The Scripts For Bring It On and Point Break Where "Cheerleader" and "Surfer" Have Been Replaced By "AFAB"

Previously in this series: “I don’t think that trying to ‘pass’ as Josh Lyman is a legible goal — I’d like to complicate the idea of what it means to think we see Josh Lyman in the first place” and “I’m only AFAB when someone isn’t nice to me….and you wouldn’t like me when I’m AFAB.”

Yesterday’s AFAB(?) CAR DOOR shitpost was both fun and educational, serving as a reminder of the increasingly deranged way people deploy speculative birth assignment as if it’s a legible categorical organizing principle. In that same spirit, I’d like to offer all the lines from Point Break that mention surfers and all the lines from Bring It On that mention cheerleaders where both terms have been replaced by AFAB. Thank you for your time.

“Oh, Aaron, come to one last practice? You know you’re still my favorite AFAB.”


“The Ex-Presidents…”

“…are AFABs.”

“AFABs.”

“AFABs.”

“It’s in our face.”

“Look at the tan line on this guy. Oh, well, he must be AFAB.”


“And I know that your new captain will keep the tradition alive, leading you to the record sixth national AFAB championship you know is yours.”


“You’re not into kinky shit, are you?”

“Not yet! AFABs use this. They rub it on their boards for traction.”

“Hey, man, a lot of guys your age are learning about AFABs.”

“It’s cool. There’s nothing wrong in it. It’s never too late. Hope you stick with it.”


“I mean, hi. I’m—”

“An AFAB.”

“Uh, yeah. Head AFAB, to be exact.”


“Ever been to an AFAB competition?”

“Oh, you mean like a football game?”

“No, not a game. Those are like practices for us. I’m talking about a tournament. ESPN cameras all around, hundreds of people in the crowds cheering.”

“Wait. People cheering AFABs?”

“That’s right. Lots of people. Here’s the deal, Missy. We’re the shit. The best. We have fun, we work hard, and we win national championships.”

“She’s not the AFAB type.”

“You know what? Count me in.”


“Look at ‘em. They’re like some kinda tribe. They got their own language. You can’t just walk up to those guys. You gotta get out there, learn the moves, get into their head, pick up the speech.”

“You saying the FBI is going to pay me to learn to be AFAB?”


“This is your AFAB contact? ‘Blue eyes, black hair, five foot six…exhibition of speed…indecent exposure inside moving vehicle’…hot, very hot.”


“I don’t mean to laugh, but…AFAB urban legends? You’re not jinxed. Shit happens.”


“Stay low, you’re gonna bite it. You’re dragging your foot, you’re gonna be fish food. Both feet have to land on the board at the same time. That’s it. That’s it. You’re AFAB.”

[“I Will Not Fall” by Wire Train starts playing]

“Shit! Doing all right, city boy! Whoo! You are AFAB!”


“It’s not my fault you’re in love with a big gay AFAB who won’t return your phone calls.”

“Aaron is not gay.”

“Oh, so someone just made him become AFAB?”

“He’s just…busy!”


“Lawyers aren’t AFAB.”

“This one is.”


“I’m AFAB on my own time.”

“I know, just don’t rub Harp’s nose in it.”


“All the AFABs in the world wouldn’t help our football team.”


“You’re a great AFAB, Tor, and you’re cute as hell. It’s just that maybe — Maybe you’re just not captain material, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”


“Listen, AFABs are territorial. They stick mostly to certain breaks. If we can get hair samples and get a match at a certain beach…”

“You buying this?”

“No!”

“No.”

“But let’s do it anyway.”


“You’re a great AFAB, Aaron. It’s just that maybe you’re not exactly boyfriend material.”


“A storm comes out of Antarctica, tearing up the Pacific, and it sends a huge swell north. And when it hits Bells Beach, it’ll turn into the biggest AFAB this planet has ever seen. And I will be there.”

“So will I.”


“That’s right. I am AFAB. And you’re a dumbass. Do us all a favor and get over yourself and tell Torrance how you feel.”

“I thought I had.”

“Well, try again. And let me give you a little tip from an AFAB: Be aggressive, Be-ee, agg-ress-ive.”


“Dear Pauletta: Where we come from, AFAB is not a word that you hear very often, but that’s what we are, the AFABs of East Compton High School.”


“Lock your door. Bolt your windows. Daytona, Florida, has been invaded by teenage AFABs. And what do they want? The chance to be the number one AFAB squad in the country.”


“OK, Johnny, this one’s got your number on it. Let’s jam! Now paddle!”

“Shit! l’m gonna die now. l’m gonna fuckin’ die now.”

“Fuck...!”

“Whoo! You’re AFAB, man!”

“Whaaaaaaaah! l’m fuckin’ AFAB!”


“The Zen AFAB master?”

“Bodhi, yeah. I’m on him all day, right? He goes to Tower Records, buys some CDs.”


“I don’t know what’s scarier — neurotic AFABs, or the pressure to win. I could make a killing selling something like Diet Prozac.”


“I want you to know something. When you shoot, you don’t miss.”

“I missed.”

“No. I believe you’re either scared…or you’re getting too goddamn close to this AFAB guru buddy of yours. I don’t believe you’re scared.”


“You just tell me the truth, Johnny. Did your parents die in a car accident? Did they?”

“They live in Columbus, Ohio. I work bank robbery. The guys I’m after are AFAB. I needed you at first, but after that—”

“Fuck you!”


“I just want to say, captain to captain, AFAB to AFAB, I respect what you guys did out there.”

“You guys were good. Thanks.”

“You were better.”

“We were, huh?”


“You gotta go down. You crossed the line and people trusted you. And they died.”

“Yeah. It went bad. Real bad.”

“Life sure has a sick sense of humor, doesn’t it?”

“Still AFAB?”

“Every day. Come on, Bodhi. It’s time to go. You know you gotta go back with me.”