Like Frosty succumbing to gravity, except with a bigger muffin top and toughskin corduroys.
Let me explain.
I live in New Hampshire, which means – by default – you are required by law to do a few things:
2) Make fun of people from Massachusetts
3) Do weird things to animals
4) Do weird things to animals while skiing and yelling ‘Massachusetts sucks!’
Maybe ‘all of the above’ would have been a better choice for #4.
So, I ski.
Well, I haven’t going skiing in a long time.
This stopped on or around the time God invented laziness.
Thank you, God! You’ve saved me the cost of a lift ticket!
But I used to ski.
When I was a giant fat shit of a kid, my parents took me to ‘Boston Ski Area’ in the town of – you guessed it – North Andover.
And yet people from Massachusetts wonder why we make fun of them.
During my very first lesson, my parents were situated at the bottom of the main hill.
I was in the second hour of my ski lesson, which consisted of trying to actually get the skis to move while under the weight of a kid who just ate three pot pies for breakfast.
Mmm. Pot pie.
If you listened closely, you could hear the snow beneath my feet gently weeping.
I invented the phrase ‘packed powder.’
Did you know that snow can also turn to glass when under enough pressure?
So, the instructor somehow managed to get me and the rest of the class UP the hill on the chairlifts.
The PLAN was to hold each other’s ski pole as we skied ACROSS the top of the main hill..over to the much less steep ‘bunny slope’ on the far side.
As we started across the top of this slope…the instructor was yelling:
Now, with all of us kids being 7 and never seeing the movie ‘The In Laws,’ none of us actually knew what the fuck serpentine meant.
Sadly for me, the kid in front of me thought ‘serpentine’ meant ‘get rid of fat kid behind me any way possible’…
..and he fell.
As he fell, he took his pole with him.
This left yours truly, looking like a stuffed sausage dressed for cold weather, with nothing to hold on to.
I immediately dropped to the ground.
In retrospect, I WISH that had happened.
Alas, it did not.
No, what DID happen was that upon the little shit jackass in front of me plopping down and me losing hold of his ski pole my skis decide to take an IMMEDIATE 90-degree turn towards the right and aim me – with all 2 hours of skiing expertise fresh in my mind – shooting straight down the main hill without actually knowing how to turn or serpentine or stop or, you know, really fucking ski at all.
FUCK YOU, Mr. Instructor.
Basically all I remember at this point is sheer panic with my life hurtling in front of me and man I could sure go for a roast beef sandwich if I survive all of this and OH FUCK I JUST FELL AND MMMPPH THIS IS AAARGHH STEEPER THAN I UUNNNGGGHH THOUGHT AND AAAAARRRRGGGHHHHH!!!
It’s at this point in the story that my parents, staring up the hill from the bottom basically see a giant snowball hurtling towards them with skis and poles and boots and maybe a Twinkie shooting out of it and snow flying everywhere…
..at which point my father says:
Dad: “Wow. I sure feel bad for that poor bastard.”
Mom: “Um. I think that’s our son.”
Yep. It was their son.
All 200 pounds of flubbery bad-skiing non-serpentining son careening towards them and bowling pretty much everything down it his path.
Apparently I survived..probably due to the thick layer of cheese and shit surrounding my bones.
I should have just stayed home and been lazy.
Or done shit with animals.
Friggin’ New Hampshire.