nappy Roots (Good Day). The tracks aren’t cutting edge, but nobody is here to please the critics hunchbacked over their Apple Macs, feet in Adidas, bald heads covered in Kangol.
Stab is the average Joe’s best friend. We take you places you might never see. We open doors you didn’t know exist. We introduce you to women whom you’d never talk to in a zillion years. Buy this magazine. Read it. Live it. Become the agent of change, be an architect of a brave new world where the shallow is celebrated and the guilty and the scared watch from the bushes, squeezing and moaning in hypocritical envy.
Holy fuck, can it get any better than this?