The other night Little Dude and I ditched the chicks and went up to the local ski joint Beaver Mountain for some night downhill. Apparently, little kids get frustrated with snowboarding and not so frustrated with broken-legged self-entanglement, so we rented some mini skis and put Little Dude through the paces.
Between his instructors tutelage and an inherent athleticism and grace only genetics can provide, Little Dude was punishing the Bunny Hill by the end of the night.
And, apparently, the hill was pissed about that. Proof (and subsequent “you sound like a douchebag” reminder I need to keep my yammering trap shut) hits around the :40 mark.
So much for that whole genetics thing.



