As an educator of the fine youth of Brooklyn some times ya just gotta get a away from the teen moms, future banana republic employees, and world star fights. So where do you go to collect your sanity after weeks of dealing with kids that don’t know that human beings breathe oxygen? You hop in your boy’s pickup truck and fucking hightail it to the mountains. You abandon society and wind up in some cabin in Bumble-Fuck Vermont for some good old boozing and late night Pearl Jam sessions. Of course you go to the mountains with the intent to ski/snowboard, but when somebody breaks out the Cee-lo dice at 3am Friday night – Saturday skiing just might not happen. But what is it about a mountain weekend that makes it such a nice break from reality?

As we all have learned from the beloved scumbags of It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia when they hit up Party Mountain, there are “Mountain Rules.” But here’s the thing, Mountain Rules aren’t some made-up joke for laughs – they are very real, and go into affect as soon as you tap that keg.

For example (keep in mind this is ALL science – you can believe me, I’m a science teacher), mountain air is different than NYC air, making it possible for an asthmatic to rip through a pack of darts on an Adirondack on chair in one night. That is one mountain rule which, again, is science. Something about the mountain let’s you perform a bender you haven’t done since second semester syllabus week freshman year.  

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This particular weekend was going to be my real first experience drinking HEAVILY on a ski mountain. I have had a couple beers on the slopes before but on this day, I had a duffel bag FULL of booze (too much responsibility for a man literally escaping responsibility). After a morning of whiskey, coffee and cigarettes, the half frozen Michelob Ultra slushies were going to get me through the day.  About halfway through the day, my esteemed “boys” and I made an observation: between the four of us, thirty beers were now gone. Nothing now but freezing cold empty cans littered around garbage cans (which had basketball hoops specifically designed to prevent assholes like us from littering). We went 6 for 30 on the hoop. The beers, plus a few joints, a g-pen, and a flask apparently did not have the same effect on our bodies as they would when we’re only a few feet above sea level.  A miraculous discovery! One simply cannot get fucked up on the mountain… Why? Mountain Rules! Between the oxygen difference and the adrenaline, one could easily send 30 beers while skiing and stay up on two legs. A feat I would have guessed impossible, proven with hard scientific fact and observation.

However once we arrived back at the house, the mountain effects had worn off. We came crashing through the door, three sheets to wind, screaming about absolutely nothing, with an intensity that scared the shit out of the girls we had left lying on the couch. All the toxins we shoved into our bodies on the mountain came flooding into our brains like a bat out of hell. This is where the weekend begins to get hazy.

After a few fights over senseless gambling, some amphetamines taken up the nose and an apparent trip to a brewery – Monday morning came. None of us were fit to drive, so why not let the one guy who’s a cop drive? The safest and most responsible bet. Again, whiskey and coffee in the am to lift everyone’s spirits but after this kind of sleepless non-stop bender, Monday morning morale was at all-time low. With a total 24 hours I cannot really recall, it’s amazing that none of us ended up in jail or in the ER, especially after I discovered we were out in public. And the only explanation for this is of course: Mountain Rules.

Educating America’s Youth,

Rrell will be our newest Gonzo journalist and will for sure being an element to the table we were lacking. I’m happy to welcome him to the Water Cooler Sports squad as we continue to get bigger and better.