Dead Kooks And Diplo Set The Tone For The Summer

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You’re in Malibu. The set of the day rolls through, and by some miracle, you’re on one of its curves. Nobody behind you, but a sea of civilians in front. They all skirmish, except for one. One man begins to paddle like he’s thinking about catching YOUR wave. He’s chiseled, with luscious blonde hair falling onto his face. So handsome, in fact, you consider the possibility that he’s a famous DJ, or maybe a model from the 2008 JC Penny catalog.

This greek god stares you down, drops in, and runs away with the rest of your fun. The last thing you see is the various stripes of orange and yellow before melting into a sea of rage.

He paddles in, so you follow him to the parking lot (is there a parking lot, or is it street parking? I never been to Malibu, the place sounds fucking awful). You follow him to his car, and before any profanities can spew from your noisemaker, you gasp. Startled, you walk back to your car, drive home in silence, and never surf again.

You never mess with a man whose board matches his bronco. Also, crocs, never fuck with a guy wearing crocs. He’ll win every time.