Albuqueerque Exposure

There I was, staring death right in the face as I put my foot on a skateboard for the first time in three decades. I gaped at mile after mile of Indian School ditch as it meandered menacingly downhill from the Whites of Albuquerque into the valley somewhere below. Indian School was like so many other ditches--Morris, Comanche, Four Hills, Jefferson--that I'd talked shit on SnB about but had no intention of ever riding. How had it come to this? I thought of stabbing myself, shooting myself, hanging myself: where was that crack that ConcreteMolotov was talking about? Let me overdose, now! I'd take a hatchet and gash a pussy into myself and offer to bang the whole crew... maybe then they'd let me live! But no. I'd have to skate. Or would I?

"My attempts to skate uphill only angered the crowd further..."

I realized then and there that I was facing certain death for no reason other than having aced high school typing class (where I fucking ruled shit and will still fucking out-type your bitch ass!). How god-awful ironic. Despite having earned millions as an astronaut, raising six kids and sending them to Ivy league schools, having directed the school Christmas play, I'd secretly longed to live a life of danger as I'd grown older, ultimately running across SnB and posing as my death-defying alias, speedcokeshitwhore. Chat room thrills had completed my cushy life, but I'd never guessed it would come to this.

So, with Deathpunkhatekill grinning devilishly at me, waiting to send me to my literal death down Indian School ditch in Albuquerque, NM, my life passing before my eyes, I realized that being a rich family man with a lot of good, safe years left in me to hang out with the grand kids and collect skateboards wasn't so bad, after all. "Fuck you," I told him and took the walk of shame back to the limo, directing Jeeves to the sunport.

As I relaxed on the flight back to Rhodesia I had to laugh at the barrage of SnB posts calling me out as a pussy assed bitch who got straight exposed in Albuquerque. Hey, I thought, in all the talk about the proper dimensions necessary for ditch skating leading up to this event, no one ever bothered to mention the most important dimensions of all: that is, the difference between my two dimensional computer screen, behind which I was able to talk hella shit under some ridiculous bullshit fantasy alter-ego handle, and the three-dimensional reality staring one in the face when considering actually riding one of these arroyos.

In the end I had to thank this experience for so expertly delivering such a clear and unforgettable message: not everyone has to be into skateboarding, even if they technically skated back in the '80s or whatever. As the term itself implies, skateboarding is probably best left to those who actually ride skateboards, and maybe those people aren't really interested in whether a bunch of geriatric skateboard collectors with a lot of time on their hands think they're doing it right. Maybe, just maybe, having a grip of money and free time doesn't automatically qualify me as an expert in something I don't do... But then again, I thought to myself as I logged onto Silverfish, I always did like the handle: Turfripperhardcorefunkyflexesupreme!

Suspicious Autotext Faux Paseses

Man, I don't know... maybe I'm just overreacting. But it seems to me that a lot of the obnoxious texts I've been getting lately that the homies are blaming on "autocorrect" aren't just innocent faux passesses. I mean, check out a couple of these text exchanges and tell me what you think.

Or how about this one?

You're right! Now that I look at them again it's clear that these are in fact just autocorrect errors. Ha! Those raucous skate jesters! Their jocularity knows no bounds! What a joy to consort with such merry mirth makers, and just in time for the holidays!!! Soldier on, my comedic skate companions! Might that mere mortals grasp your immense hilarity!