Patiently… Dealing With Life’s Kooks

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”!

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

Mona-Keep-Smiling

What do u do when u stumble across the hilarious results of #FOIA??? U create T-Shirts!!! #KeepSmiling #Secrets https://rusted-aloha.creator-spring.com/listing/mona-keep-smiling?product=1303  Rusted Aloha #StokeTillDeath

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

The Patriotic Women Of The Gridiron... Helping To Make America Great Again!

by Rusty

Rusty’s Note: Most of us have grown tired this week of POTUS’s NFL rants and the subsequent millionaire player’s responses. Stand For The Anthem... Take A Knee… Tune In… Tune Out… There are so many other pressing issues that deserve our nation’s attention. But just bare with me here and I promise, at the end, you’ll see a 35 second video of scarcely dressed ladies that will definitely make you feel more… Patriotic.

Whether you are an American Sports fan or Constitutional 1st Amendment fan, of which I am both, your fandom was recently blitzed by our Commander & Chief. Last week, while at a political rally in the deep south of Alabama, our President declared that all NFL players who take a knee during the singing of our national anthem are SOB’s and should be fired, “You’re Fired!” The following morning, via Twitter, he disinvited Steph Curry’s Golden State Warriors to White House for their February... ‘Wink, Wink’... long desired NBA Championship Celebration.

POTUS’s full court press didn’t stop there… He took it way beyond overtime by engaging in an entire weekend’s worth of patriotic / boycottic NFL tweetstorms. Ignoring an agenda of hurricane duties and possible golf outings.

Nonetheless, his ‘flag waving point’ was firmly planted (and retweeted by loyal Russian bots around the globe).

A ‘manipulated point’ heard loud and clear by officials in all mainstream American sports.

A ‘false point’ that influenced, owner’s like the NFL’s Jerry Jones to split the protesting difference by having his Cowboys take a historic five second knee-drop before the anthem on Monday Night Football to the country’s second most important pigskin league, the Legends Football League (former known as the Lingerie Football League) to announce that it’s lovely-looking-players will “stand in salute of our flag.”

A patriotic touchdown scored round the world!

In the end, the Commissioner of Make America Great Again and his 62,984,825 mandate-less votes, deserve all the credit for turning an almost overlooked protest - of a shameful mark on our nation’s moral character - into a reason for “Women Of The Gridiron” to stand up, face the flag and turn their asses ‘just so’ towards the camera for our Star Spangled Banner!

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

Chummy Uncle Hobart

My family’s deadly history with sharks goes way back to this photo taken in 1916. That’s my Great Uncle Hobart, whom I sadly never got a chance to meet. My Grandfather claimed that Hobart was the chummiest, best looking waterman of his generation. A turn of the century bronze god, but cursed with a vain vanity and thirst for fame! He tragically died after this photo was taken - as these fossilized jaws accidentally snapped shut, cutting him into two bloody pieces. 

Please show Uncle Hobart some love and visit Rusted Aloha’s store... linked in my bio… Ohhhh Uncle Hobart… You are forever missed. Love, Rusty!

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

Only Pottz Can Save Pro… Surfing!

Last week the WSL officially announced the death of this year’s 2020 tour and a retooled 2021 list of events... But lets get real, only Martin Potter can save Pro Surfing! Here is a serious question for all you Pro Surfer lovers out there… Since the onset of COVID-19 and the shutdown of the World Surf League’s 2020 Pro Tour… Have you really missed Pro Surfing? Did you miss the sunny opening leg on Australia’s Gold Coast or her cold slabs at Bells or Margaret River? Maybe the itch you were looking to scratch was some live Indo? Or were you looking to gawk at the sandy thongs of Brazil’s Oi Rio Pro!?! I know I miss J-Bay… I miss everything about that cold, sharky, right hand point break! Teahupo’o? Slater’s ranch in Lemoore? No! The European Leg? Da Pipe Masters? Be honest… No You Don’t! Didn’t! Haven’t! Read More - Da Bob - Medium

Poor Little Willy

by Rusty The other day I experienced a premature stick - usage - problem… Needless to say, this moment left me shocked and embarrassed; feeling like a fumbling grom, who just discovered Alana Blanchard’s cheeky bottom turn.

Yes, in my rush to surf a fresh swell, I allowed my fragile Freudian ego to get the best of me. Anticipating a pumping swell, my salty libido chose to ride a sexy mid-length 7’7”. How quickly did that lyin’ libido let me down! By shrinking all my shreddable powers in front of a full line-up of long-time partners and friends. Scaring my legendary status forever!

The sad truth is, I whipped out and tried to ride a stick the was clearly too small for my advanced age in conditions that were beyond sucky. I fell victim to my own super-ego, believing that I was still a young ripper ready to “Schralp the gnar gnar.”

Well, my gnar gnar did little schralping that morning as I blew my surf load way too early - in high tide - shitty San O’s. Afterwards I felt humiliated, dejected, less of man, bruised and battered. My ego vowed to rack that mid stick forever.


The following morning, I awoke to a pulsing swell and chose to ride my 9’0” log. That solid single fin worked well, but a few buddies of mine keep asking me why I was riding such a big board in above average surf; all of them knowing my proclivity for shredding perky peaks.

In between sets, I lamented about my previous day’s poor performance to a much more seasoned, sage surfer whom I have always looked up to. He listen to me while floating on his board outside the line-up taking in every debasing detail of my humiliating experience. After reliving the horror, he simply chuckled, paddled away and yelled,  “Rusty, don’t worry! My doc has some great drugs that will fix your little willy.”