Nobody likes a whiner. Ask any parent. They always hate the kid who complains the most. At least your mom did. And the editors here–holy crap. The interns are calm, cool, and professional compared to the hung-over, lackey juicebags here at TransWorld world. Every day brings a symphony of bitching and moaning from these so-called “professional” journalists–the whine only a mother could hate. Oh, you have to write a caption or answer calls? Tough shit. Oh, the team manager sent your new free sneakers the wrong size? How tragic.
These dirtbags shammed their way into the industry and somehow wound up in charge of this mag–and in charge of us, another browbeaten staff of Angry Interns¿. They think they have it tough with deadlines and liquid lunches? Try answering letters from the illiterate weirdos who fill our in box with tripe every day of the damn week. And we do it for free!? Well, screw it, we're soldiers, we'll pay ourselves by punishing you, the reader.
Test our vast knowledge of shred-sticking or try to insult us–we'll come back at you with a forked tongue and blood in our inkwells. The Angry Interns¿ are poised and ready for another season of whining, idiocy, and vomit bombs of bad advice. Bring it on. Send all your crap to: The Angry Interns¿ 353 Airport Rd. Oceanside, CA 92054. Or send the same junk via the worldwide dirt road: firstname.lastname@example.org
Wild Mushrooms And Bunny-Rabbit Guts
I'm, like, this totally annoying little girl who like whines about everything, and I'm, like, a goody two-shoes straight-A student, and, like, I've only been reading your magazine for, like, a totally short time. I, like, always flip to Angry Interns, like, right away so I can, like, read about people complaining because it, like, totally gets on my nerves. I mean, like, seriously. And like you peeps are just so, like, totally cruel to them! I mean, like, tongue lashing is like totally bad! Like, totally have some compassion. Like, you snowboarding peeps are totally stupid. Stop complaining! It, like, totally annoys me. Like, yeah. And by the way, wild mushrooms and bunny-rabbit guts are like totally good for you. Oh, and another thing, like, snowboarding is like, so totally, like, dangerous! You could, like, seriously break your neck! Or, like, worse, you could break a nail! Ohhh! Time for my makeover, gotta go!
Beth “Am I Scary Or What?” Jancewicz
Teachers spend years in college preparing for the day they first stand in front of a classroom full of eager students. The teachers are full of energy, patience, and compassion. They want to make a difference. But it's kids like you, Beth, who grind them down. There is an international teacher shortage right now. This should come as no surprise, with halfwits like you in the class, fidgeting, babbling, and screeching all day long. Just this small sample of your personality makes a strong argument for reinstating corporal punishment in Canadian schools.
Talk about getting on one's nerves–damn, Beth, you should read this letter out loud to yourself. It's a perfect example of the type of banal, witless dogshit that has teachers considering a career change to 7Eleven. And we can relate. What you need, Beth, is a mental makeover. Start with hammering small nails into your temples–it will, like, totally help.
I'm writing to you because I'm sick of all these little whiners who write in to the Angry Interns¿. “Why are you guys so mean?” “Why don't you give me good tips on how to make me more of a pansy?”
It's stupid–everyone takes everything so damn serious. I don't get it. I think you guys are the best part; there are some good letters, but who gives a shit? I wish I haa job where I could just talk shit all day, especially the way you guys do. More power to ya! Keep up the good shit-talkin'!
Huntington Beach, California
Hey, thanks little buddy. We agree–these snot-nosed pukes should find something constructive to do. Do we care about your crappy life in your podunk little town? Hell no. Do we care if your little limp feelings were hurt? Please. What's wrong with the children? Well, Zac, you seem to be the exception–a sensible, well-spoken lad. But you made one mistake. Trying to kiss ass is no way to get on our good side. This tactic of yours is transparent and begs the question, “Is it better to be a crybaby or a kiss-ass?” Either way you slice it there, turdlips, you're a dork. And without knowing you, we'd guess that your little brown-nosing tendencies have brought you to your current state: alone at home on a Friday night geeking off to a snowboard magazine, then writing in to tell us you're on our side. Pathetic.
I've been planning to buy a board and stuff this year so I can go visit my friends in Colorado for a few weeks and board every day. I've been looking forward to it for over a year. I found a better job, so I gave my boss a month's notice that I'd be moving on (isn't that what you're supposed to do?). He changed it to a week's notice and let me go. So I checked in with my new boss. He said things changed and he didn't have a job for me anymore. So I got screwed coming and going. They wouldn't give me unemployment because I willingly quit (did I?). It took me a month to get another job. So now, no money, no trip, no board, and no time off until March.
Arlen, you are an idiot for a host of reasons. You gave it away, though, when you said you were going to “board” on your trip. Furthermore, with work, you got what you asked for. Texas is known as the “Prison State,” and anyone with the faintest desire to live a fulfilling life should move the hell out. The fact that you live there and snowboard is proof positive that you are a mouth-breathing, moronic slob. Losing two jobs in one shot backs up our assessment of you as being just the type of donkey who gives riders a bad name. Surely your parents have given up asking where they went wrong. You were supposed to be a rodeo clown, Arlen, not an unemployable, wannabe snowboarder. Shame on you.
Too Bad So Sad
Snowboarding is my dream, but dreams come to an end. The calling has stopped and the voices are forever gone. So, as I sit here alone and look outside, I wish for the snow to melt. It hurts me inside. I feel empty, as if something is now missing. I wish to erase the memories. And to all those who helped me along the way, thank you kindly. To all those new friends I met through riding, so long. The sadness is taking over, but right now it'd take a miracle to help this soul, for it is dead.
A Soul Who Lost The Dream To Ride
Included with this dark and somber letter came a detailed drawing of a snowboarder dressed in riding gear, and holding his board. He was hanging from a noose in a scary-looking tree. It was an eerie gift in our mailbox, and though we sympathize with a rider estranged from his sport, that's about all we could muster–a little sympathy. Arthur, if not being able to ride is making you suicidal, you need some help, pal. But before you slink off to the therapist, check this out:
You are a well-spoken, able young man. You have considerable artistic talent as well. You can walk, talk, and likely have all your fingers and toes, so quit feeling sorry for yourself. Sure, it sucks that you can't ride, but toughen up. If it's money that's keeping you from riding, dry your tears and go get a job. Don't waste your time or ours with sad little letters and self-pity–that stuff is for skibladers.s and go get a job. Don't waste your time or ours with sad little letters and self-pity–that stuff is for skibladers.