by Tommy Kirchhoff
The scientific method begins with observation. The ski school takes a pre-season look at the new applications. They see trends in vast experience, and group those people together. Given: Group 10 - Full certs and tech tools. They see applicants with much experience, and skiing ability. Given: Group 9.
Then they sort of wince as they look at what's left over. They say, "Let's see... Ah, let's just put all these racers and wreckheads together." Hypothesis: Maybe some turds will float.
The instructor hiring clinic begins. On day one, the problem becomes formulated. Nine gravity fed physics students with extrapolated personalities rip the mountain up. They hoot and holler, bust every available line of powder and launch off the snow gun mounds, three at a time. Problem: are they trainable?
The experimentation continues. The three clinicians conduct a veritable Chuck Yeager stress test. There are some unbalanced wing rolls and some serious nose-dives, but nobody lets up. With the throttles at full, the group becomes restless and annoyed with petty discourse.
Then something goes wrong. The elixir explodes into something toxic and radioactive. The clinic ends with a liquid solution. Beer.
Some of the controls were inefficient and ineffective. Seven are hired; two are dismissed as bad batches. These are insignificant numbers as far as the group is concerned. It no longer feels like the Telluride guinea pig. It is Frankenstein.
The day it is to be over, the monster awakens under new nomenclature. "The Crazy Eights." Night falls and so do some of the eights. One "bad batch" drinks a fifth of Tequila and punts the wooden sidewalk sign in front of One World for the extra point. The other threatens a clinician in Leimbruber's to leave now or get your ass kicked. "Goodnight folks!" was all I remember hearing.
Two and a half months pass and the control is lost. The Eights are out puking on people's carpet, going to detox, and getting arrested. They go unknown to most, but live on as legends to each other.
And this week, the Eights reunighted on the eve of Superbowl. The experiments continued. While I opted to discover how many different alcohols I could mix, others took more liberal methodology. The youngest Eight caught 23 consecutive goldfish crackers from across the room; the oldest lobbed a three-point fork toward the sink, landing it squarely on a belligerently sober Eight's forehead. One Eight won 75 bucks on some football game, while another won 25 for a rousing game of asshole golf.
So the well-dressed naked apes danced and drinked on into the night, intoxicating their brains to keep them from evolving too quickly. The scientific world progressed in leaps and hops, then came to rest allatonce. The morning's rigor mortis stenched the house as Eight carci lie strewn about.
My head still hurts.