Teenage angst has paid off well, sang Nirvana gods. And there we were, bored, old-and dead. Or so we thought.
But like a man who knew too much wisely noted, this tub will never go down. Unlike, say, the Titanic, SNOWboarding floats like a Styrofoam ice cooler you couldn’t sink with a shotgun blast. We can quit and die all we want, but ad pages are still on sale-slope-side condo or tin box. Thus, the pronouncement: “And if you’re dead, then we don’t have to pay you.” Bye-bye TWS paid internship.
You hate us, we hate you, and we hate them. They hate us, you, themselves, and that makes us all even. What’s the difference? Alive, dead, riding powder, dressed in appealing nylon lingerie-does it matter? We’ve got a hate/hate relationship going with the world, you don’t have to look any further than
a stack of SNOWboarding mail to know that. But if not us, who would answer snowboarding’s little cries in the night and those scribbled in detention, or more often, prison?
We don’t even get paid to do what we already did. It feels like the kind of screwing you only get with a White House internship.
Yet how do you know we didn’t beg for it? Who’s to say we can’t learn to love it? And them. And you. It’s a Trans world, and we gotta paint it. What’s your excuse, why are the youth so angry(tm)?
Is it human nature to insult, be negative, tear down, and destroy, or is it just easy? We prefer to use our habitual shredding instincts out on pure white snow, handrails, or on our ligaments in a desperate attempt to go big off cliffs, shoveled hits, and halfpipe walls. If you’ve gotten to snowboard even once in your life, then you’re luckier than most potty-mouthed rats have a right to be. If you haven’t, what are you waiting for?
This is a good thing-it may take time to undo all the harm we’ve caused by bottling hate for profit. Driven to senseless violence, we strive not to take it out on ourselves or others. If letters are to be addressed, we will learn about conflict resolution that is respectful, responsible, and courteous to the thoughts and feelings of others, or at least create impressionist paintings with poo. Here’s how:
Say a snow plow pushes up a mound at the end of a school parking lot and the recess bell rings. You clearly scramble up to the top of that heap to enjoy the view. Waving your arms, cheering, you’re sent crashing to the bottom by a blow from behind-it appears the gang has decided to play King Of The Hill. The boy who floored you is the biggest kid in class and remains on his throne for several days. He is big, dumb, and mean with beady eyes and bad breath. He would pound your head on concrete if you crossed him. How will you serve his ass a heapin’ helping of street justice without a whupdown?
The answer? Laugh, lie there, make snow angels-successful civil disobedience, no matter how they tug your leash. Comedy is hard. Dying is easy.
Dear Executor of the Angry Interns(tm) Last Will and Testament,
I am writing to suggest a procedure for the disposal of any items the late Interns(tm) have not bequeathed upon their bastard progeny. Specifically, two items, these being their dictionary and thesaurus (probably in the form of a quick-reference set)-the instruments with which their feeble minds toiled laboriously for hours to concoct cynical manifestos, declarations, retorts, etc., intended to incite interaction between readership and manufacturer, thereby promoting future sales of the pile of shit that is TW SNOW. Take these two books and burn them in the same pyre where lies the late slaves, and watch as the fetid stench of money chokes the corporate gatherers who perpetuated this cycle of columnistic pugilism. Or send them to me; I’m out of toilet paper and would be happy to introduce each and every dog-eared page to the fruits of its eight-year struggle.
A brave warrior chief said it best, “It is a good day to die.” Dying is the most basic form of civil disobediennce and it renders the rebel void of life-a martyr for their cause. While this is good for the cause, it makes it hard for the martyr to write checks without I.D.
I can’t believe what you continually spew forth. I find myself wondering why you have not yet killed yourselves. You have nothing to live for. Move on. As far as you Stench Sisters go, please feel free to try and talk shit to me, I’ve been in prison so long I’m gonna have to have women sign damage waivers before we have sex. Talk shit to me, please. I’ll be home in Oceanside by the time you go to print, and I think you guys should be the first on my list. Have you had a pelvic exam lately?
Federal Corrections, Beaumont, Texas
(continued on page52)
This situation would best be handled by a sit-down strike. We will hereby sit down at a designated spot (preferably across the border, where convicted U.S. felons aren’t allowed) in order to make our point, which is counter to yours. If this method makes our point, or at least keeps us from being violated rectally, then so be it.
All right. First, you Interns(tm) do damn good work.
Mr. Pissed Off
Via Army Postal Service
Right back at you-like any quiet warrior recognizes, the first step in civil disobedience is to show respect by addressing yourself and others with a polite Mr. or Mrs. The next step is for the “oppressed” (grumbling, unshaven malcontents like you and your friends) to rebel against their “oppressors” (rich, suit-, or uniform-wearing status-quo keepers like our superiors) by announcing in a loud voice that they stick their butts out while turning heelside.
As I was perusing your followers’ letters and your responses, I thought unto myself, “These Angries(tm) are so very witty and prolific, they must be amazing individuals who possess enormous snowboarding skills and talents.” So let’s see some photos of your radical snow moves and daredevil-like adventures. We the readers of your dribble are owed the right to see the coolios who have been so on top and shredding the gnar for all this time. Please enlighten us and show yourselves doing some skilled riding, worthy of ones dubbed Angry Interns(tm), maybe you Can’t Even Make Turns(tm)?
Give us some ammo, how about height, weight, stance angles, size of board, number of days on the snow, type of riding, latest trick pulled, where you’re from, your tattoos, piercings, and how baggy your pants are, your signs (astrological), favorite music, to jib or not to jib? Been ridin’ since? Favorite mountain, or don’t you even ride sideways? Maybe you guys secretly ski.
Mt. Hood/Portland, Oregon
You’ve brought up an interesting point. In a revolution-even a civil one-it is often the case that after the “oppressed” overthrow their “oppressors,” they begin to act more like “oppressors” than their “oppressors” ever did. To break the cycle of chronic oppression, we decline. If evidence of our badass skills were ever displayed, we’d feel like pro riders, and there would be no use for whatever pathetic thing you had to write in.
The other day while milking my goat, I realized how pathetic you two gals really were.
Fort Dodge, Iowa
Then we’re sorry to have to inform you that proper civil disobedience, in this case, requires a hunger strike where goat’s milk is strictly forbidden.
Send calls to polite action to: The Civilly Disobedient Interns(tm), 353 Airport Road, Oceanside, CA 92054. FAX: (760) 722-0653, e-mail: