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Thrashin'
(1986)
Dir: David Winters
Tell you what, I used to skate. God damn right I used to skate. I’m not one of those fuckin’ kooks, sucking down a vanilla latte, pushing a stroller and a yellow lab, while I’m telling you about it either. I … used ... to ... skate: skate, skate, skate. S.K.A.T.E. So Killer At Telling Everybody! Skate! Oops, I dropped something … Daggers. That’s right. Fuck The Valley, I was there. Some of those mother fuckers might try and tell you, “yeah, Binaca wasn’t around, man, he doesn’t know a fucking pool from a dried out hunk of pussy.” Heard that, and I’m over it. Fucking Tommy Hook circumcised my fucking son. I fucking ruled so fucking hard that when this fucking Thrashin’ nonsense hit the screens, I fucking stalked Josh Brolin for a month. I was hiding out in his bushes, just waiting for that pussy to come out and open his mailbox. I know, “he skates too,” but what … the … fuck … ever, dude. I wanted a piece of that fucking clown. You don’t just skate a little while, make a movie about it, and then spit. That’s non-non-nonsense. It’s all about skating for life. It’s about waking up, dialing up your fucking bros, and hunting down the session. You gotta track that shit through the woods, just like following Brolin into a portable toilet, locking the door with a piece of wire, and then tipping that douche bag onto his ear. You know what, why am I even fucking talking to you about this. I’m fucking Billy B, in thee place to be. I don’t need this shit. You know what else, I ain’t fucking Natas doing kiddie-ride helicopters on a fire hydrant, and I ain’t Gonz’s kermit-sounding ass, whimping down handrails. I’m the mother fucker seeking out that desert wasteland soul patch. I’m thrusting slappies and setting down the manuals. The manny, but I can stroke a tranny. Float me a bowl and I’ll smoke you some carves, you fucking nard. You ain’t gonna find me sucking L. Ron Hubbard’s dead ass nuts for a movie role either, cause I ain’t Almost Famous, I have fucking arrived. You want to see my three-sixty-flip, push your head up your ass nice and slow, cause that’s where you’ll get a peek. All I need is a yellow curb and a six pack. I can push a goddamned fiver until you grandma’s snatch dries all the way up and comes back in the next life as a fucking bloodhound … on your trail. You think I don’t know what you’re thinking? Fucking skating to the liquor store. Where you going with that forty? Back home, to your hot ass mom. I’ll fuck that bitch and drink your fucking OE before you even get two pushes south, you silly dill. Hey, Brolin, save the fairy-tale ass shit for your fucking stepmom’s lentil smelling Yentil, the Daggers know what’s really cooking. And by the way, that wild Indian picture, happens to be stylin’.
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