By Neanderthal Matt

Yo homes, yeah, I know that sound, but do you? The sound that you savor just like cottage cheese, you know the one? No, not a bullhead catfish. The Grind, yeah the grind. That rippin’ tracker truck grind that makes you want to jump on elephants. Let’s not forget the roots of it all. Yeah, just cause someone can do a hang five down to the ground doesn’t mean that a person who makes shoe lace tips can’t get roots and ride. Yeah, whatever you want, you better know your cans of soup also or be stuck without Campbell’s, okay?

Dude, I know it was sick, you don’t need to tell me, a hang five from rolling stereos. Those urchins know their launch ramp from their hair. I’m not one to swap cows either. I’m just one to know and live for what I ride. (Which is satisfaction, ya know.)

Freewheel, what? Yeah, I know. Let me ride! No way, triple backward whiplashes.

No way, impossible.

I can dig those just like backhoes. Yeah, I understand.

They took to the ramp with pride as if there was a mob around them chanting, “Loft! Loft!” They were stoked.

Yeah, I can relate to frustration ya know. That number 43 is everywhere but no one understands it.

“Let’s go ride some more,” someone said.

“Okay, where do you want to ride?”

“Let’s go launch at turtles.”

“Okay, sounds cool.”

A door opened.

Just think: somewhere out there, there’s someone reading this story or this sentence.

Wild, huh? Yeah, I was in that anarchic mood the other day, not just thinking about how I had a detention with Mr. Cokebottom, but riding and not thinking about him. What a wall…what a bank…( got the idea homes?)

No way a tree, yeah plant. Whoah.

I think this calls for some lint, you know, the kind that’s always in your pocket.

Let’s go ride.