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...

You’re Not One of Those Anal Retentive Fags…

...but you haven’t produced anything beyond the odd rabbit pellet since you left New York, even though you’ve been eating like one of those French truffle pigs. So before you go to your très expensif dinner with the Ski Fags at a pretentious Two Star Michelin Rated restaurant you can’t afford, you and your BFF decide that you need to be lubricated for your upcoming financial rape. You decide to make a Gay Cocktail with the Duty Free liter of Absolut you bought on autopilot as you slept walked through the Geneva Airport. Unfortunately, both mixers and ice are extremely scarce commodities in France, so it’s time for some good old American ingenuity.

Luckily you’ve been storing the Duty Free Vodka outside on the patio so it’s perfectly chilled and doesn’t melt your ridiculously inadequate ration of three miniscule ice cubes per fag. These French ice cubes are so petite that they remind you of a pair of Chelsea testicles that have been juiced up on steroids since the dawn of Gay Man. Since you and your BFF are both on a budget (on your free vacation no less), you decide to share one teensy little €6 bottle of warm Perrier from the Mini-Me Bar. For some reason everything is much, much smaller in France, except for the Americans, of course. Being in France is like looking at everything through a side-view mirror, even the gay New Yorkers appear much larger than our French counterparts. Anyway. You are a terrible bartender so the cocktail is much too strong (even for your Irish liver), but you and your BFF are too cheap to open the other teensy bottle of Orangina. But that’s when your Fat American Ingenuity kicks in and you rush into the bathroom to ransack through your toiletries. Your BFF is confused when you return with a plastic spoon and a Ziploc bag of mysterious orange powder, but before he gets a chance to protest, you mix a spoonful of octogenarian goodness into each of your tumblers, et voilà! You have invented a brand new Gay Cocktail! A Doody Free Vodka Soda with a splash of Metamucil!

Some of the fancier Ski Fags have hired a car to Chamonix, but your cheap ass decides to take the free l’autobus. Since you’re still Jet Fagged and running on Gay Standard Time, you and your BFF are, bien sur, late for l’autobus and you start yelling “Vite! Vite!” to him but he refuses to do anything but stroll in his new Pradas which will surely be beat up and out of fashion long before he ever pays them off. Luckily l’autobus is also running on Gay Standard Temps and you make it to the fancy restaurant (that you can’t afford) on time. When you arrive at La Maison Carrier all the Ski Fags are busy playing runway and complimenting each other about how très fantastique everybody looks in their après ski-wear. Meanwhile, all you're concerned about is getting your €120 worth of booze. You begin to salivate when the waiter pours you a glass of champagne for your all-inclusive, prix-fixe dinner, only as he offers it to your greedy little, manicured hands, one of the Ski Fags tells you that they are charging €17 extra for the Champs! Quelle Horreur! Your face drops faster than the American Dollar and your hands begin to shake with the D.T’s as you reluctantly return the flute to the waiter’s tray.

Dinner turns out to be absolutely lovely. You and your BFF decide to split up and sit at different tables because, let’s face it; you haven’t been all that social with the Ski Fags. It’s mostly because you’ve had to decline several fabulous invitations, not because you think you’re too good for them (only some of them), yet mostly you have to decline because you can’t afford to keep up with the Triple A-Gays. However, you are beginning to sense a chilly attitude in the air that has nothing to do with the altitude in the French Alps. So you both decided to blow your dwindling wad of credit (with a 3% international transaction fee, merci beaucoup) on this one particular dinner. Although the portions are quite petite, this works in your favor because a) the food doesn’t dilute the effect of the bottomless wine glass, b) you have already gotten a bit fat with all this rich French food (gay fat, bien sur, never straight fat!), and c) you are completely and utterly constipated. The entire gourmet experience turns out to be absolutely lovely (even though it could have been a bit disastrous since you once had a little kissy-fest a few months ago with one of the Ski Fags at your table. Or was that twice? Anyway.

After dinner you and your BFF direct your little group to Le Non-Gay Gay Bar, only when the Ski Fags arrive there is nothing Non-Gay about it anymore! You check your coat and descend into the less-than-glamorous basement venue, and for some unknown reason the heat is pumped up to about 95◦ Celsius, however the hellish heat wave all becomes clear when your foot leaves the last step. Instead of sticking to the dried up puddles of spilled beer, your feet sink into a pile of sand. Your irritated BFF looks up from his polished Pradas and says, “Ugh. It’s a beach party,” with a copious amount of disdain, probably because he forgot his cute Speedo. The two of you make a bee-line for le bartender and order €6 domestique beers, which luckily seem extremely foreign to you since the current exchange rate makes the draft beers $9 a piece. You toast each other’s liver health and take a sip. That's when you finally begin to feel moved.

Your Doody Free Metamucil cocktail has finally kicked in and you are finally ready to relieve yourself of that binding bagel you had in Newark Airport, days ago. Only you’re in a dirty gay bar. Underground. Trudging through sand. In the French Alps. But nature is calling so you decide to check out the bathroom, just in case it’s nice. Or clean. Or possibly has toilet paper. You tell your BFF to hold onto your priceless draft bière as you race through the crowed bar toward the stairs. However, when you pass by the Kiddie Pool some Drunk French Boy in board shorts hops into the pool and begins to splash everybody as if he’s Jennifer Fucking Beal from Flashdance. The Non-Gay Gay Garçons clear the center of the room as quickly as paint on a Spin Art board, and you race your wet ass up the stairs toward la toilette. You cross your fingers as you pass by the coat check and open the bathroom door. What you see before your pansy eyes is worse than anything you could have ever imagined. Besides being filthy (and not in the good way) and smelling foul (that's never good), you are completely confused as you scan the room for the missing porcelain. The tiled room (which has never, ever seen a bottle of Tilex) has no toilets and no urinals. There is, however, a small tiled hole in the floor with a drain at the bottom. You don’t quite comprehend the whole confusing situation until you notice the roll of toilet paper hanging on the wall. You stare at the tiled hole in the floor for a moment or two, while you actually consider squatting over it. Only some Coke Head is already banging on the door and screaming “Dépêches toi!” as you happily realize that your window of oppor-number-two-nity has closed and you no longer have to go anymore. So you go back downstairs and decide to order a Binding Banana Daiquiri no matter how many fucking euros it costs. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Easily Impressed Fags...

...but come on! Even though you've never even been to Kansas before, you are well aware that you are definitely NOT there now! Perhaps it's your jet lag, or more likely the fact that you've left the confines of your little island in New York Harbor, but you feel a bit like Woody Allen in search of a good bagel. Or perhaps a nice gay cocktail would be more comforting to you, even though it's still 5:42 am in Gay Gotham and all the bars have already closed. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those First Class Fags...

...but thanks to several glasses of cheap red wine coupled with your old fashioned Valley of the Dolls-circa sleeping pills, you slept a few hours on your way to Geneva. Thankfully your BFF helped you navigate your unconscious gay ass through customs. Now you're on a bus full of sporty fags on your way to the French Alps. Unfortunately the Euro trash has no idea that (212) is in da chambre.

One of your overly friendly ski bunnies just told you to break a leg and you're not so sure if they were kidding? Perhaps they are less of a freind and more of a frienemy? There are lots of big gay personalities on this trip so you've obviously got your work cut out for you. Because, after all, nobody puts Baby in a corner! Especially when Baby's wearing her cute new ski outfit. Anyway...