After many unsuccessful attempts at contacting Alex Cushing via séance, the Unofficial crew finally succeeded this weekend. We had a Ouija board and this is what he communicated …
“You’ve got to have balls the size of grapefruits to pull off single handedly bringing the Olympics to a podunk mountain valley in tropical California with only one ski lift.
You’ve got to have evil business savvy to screw over your partner and take complete control of your newly formed ski resort in the valley that he discovered.
You’ve got to truly not give a shit about anything but uphill transportation and the rawness of the mountain to not develop Squaw into another cookie cutter-disneyland-“do you think grandpa is having a good time?”-bullshit ski resort.
All these things I did without flinching…because that’s the way Squaw was meant to be.
Although my oversized sized balls have decayed while 6 feet under to the size of mere ant’s heads, they’re still bigger than Andy Wirth’s or any of the goddamn suits’ at KSL combined.
Could these KSL guys have possibly shat upon my beloved Squaw Valley any more directly in the past year?
Changing my logo, getting rid of my Miss America sash uniforms, trashing my ticket windows, erasing the memory of my 1960 Olympics, overselling my exclusive season passes, making my funky California mountain valley smell like a trashy Colorado débutante, and associating the badassness of Squaw with the lameness of Alpine Meadows?
As a sick gesture of their new policy and positioning, a “man” recently visited my grave, urinated upon it, and whispered down to me:
“You’re time here is over old man. We’re gonna make sure no one even remembers your name or what this place stood for.”
The hardcore Squaw skier won’t forget what this place stood for. This place stood as it was: the best mountain in North America at a ridiculous price. These poor bastards skied a lot of powder, gave 30% of their annual income to me, and considered it a good deal. In light of that deal and my egocentric disinterest in all things florid, I kept Squaw ungroomed, raw, timeless, disenfranchised, funky, and most importantly, mine.
But these guys, these KSL guys…they’re gonna grab this mountain by the balls, castrate it, gut it while it’s still whimpering, fold it inside out, stuff it into a frilly-laced gift wrapped box, and push it to the mental image of what they think Northern Michigan skiers jerk off to at night.
What’s happening to my mountain not only makes me roll over in here, it makes my partially decayed blood boil. And I can assure you, this won’t be the last you hear from me…”