I have never tried skiing, haven’t had a boot on my foot. I rode a plastic bobsled. There were some bumps, some pain, and gasping at the end, but I sat at ground level, I could keel over to the side and the ride would stop.
Skiing is faster, you‘re standing up, you have two levers on your feet with enough output force to unscrew your ankles and there are other drunk nuts on the slopes who can crash into you, you both fall down undignifyingly and break and dislocate the remaining parts of your respective skeletons. A helicopter has to come to pick you up, which costs 4,000 euros. The helicopter crashes. You have a sunburnt bottom half of your face and white skin around the eyes, an expression so dumb it straightens spacetime. But what a terrific story!
Photo. I was seeing a woman skier. She told me she once had a collision with a man, broke her cheekbone and stayed in a hospital for a day. A bit later she was opening a can of paint remover, which was lightly caustic and it burst into her face. She spent a day in a hospital. I thought she looked pretty good after all the work done. But it wasn’t meant to be. After we got to second base, she asked me if I could find a job for her father.
Here’s how skiing was invented. In the olden days, the fastest way to have sex was go to war and rape people in foreign lands in between battles, if you still had your winkle attached. But then dinner-movie dates started and things slowed down to a halt. Anxious dudes, of which there were many, sought ways to speed them up again: “What if we established a car show? We’ll put cars on podiums and let women stand next to them to espouse esteem of the brands. They‘ll feel useful and self-actualized, then we nail them at the hotel.“
“Or we create a bicycle race,” said another dude. “We’ll give them walkie-talkies and make them report whether some banner is up. They’ll feel like organizers. Then we nail them in the trailer. Or behind it.”
„You know, women have agency nowadays,“ said a third dude. “They could start asking questions. We should take them into a mountain wilderness. Tell them skiing is the excrement. Activity in the cold and sitting by the fireplace will make them sleepy. But if they try to leave, there’s going to be a blizzard. We’ll bring out prosecco and make them stare at the playful bubbles. We could turn off Wi-Fi.”
And there’s proof, look at today’s skiing business, skiing is barely on the list.
- Après-baisé.
- Après-ski.
- Profit.
- One-upmanship who went farther off-piste and found bigger danger and deeper silence.
- Skiing.
- Yelling slurs at line cutters.
- Lifties and snowcat drivers going on strike.
Skiing is an intricate mixture of ignorance, irresponsibility, sexual deviance, and conspicuous consumption. And a cult. The clergy show off their god: a lonely skier on a remote vertical drop. The congregation of 50 million then joins the death march of SUVs.
That’s when we see the deforestation, the hideous poles for the cable cars, the schleppy shuffle at the ski lift, the grotesque chalet architecture, the satanic roof boxes, the hoarding of Nutella at breakfast, the incessant singing in Sankt Anton, the rich PSOs in Telluride, Michael Schumacher’s accident in Méribel, and the fire in Crans-Montana. All of this is supposed to justify the euphoric thin air, the sensation of flying, the magnificent surroundings, and the sex in putrid synthetic ski pants.
And speaking of ski pants, the gear companies are one more mafia in the mix:
- Conquer the climb, crush the descent.
- The mountains are yours.
- Deep powder protection.
- Breathable performance.
- We make the gloves, you make the memories.
- Sustainable tourism.
- Virgin snow, whorish village.
- Ski you soon.
People tell me: “Martin, what are you upset about? Just don’t go to the ski resorts and you’ll be fine.” No, I won’t be because you return home and start talking about bindings and weather conditions. At the next table in *my* café. Still dressed in your debile high-vis Helly Hansens and Patagonias. And you recount how it all was and compare the places: “Feathery pow in Kitzbühel, wind slab in Tylicz. But Polish women are prettier and go for a glass of rum. In Austria, *you* need *two* glasses.“
There’s not a single redeeming thing about skiing. It’s just another sales channel for dirty sex (which is the right kind) for people who already plowed through the city and the beach. That’s why they organize the school ski trips, to groom new generations of hellscape jailbait. I didn’t go on mine. I then asked a mate how it went, he said verbatim: “It was great. Stano puked in front of the hut, Marek puked behind the hut, and Jaro didn’t make it and puked inside the hut.”
It’s harmful, it’s wasteful, the sight is worth ripping your eyes out, adherents get maimed, killed, they suffocate in avalanches and nobody learns, more go up the hill with a death wish. They are mentally disabled and God would bless their souls if they had any. And even if everybody survives, I cannot compute how anyone can draw pleasure from this.
And those who cheer and wave the flags at the finish line at the World Cup are family members rejoicing that their boy or girl doesn’t have to work in an office or a factory because they can take money from sugary drinks, betting companies, and trading apps. And when the beloved son or daughter crashes, every media corporation and every North Macedonian teenager will monetize their suffering with video titles like:
- Horrific crash of Heidemarie Gugelhupfer
- You haven’t seen this camera angle
- Look how far the helmet rolled
- Best fails of 2026, try not to nut!
- You’ll never guess what the champion said after leg severed
They will use red circles and arrows on the thumbnails, circling nothing, pointing to nothing.
When I learn someone is a skier, I don’t disparage them, I dehumanize them and don’t regard them. There’s nothing else I can do, after the assassination attempt on the prime minister in 2024, it is illegal in Slovakia to publicly wish someone dead.
FROSTY PROSTIE loves skiing. But I wish her well. I really do.