Dump This!

Art by Bob AulYou are a tubby state assemblyman who threatened to introduce a law to take beach-closure decisions out of the hands of public-health officials and give that responsibility to City Hall hacks. "The water is clean," you asserted of Huntington Beach, "but the beaches are closed. And merchants are hurting. . . . Also, I live near there, and I'd like to be able to go for a swim."

First of all, it looks like the last time you took a swim was when you could still fit into the Scooby-Doo trunks your Aunt Verna gave you on your 7th birthday. In other words, a long time ago. A very long time ago.

But, okay. I'm game. It's time to put up or shut yo' mouth.

Meet me at high noon this Saturday at the beach at PCH and Newland. I'll be the guy with the hooded sweatshirt, shades and stopwatch. I'll time you for five minutes, enough time to let you stick a toe in that shit water, wade in it and perhaps roll your blubber through the surf in a desperate attempt to catch a wave.

The first thing you'll notice upon sticking your legs in the water is that you can't see your feet. Isn't it funny how you can go to places like Tahiti and Hawaii and see your feet, but you can't here? Guess what, douche bag! When I was a kid in Southern California, you could see your feet in our water!

If you want a clue as to why things have changed, turn away from the surf and look inland. The miles and miles of homes and businesses and industries and cars and creatures helped cloud that water. Years ago, some knuckleheaded politicians like you decided to use our ocean as a toilet.

Another clue? Turn back toward the ocean and look offshore. See those oil platforms? Can't make them out with the sunscreen burning in your eyes? No problem; look down at where the surf meets the sand. Notice that black stripe that runs the length of the strand? Ain't it bitchen?

Of course, the best stuff is the stuff you can't see. The bacteria and viruses and protozoa and helminths and borroughs. You haven't lived until you've had a bout of cholera.

See you Saturday, fat boy.

Send anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/oOC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at letters@ocweekly.com.

 
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