Dear Thrasher, I love your skate
mag. It rocks, even though you
guys print too many shoe ads.
And what’s up with the posers
doing handrails? Don’t they know
real skaters do it in the street?

Well, you know even skating the street
sucks ‘cause cops won’t let us skate
anywhere. But kids here know
some killer secret pools and ditches. You
would shit to skate the Blood Bowl—eats posers
for lunch. Put the Blood Bowl in your ads.

I got a serious beef, though—the ads
with those skate-betty chicks standing in the street
in thongs made me think you’re all Cali posers!
It makes me want to give up and screw this skate
bullshit. I mean, God, why don’t you
sell your souls for cash, you know?

I don’t want to ride your asses—you know
you rock my world even with the lame ads.
It’s like, I need a lifeline here, you
can’t imagine Rankin, Georgia—mullets, no street
courses, one shitty skate park. I skate
with four cool punks, try to steer clear of posers.

We’ve got a big problem in Rankin with posers.
I’m 12 and not stupid. I know
guys here think us girls can’t skate—
That’s crap! It’s your fault. Running those ads
makes idiots here think it’s street
last, clothes and babes first. It’s on you.

Guys even rape girls in the park crapper. You
see a porta-potty shaking with a poser
and a screaming chick inside, guys on the street
high-fiving, whatever, it’s gross, and I know
this shit happens all over. So be cool and drop the ads.
It’s not about tits. Get on your board and skate.

They’re everywhere, you know,
poser, thick-necked Fitch-bitches like in your ads.
I don’t want ‘em. I lost my cherry to the street. I’ll die or skate.