Mogwog breaks her leg, we laugh

--Bee, Number 2 & E

Bee:
We were on our annual family ski trip (and I mean ENTIRE family—seven kids, one MM crammed into a condo in the mountains) to Mont Tremblant, Canada. The older siblings were expert skiers by now, especially Number 2, so MM let us go off in groups.

E:
Something you need to understand about MM: she has no ass and fake tits, therefore, she has no body fat. She has chicken legs and had a tummy tuck, so she’s got nothing to keep her warm. Even though she has heated ski boots, when she gets cold, she gets COLD, and has to get down the mountain ASAP and warm up, otherwise the rest of the day will be spent listening to MM bitch and moan about not being able to ski because of frostbite, and she’ll guilt someone into spending the rest of the day with her at the condo.

Bee:
Since Mogwog and Kait had finished ski-school for the day, they came with Number 2 and me, and we wanted to go on one more run for the day. It started snowing and we got cold and lazy so Number 2 decided that the team should take the quickest route down the mountain. Trusting his expert ability/opinion, we three n00bs followed. Halfway down, Number 2 realized that he took us down a double black diamond (for those of you non-skiers, that’s the hardest kind of trail).

Number 2:
I contest this. I did not intentionally bring said siblings down a double-black trail. What am I, half retarded?

E:
Ahem. Would this be similar to the time I first learned to ski, had spent the morning at ski school, and MM decided that since the beginner trails were closed, she’d take me down an intermediate trail? I didn’t speak French yet, so I asked what she was thinking taking me down a hard trail—even harder than a US-intermediate trail—after only two hours of skiing on bunny slopes.
E: MM, doesn’t blue mean intermediate?
MM: No, in Quebec “blue” means “easy.” You’ll be fine.
(E flies down the mountain at 50kph, unable to stop.)
MM: SNOWPLOW!!!!! FUCKING SNOWPLOW!!!
(E snowplows into a tree, gets carried down the mountain on a toboggan by Quebecoise ski patrol.)

And for the record, Number 2 is half retarded.


Number 2:
No I’m not. In this case, Mont Tremblant neglected to properly label their trails/trail maps. I highly distinctly remember the trail map said that this trail was a blue square (read: intermediate-level) trail. However, when the A-team reached the slope, I immediately realized that this was no blue square. It was scary—like that hilly street you are too scared to park on because you think that even with the parking brake on, the car will roll down and kill Grandma Agnes while she’s walking across the street. (It’s okay. She was gonna die anyway).

E:
By this logic, Mogwog was going to break her leg anyway. And “highly distinctly?” Are you seriously serious?

Bee:
At this point in Mogwog’s skiing escapades, she hadn’t learned what it meant to “snowplow.” All the bunny slopes had taught her was “pizza” and Canadian “fries,” at least that’s the way Jean-Luc the instructor put it. Number 2 led the way by zooming as fast as he could and Mogwog thought it would be cool to mimic him. What happened next sounded something like this: “Ahhhh, hahaha, oh no! Pizza and fries, pizzaaaa and frieeessss!!! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh pweajrkwlq;pjfsdhoiehwq!!!” Needless to say, she crashed into a patch of snow-covered trees.

Number 2:
Hey, asshole…no she didn’t. Mogwog caught an edge while snowplowing and was going too fast. She didn’t hit any trees—I remember because she was in the middle of the trail and we had to stand her skis up like an X.

E:
I can’t vouch for any of this. I was making out with some French boy.

Bee:
Anyway. Coming from a family of tough love, I thought Mogwog’s fall was hilarious! I skied down to find her crying. Someone came up to us and asked if she was okay. I shrugged them off in a breathless laughing fit, telling them she was fine, but they still proceeded to call ski patrol. By the time ski patrol got there she was shrieking loud enough to wake up Canadian Bigfoot, and I was only contributing to that. The medic asked Mogwog if she knew her name and how old she was, and she told them. And then they asked seven more times to make sure she didn’t have a concussion, only the eighth time they got the answer of, “I told you already! My name is MAGGGGGGGGIIIIIEEEEEEEE, GOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDDD! Are you stupid????”

Number 2:
I second that – when she said that, I was fucking dying. Good thing Tremblant had cannon-balled the avalanches the day before, otherwise Mogwog would have definitely caused one.

Bee:
I know she was screaming out of pain, but I couldn’t help but crack up. When we found out that she actually broke her leg, I felt bad for about a second, until Chief and Boss were kicking her out of her wheel chair so that they could have a Handicap X Games with it. When we got home, Mogwog was bed ridden because the boys would not give up “the wheels of death.”

(For weeks, the events of the X Games at 210 Cable Ave—the rental house we lived in after George kicked us out—included: racing down the hallway, 30 second SS tricky session, and chasing Kaitlyn with Citrus-spray—to be explained later in the episode of “Piss Queen: aka Pee Pee Girl.” Months later, when we lived on Forrest Trail Circle and Gram moved in after her stroke, Chief would reobtain possession of the Wheels of Death and mimic Gram as she yelled MM’s name for help wiping her ass.)