In keeping with the exploration of non-abusive resolution, let’s get naked–right here, right now, all over the clean white pages, baby. Think about it. We’ve yelled and cursed and ranted back and forth, but have we really gotten to know one another … intimately?

Now then, lie back, that’s right. Get comfortable. Slip off your shoes, maybe a few undergarments. Sip some Courvoisier, whatever. We could be up all night.

Of course, the only way we can talk about emotions as complex as where the board goes down the chute, without being banned en masse from school libraries, is to veil it in confining layers of metaphor. Like croquet, or snowboarding even.

But we’re not arguing anymore. So put on some of that Artist dude or whatever sexy music you have, and let’s peel back what you’re hiding behind. To paraphrase Marvin Gaye, there is nothing wrong with us loving you. Giving yourself to us could never be wrong, if the love is true. We do.

Think about your first time riding. Weren’t you scared? Cautious yet curious? Afraid it could hurt worse than anything ever had? Well, maybe it did, but if you stuck with it, you got the feeling. Soon, awkwardness gave way to elation, then ecstasy as you mastered the motion. After that, you didn’t want it to be over, but it was (always too soon!). You couldn’t wait to go at it again–snowboarding, that is.

Think of your relationship with him, no her, err, we mean it. You want to be close so you can go out all the time. No one could know the terrain like you do–every inch. It’s a love/hate relationship–can’t stand to be away, yet your eye wanders to all the other beauties out there. Wondering what it would be like if only …

You’re jealous. Possessive. Afraid someone might get there first. Soon the need is insatiable. You’re desperate. Willing to do anything if you can only have it. It’s all you think or talk about–in your music, on the TV. Just about every month in the mail, it arrives–SNOWboarding magazine, filled with pages of

pure porno!

Fantasy pictures of hot, sweaty, full-page action spreads. Images that, no matter how you chase them or seek to recreate them, remain better than the real thing. To paraphrase Paul Simon, we know they’d never match our sweet imagination.

That’s because the sexiest organ is the mind. Ask the Patron Saint of Interns™ Monica Lewinsky. The Special Prosecutor’s dying to. He subpoenaed her book list–all the titles she’d bought from bookstores–because she’d supposedly gifted a racy tome to Our Man In The White House. Well if that’s the case, here are some words we found on the empty, summertime Poma shack in Crested Butte: "Snowboarding is like sex–even when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good." To that we would add that the best sex–when two souls are joined as one in love–is as rare as the deepest powder day. Be safe, think it through, and don’t do either until you’re ready. You may not require an instructor, but to paraphrase Wilson Pickett, it’s a thin line between love and regret.

Don’t let the name fool you, I love tits.

Okay, the last I read you were going to turn nice or some shit. Well don’t. Who in the hell gave you the right to leave us poor, starving-for-entertainment people in the dark?

Enclosed are pictures of my best friends. They are awesome dudes. They are sponsored by Boner Boards. The skateboarder is my friend Ben Presley. He is sweet, dudes. The other rad dudes are Raffi Shaft, Dr. Strings, and Mr. Muffins. Mr. Muffins rules! He can get off the lift without falling. His stomp pad is totally awesome. Last week my mommy took me to Kmart to get a stomp pad, but they were sold out. I have a Nike jacket. My mommy bought it for me. I can go down the hill in my backyard without falling. Snowboarding rules, dudes!

I am a hairy hick from Maine who could kick your ass any day of the week. In fact, I have a pet possum that can eat all of you alive. My mother is bigger than your mothers combined–which I’m sure you would find enticing, and undoubtedly beat off at the thought of a 300-pound Mainer chick.

You bitches remind me of two guys sitting in a room at a computer with bras on their head, too lazy and stupid to communicate with the outside world. You probably aren’t even bitches, just a

contemplate on how to really write a response. Oh yeah, don’t use my own medicine on me, ’cause if you say one bad thing about my mommy, I’ll burst out in tears, then I’ll go down to California and kick your sorry asses so high you’ll be using the Space Needle for a sitting stool.