The Alps by Way of New Jersey, Part IV

Anyone else would have been okay up on that mountain, but there are certain conditions one finds oneself in that are just, to coin a phrase, an avalanche waiting to happen. That was the situation I found myself in with Mariah, the girlfriend of that snobby prep school poster boy who took an instant dislike to the Morrison Man for some reason. Anyway, there are certain rules you have to follow when stranded in the Alps. Morrison Man doesn’t follow rules. He makes rules, breaks them, then patches them up with duct tape and tells them they oughta stop embarrassing themselves.

Where was I? Ah yes, there are certain things you shouldn’t do when stranded on a mountain, and Mariah and I did five out of eight of them.

We suddenly felt a tremble beneath us. It was time to act.

I pulled out my trusty Swiss Army knife. This isn’t just any Swiss Army knife. In addition to an assortment of blades, screwdrivers, and shrimp forks, it’s also equipped with the key to every room at the Beau-Rivage in Geneva. It was presented to me as a gift from the concierge, a stunning Swiss Miss who taught me a thing or two about Geneva conventions, if you know what I mean. 

I went over to my jet, swiveled out the Cessna-Citation-Model-525-seat-unbolter attachment on my knife, and went to work. Then I dropped the seat into the snow.

Next I pulled out the baggie of red peppers that I always carry around with me. (In case you haven’t figured it out yet,  Morrison Man is always prepared, and he’s all about dramatic presentation.)

“See this?” I said to Mariah. “This here is the infamous Marubo Living Death chili, otherwise known as the Orinoco Tongue Scar, otherwise known as Satan’s Canker Sore. Just one of these little scamps makes a bushel of ghost peppers look like a handful of Sour Patch Kids. Stand back.”

I dropped the little devil into the bag, then dumped the whole bag into my mouth and chewed those suckers to bits.

As G. Gordon Liddy said about burning his hand over a lit candle, the trick is not minding it. (Never have a birthday party at Liddy’s house.)

So I waited until just the right moment, holding my breath, those chilies working their demonic plague magic on me, and then I opened my mouth.

You should have seen the flames.

The ice before us melted into thick waves. The Cessna began to float and was just about to be carried off when I grabbed Mariah’s belt and pulled it off in one stroke. Before she could say “sartorial indiscretion”, I whipped the belt around the axle of the plane and took Mariah by the waist. 

“Hold on,” I said, “and try not to make any honeymoon plans.”

I plopped myself into the seat, pulled Mariah onto my lap, and thus we sailed on a sea of awesome ingenuity down to the base of Mount Morrison (I renamed it along the way). 

You’ll have to tune in next time to see what we did when we got there.

I assure you, we didn’t talk about the weather.

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