You're Not the Type of Fag Who Skis on a Ski Vacation...

...as usual, you'd prefer to pass out and wake up hungover after too many Gay Cocktails then to never have slept after a long night of powdering your nose. So, as usual, you wake up hungover and drag your lazy ass to the slopes so you can meet your International Friend from Buenos Aires for a day of skiing at Le Tour. You met Ricky Ricardo last October in Rio de Janeiro one day on the gay beach when your bladder was so full that you had to ask him to watch your full beer so nobody would steal it while you excused yourself into the ocean to relieve yourself of the previous five. You weren't sure if Ricky Ricardo was gay since he was sunning with a girl, but after a few more beach beers you realized that Lucy was definitely Ricky's Fag Hag. You all hit it off and since you were traveling alone, they took you in as if you were their Little Ricky. Ironically you all ended up on the same flight to Buenos Aires, where Ricky ended up taking you to the gay equivalent of his Tropicana Night Club, South of the Equator.

So when you found out that Ricky Ricardo was going to be in Geneva at the same time you were in Chamonix you decided to get together for a day of skiing so you could add another country stamp onto your International Friendship Passport. The only tricky part is that you signed a silly waiver promising that you wouldn't bring any non Ski Fags onto the Ski Fag trip. Oops. Your bad.

Ricky Ricardo turns out to be an excellent skier and you and your BFF can barely keep up. The three of you have a fantastic day, except, of course, when you run into the Ski Fag Trip Leader at the Lodge and have to pretend that you just met Ricky Ricardo so you don't have any 'splaining to do to. Afterwards, Ricky offers to drive you back to your hotel, the only problem being that he has borrowed his brother's two seater Mercedes SL convertible, and there are three of you and three pairs of skis. But it sounds much more glamorous than schlepping back on the free l'autobus so you put the top down and pile into the backspace after your BFF immediately calls shotgun.

Perhaps it's riding in the expensive car in the French Alps, or maybe it's the fact that you have the top down in the middle of February, or possibly it has something to do with the fact that you feel like a teenager hanging out of a two-seater sports car even though you're well into your thirties, but you feel utterly fabulous when everybody in the tiny village of Argentière looks your way as you drive down the mountain. The narcissist in you enjoys the spotlight until you find yourself getting caught off-campus by the Ski Fags' Trip Leader, a.k.a. Mrs. Garrett. Only it's like the very special episode where The Facts of Life Goes to Paris. Make that The Fags of Life. You wish you were Tootie so you could just rollerskate away, but, unfortunately for you, you are so cramped into the backspace that you can't even duck or adequately turn your head away from Mrs. Garrett's judgmental spotlight. Ugh.

After Ricky Ricardo drops you off at the hotel, you decide to unpack your laptop and try to work on a blah-blah-blog entry with the free WiFi in the lobby. Yet when you get downstairs, you find ten frustrated Ski Fags trying to get online with their fancy new MacBooks, only nobody can find a signal. So you march over to the front desk to have another fight with the Merci Beaucunt who claims it must be your American computers that are causing le problem. You're about to get all Carrie Bradshaw on her and say, "I'm not an American! I'm a New Yorker!" because suddenly you have the need to explain that just because you live in an country that elected George Bush, twice, doesn't mean you voted for him (actually, after that Florida Chad debacle you don't believe W was ever elected the first time, but the fact that he was elected for a second term? There's really no excuse for that). Anyway. Your BFF yanks you away before you get a chance to get all political and he quickly asks the Merci Beaucunt if there might be a place in town where you can go get some Freedom Frites along with some Freedom WiFi.

The Merci Beaucunt sends you to Le Rusticana and you sit at the bar amongst all the bizarre gay memorabilia in the straight restaurant as you begin to work on your blah-blah-blog entry. You order some Freedom Frites and a few Kronenbourg 1776's and and begin to write about Le Stalquer when your BFF turns to you with the biggest smile you've ever seeen him produce. "What?" you ask, completely confused. He asks if you would watch his stuff because nature has called and he wants to race back to the hotel to use la toilette. You agree even though you are insanely jealous because you still haven't sat your gay ass down to make any deposits at the European Porcelein Bank. After your BFF leaves you devour the rest of the binding Freedom Frites and wash it all down with his pint of 1776.

A few moments later you feel a hand on your back and say, "That was quick," only when you turn around, instead of finding your BFF, you almost do a spit-take when you find yourself staring at Le French Construction Worker (a.k.a. Le Stalquer). He's got a shit-eating grin on his face that somehow eclipses your BFF's recent shit-producing grin. Le Stalquer tries to tell you something in French that you can't understand, at all, and you are in absolutely no mood to parlez français so you end up navigating your way to the Babel Fish website for help with a translation. Le Stalquer types in one French sentence on your keyboard and when you hit "Enter," Babel Fish quickly informs you that, "The lady at the Hotel tell me I could fine you here!" Le Merci Beaucunt strikes again!

The two of you type boring sentences back and forth until your BFF finally returns and begins to giggle uncontrollably when he realizes your predicament. Since Le Stalquer can't speak a lick of English, you just look at your BFF and tell him that he needs to save you. The two of you yap about the best lie to type into Babel Fish until you lamely have it translate, "We need to go have dinner with the Ski Group now." Since Le Stalquer already knows where you live, you let him drive you back to the hotel while you bluntly tell your BFF that he better not leave anything in the damn Smart Car this time. At the hotel your BFF immediately jumps out of the car, allowing you to have another nice quiet au revoir with Le Stalquer. Since you don't want to lead him on, you try to give him a Euro kiss on each of his cheeks, but he isn't having it, and ends up attacking you with another unwelcomed French Kiss. You quickly pull the door open and spill out of Le Smart Car where you find yourself gathering yourself together in front of Mrs. Garrett. She's glaring at you with her patented look of disapproval as if you are some slutty Tootie holding a bong that you've mistaken for a candy dish. You realize that this is the second time today that Mrs. Garrett has caught you being driven back to the hotel (in a second car no less), and you briefly consider telling her that you decided to turn tricks in order to pay off the €120 dinner, but you just smile and race back into the WiFi-less lobby where you receive yet another grande shit-eating grin from the Merci Beaucunt. Anyway...