So apparently there’s been a recent holiday or something…?
Posting, like my goal of losing the 20 pounds my kiester’s accumulated since July, has been slow and… well, slow. Lucky for you, there’s nothing like the misfortune of others to get things revved up again.
What misfortune…? The misfortune of optioning skis for your winter sport of choice (as convincingly illustrated by this story). Now don’t get me wrong. I know many skiers– all charming and wonderful human beings. I also know there’s a steeped and bitter rivalry between those who choose two wood planks and poky sticks over one wood plank and hands ready to the devil’s work when it comes to getting down your favorite wintry mountainside.
But let me just say this: While the uninitiated snowboarder may look like they’re riding down-run on an invisible, glute-propelled snow plow, even the most seasoned skiers look like they’d feel right at home frolicking in a field of daisies, daintily plucking flowers of choice in search of the perfect bouquet. It’s simply a question of associated semantics, really– and I happen to like the semantics of “shredding” and “tearing” up a double black diamond over “mincing” and “moguling”…
…and hanging upside down off a chair lift in Vail with my man-parts sadly waving to all onlookers.
Now I’m not keen on the details of how you go over a chair lift and lose your pants, but I have to wonder what would’ve happened if only this poor guy had been clamped into snowboard instead of skis. Would he simply have been able to hitch an uneventful lift ride to the top of the mountain or mercifully escape embarrassment and horror with a face-saving plummet to his death? I may never know. What I do know, however, is that by choice of ski, dude became an instrument in scarring small children and having other men count their blessing at having sprung from a more generous set of genetics.
But hey, hey– I don’t mean to make enemies here. I’m glad the guy is ok. I’m just sayin’ next time… try the snowboard.
And please… remember the underpants.
Geeeze Dan, where do you find these things? Mortifying.
The intertubes (ie- internet), Mom! It’s the journal to all of mankind’s mortifying moments.
I’m pretty sure there’s got to be a circulating picture of me in the 1st grade when I didn’t quite make it to the bathroom in time and I stood in the stall yelling, “Help!” and you had to have the principal drive me home.
Its surfacing is only a matter of time.
Always the jokester!