I was engaged in my annual “movie-debate while skiing” with Marty-Bear, an expert in the field of nuclear diuretics, which went pretty typically, him saying, “Fred Claus is improbable and unrealistic.” Me saying, “I can’t believe you won’t even suspend your disbelief for Santa!”
I guess I got a little frustrated after a while because I said, “Do you know why I call you Marty-Bear? It’s because I’d rather be a dump in the woods than the sucker talking to you! …And you smell… like camp garbage!”
Marty-Bear curled his sad lips into an upside down U and skied between some trees. I followed him, shouting semi-abusive apologies, when I suddenly found myself three feet in the air. While floating I heard Marty-Bear say, “Not this way!”
The next thing I saw was a humbling combination of whiteness, rocks, tree bits and stump. I’m not sure on which of these I landed, but it was hard enough to make me mumble about termites and write left handed all week. I also felt the unmistakable crunch of an eastbound butt cheek shuttered to a stop by an unreasonably pointy tree.
I lay still for a moment to recover, peeled my frozen eyeball off of a ski pole and pinched my shin to make sure I wasn’t dead. That was when I heard Marty-Bear say, “Good news! You’re in shock! If we ski down now, we can avoid getting you medical assistance!” For some reason this made sense to me at the time, so I got up and exacerbated my injuries by fumbling my shock-ridden legs to the bottom of the hill.
So now I’m spending my Christmas vacation in bed, with a computer on my lap, thinking about what happened. You know what? I realized something; it’s a bad idea to declare that conversation with a nuclear diureticist is akin to a life as bear-poop.
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