Simon's pimp looking version of the things I stare at from the t-bar what, these days, seems like all day, every day. Hey kids see the tracks over there? Looks nice, huh? No, you can't have candy, you are still making pizza all the time. Show me some french fries and we'll see about candy.
The homeboys want the lines on the backside, Simon goes for the fame and glory while Fahmi and I pick the crooked, hidden version that does not lend itself half as well to boasting about from the valley.
A chill on a sunny day and a dead man's tracks.
Little red riding hoods
Simon dropping
Fahmi dropping
Moi-même odd looking by nature and, you guessed it, dropping.
Conclusion: short skis suck, long skis truck; or in the words of Madame J. "I want my skis like I don't want my man: fat."
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