"Some time ago somebody asked me why I was grumpy. Well, let me tell you.
I am blessed in this life to be able to work with skis. Lots of
skis. I’m favorably disposed toward skis on the whole. I’m also favorably
disposed toward dogs, and Canada. The problem is the people who
comealong as part of the deal. You know – “dog people” and Canadians.
And skiers. Skiers make me grumpy. Here’s why:
“Skiis” is not a word. The plural of ski is skis. Look it up. Figure
it out. You look stupid when you write “skiis”, and you sound stupid when
you say it. And don’t tell me that it SHOULD be spelled “skiis” (Fred).
I SHOULD be rich and retired by now, but I’m not. Skis is spelled with
one i because that’s how it’s spelled.
Dirty skis.
Much of my time is spent with new skis. New skis that I have lovingly
and carefully selected from a large population of similar skis. These
are “my” skis. They’re worthy skis, just waiting to have their existence
and purpose defined by a worthy skier. This part of my life is full of a
sense of optimism and potential. With your help these skis can be
great.
I also spend a lot of time with used skis, and sometimes they show
up DIRTY with klister on the top sheets. And the sidewalls. If these
skis were ever among that select group that I considered “mine”, they
have been expelled by your lack of consideration. Their potential has
been sullied by an owner who doesn’t care. They’re like neglected
children – easy to feel sorry for, but really hard to like or care for
because you know they’ll mouth off if you try anything fun.
In many cases the bases look like this:
I’m supposed to do nice things to these skis, but there’s not a single
surface on them that I can touch without getting my hands sticky with
your nasty dirty used up gross klister that you didn’t clean up. I don’t
want to clean up your sticky nasty yucky mess but I have a way of dealing with these skis, Xylene.
Do you know what that shit DOES to your base? Neither do I. Do you care? Neither do I.
The only thing worse than neglected children are the overprotected,
overparented, overdressed ones. Like that kid out playing in the first
snowstorm of the year when it’s about 38 degrees and he’s dressed up
like the michelin man in a snowsuit so absurdly big that he can’t move
his arms. Just makes you want to peg him with snowballs, since he can’t
run away. And then you just ignore him after a while because there’s not much sport in hitting a target that can’t move. If his mom showed
up – now THERE would be a good target, ’cause afterall, that’s who you
really WANT to hit in the smacker. So, would the mom of this ski
please step forward so I can hit you with a snowball? I mean, really –
what’s the deal here? What is it that you think all that wax is going
to do for your ski? It’s going to make the other skis laugh at it, is
what it’s going to do. All the other skis are laughing. Really.
Also, ironing the groove of your ski. That’s just silly. Stop it. I mean really."
