But, for the boot-wearing, spur-spinning, country-music fan, the number of various radio stations supporting their crappy melody is absolutely mind-boggling. In our town alone there must be eight-billion stations supporting this worthless musical format. And, if you think that’s crazy, wait until you drive into the middle of nowhere. Towns, gas stations, and basic forms of life will cease to exist, yet a country-music station will grace the air waves. Agghhh!

So, with its incredible amount of exposure in every imaginable situation, we wish we could appreciate the sounds of country music. And while we’re at it, let us say the same about the billions of letters submitted to this column. Without fail, the thoughts and requests contained in your submissions blather the same unbearable nonsense that makes us shy away from country music. Nevertheless, it’s easier to rip apart your letters than to try to find the substantial meaning contained within.

It’s been a thorough year of your bullshit, and although we keep an optimistic outlook for next season, we feel safe in assuming that no letter will ever arrive that’ll be music to our ears.

I am writing to you about the love of my life. I’ve been with her for two great years! She is very responsive, there for me when I’m in a bind, and most importantly, my first. I’ll never forget the day–it was sunny, and oh-so-beautiful, but I regret to say, I must ditch her. Yes, I know you are a snowboard mag and not "Dear Abby," but I could use your help. I don’t know how to go about this sort of thing. If I go check out babes at the mountain, is it all right to bring her along? Do they continue to do the mail-order thing? I still love her very much and never stop looking at the photos of us together, but she is way too used and abused for my taste. Also, I’m six foot two and have a size thirteen foot, so the right size girl is hard to find. I like ’em about 158 centimeters or so–maybe even a little wider than most, but I am willing to try new things. I am enclosing a picture of me, my love, and I think if you look real close you might be able to see my girlfriend in the background.

Although your last name is Littlejohn, which implies, well, we think you know what it implies, we still agree that your love is used and abused. If you’ve been with her for two seasons, we’re assuming after you mounted her up, you probably rode her at least once a day, or maybe twice (if you ever dabbled with bittersweet night sessions). And during that time, you probably waxed her bottom more than once. Damn, Brandon, move on to something new. We suggest something in the freeride category; as the name implies, your loving won’t cost a damn thing.

At this point, I’m pretty pissed off. It’s friggin’ December and there’s an inch of snow. I live in the worst state–Wisconsin–no mountains and the ski hills bite. I’m fourteen now and have been boarding since fourth grade. My brother Mike used to board at Brighton, Utah, but he f–ked up his knee, so now he can’t. I want to go out there. He’s the man to blame for getting me hooked. He can do tricks and can probably teach me something.

Compliments to your mag–it’s the bomb. I stare at the issues in awe of tricks and wish I lived some place with powder and mountains.

Because your current situation sucks, we suggest you immediately move to Brighton where there’ll be plenty of snow and just like your brother, you’ll be able to f–k up your knee. Trust me, it doesn’t suck (not one bit) to have a broken knee with two feet of ridable snow on the ground. In no way would we ever settle for a set of healthy knees and just one inch of snow. If we may, we’d like to borrow a word from your vocabulary and state, "You’re a friggin’ moron."

I’m fifteen and was born in Colorado. Inevitably, I grew up skiing. When I moved to upstate New York, I continued skiing until one miraculous day when I discovered snowboarding. It was love at first sight and I haven’t stopped. Unfortunately, funds are limited and time has taken a toll on my Liquid 45. I would love to pick out a new board, but there are only so many ways a fifteen year old can come up with money for a snowboard, boots, clothes, and lift tickets. Please, take pity, send me a new board. Thanks.

It looks like you need some money, or some "dough," or what many people call "bread." In fact, if you were bread in a bakery, you would be sourdough … get it? You’re sour because you have no dough.

I’m writing this letter from my grandma’s house. It’s way out in the middle of nowhere in a tiny town of 200 people, but it has this awesome resort with a sweet skatepark and over 50 mountain slopes. But, as I booked a ride to skate the resort with my friend, I busted my new Chad Muska skateboard. I was so pissed. With nothing else to do, I asked grandma to buy me a snowboard. I was doomed to live my life watching others shoot for my dream. Now, I know what it’s like to be boardless and I’ve never been snowboarding. It sucks!

Have you ever noticed that many people start a phone conversation with the word "Hello?" For example, if our phone rings, we pick it up, put the receiver to our mouths, and say, "Hello?" Simple, right? Well, one of our friends has a southern accent and mutters the exact same word, but, oddly enough, it sounds like "Jell-O." "Jell-O?" he says. It sounds quite funny, and as a result, we started to do the same. In fact, we’ve recently taken this idea to the next level and began to answer the phone with the phrase, "Jell-O, foo am I falking to?" Once again, it sounds quite stupid, but is magically entertaining when callers question the number they just dialed, or, even better, just hang up and never call back. So Calvin, if you’ve never done this, proceed to do so. It might just brighten up your boardless situation. Besides, who wants to skateboard and/or snowboard in the middle of nowhere. Think about it–no one will be around to notice your awesome skills. If no one sees you, your efforts will obviously go unnoticed, and no one likes ripping the pow or kickflipping a gap without a bunch of sleazy locals cheering them on.

Here I sit, confined to this dump with no snow. Yesterday I purchased your latest issue and I can’t stop looking at it. It disgusts me, but also pleases me. There are so many pictures of deep snow and all I have here is nothing. It’ll probably snow soon, but not soon enough. All the riders in your magazine are so good. I wish I could be like them. Just wanted to say your mag rips, but is pissing me off at the same time. It’s driving me nuts.

You seem to suffer from the same syndrome that many readers of this fine publication experience. Our magazine is so good, and your situation is so shitty that you can’t relate to what’s produced on TransWorld’s pages. That kinda sucks. You’ll probably live your whole life without ever knowing what it’s like to shred the rad pretty damn radly. But, to give you an inch of hope, we’ll let you in on a secret. Do you remember packing the above letter into an envelope and addressing it to TransWorld? Do you happen to recall where you sent the letter? Steve, you sent the letter to Southern California! Your words were freshly opened in a cubical space within the confines of a grungy office that situates itself in 82 times less snow than your sleazy town. So, you think you have it bad, wait until you visit this crummy, snowless experience. Maybe we could stoke you out and take you sandboarding. That would be great! You could fly all the way here to visit "The World’s #1 Snowboarding Magazine," and we could hike the backcountry bowls of the f–king desert. So, Steve, in the future, save your complaints for someone who gives a shit. We’re in the same boat as you, and whiners like yourself often get thrown overboard by wino-sailors like ourselves.