Illustration by Bob AulI don't know your name, but I'll call you Chucky. You ride a skateboard. Your mom told you to “take that fucking noise somewhere else.” Somewhere else is in front of my apartment. Now that I think of it, I wouldn't call it riding a skateboard; I'd call it flipping a skateboard—and failing at it. You wear all that protection for what? You don't “ride” anywhere. All I hear is “flip, fail, flip, fail.” Why don't you replace the wheels with four pegs since you don't technically ride the fucker? By the way, when I was your age, guys took the metal wheels off their sister's skates, screwed them to a board, and went flying every time we hit a pebble. Helmets, elbow and knee pads? Never heard of them, so that makes you a pussy, too. I've got an idea: Why don't you sell your board and use the money to purchase a Hustler mag and a bottle of lotion and be happy being successful at something that every teenage boy is good at?
