Just what in the name of all that is holy and good and pure and sweet-as-the-night-is-long and chewy and menacing and kinky were they thinking? Sick, twisted malcontents. Perverted monkeys. Freaks.

Oh, go right ahead, chuckle. Do some stupid thing with your eyebrows, fake a shudder for comic effect (clever!). But you should have seen them: walking around like they owned the place, using weird colors, not wearing a stitch of underwear, making up names for moves that don't even exist. (Anyone want to tell me what a "blended margarita, on the rocks, inverted" is?) And you know what it adds up to, don't you? Uh, how about a little something called "No Freakin' Respect."

What's that? No, no, no, that's what I'm saying. These campers have absolutely no regard for what some of us, you and I, John and Jane Q. Salt-of-the-Earth, Working-Everyday-to-Keep-This-Country-Tick-Tick-Tickin' Public, like to refer to as, well, for starters, boundaries. Personal space. Sir Isaac Newton's motherlovin' laws of physics! Gone. Audi. Tore up from the floor up. And for what? I'll tell you for what: because these people are monsters, relentless creeps driven to prove ... to prove what? That the word "limits" doesn't apply to them, that it's wack to shut your mouth, smile and be thankful for the mere fact that their little smartass selves can even ride a bike, or stand up one of those board thingies in the first place, let alone figure out how to cash a paycheck off it. I mean, sweet Mary, where is the justice in that?

"Speed climber ... ?" When did "speed climber" become a job? When did "Moto" become a word? When did it become hunky-dory to haul out a Costco-size jug of Wite-Out and redraw the borders of possibility -- courtesy of nothing more than a grade-A ignoramus' lack of fear, and some cartoon idea of when it's okay to stop playing with kiddie toys? I'll tell you when: apparently, like, a few years ago. But it's a virus, and now they're everywhere. "Hi, I'm Trevor, and I figured out that I didn't need to get a lame job after all because I decided it would be more fun and rewarding to do a bunch of stuff I love that no one's ever done before and get paid for it and inspire people and wear cool clothes and hang out with rock stars and really beautiful people!"

Obviously, these people can't be stopped. Fine. What you can do is try not to go all slackjaw and seem so interested and amazed all the time. Stop saying "cool" about every little McTwist these hobgoblins McMake. And stop saying "dude" altogether. Finally, pleeeeeeze, put down those magazines that just feed the whole thing. Remember this: No matter how good and fit and trim and thirst-quenched they feel now, the odds are that one day they'll be old and their kids will point at them and laugh.

This article appears in the August 19 issue of ESPN The Magazine.