a bro bra bitch fest

It’s fall, my favorite season.  This kind of weather makes me want to sit in a coffee shop and listen to Phantogram or Modest Mouse–and that kind of statement makes you think I’m a huge indie asshole.  But in addition to marking the season where I apparently go full-fledged hipster, fall also means the start of the snowboard season, during which I’ll get to see a whole host of friends who make a living doing nothing just so they can do something when I’m too busy with everything.  Yeah, just like that.

With snowboard season nearly upon us, the perpetually stoned and mentally stunted industry inhabitants of Summit County, Colorado, are stocking up on trendy outerwear and ankle-length t-shirts.  This is because the true measure of how well one rides in Summit County is directly proportional to how low your jacket hangs, and/or whether your hoodie doubles as a dress when you’ve sat down on the toilet only to find your roommate didn’t replace the toilet paper and you’ve got to scoot across the living room to grab some.  (That latter situation may sound detailed but I can assure you that has never, ever, ever happened to me.)  For those of you not familiar with this Colorado state joke, this is what I’m talking about:

These are real people, although I question that premise often.  It doesn’t take a genius (which these types are not) to see that this second asshole lives with his mom so I’ll give him a pass and put the blame on her for buying him such ridiculous attire.  There is no excuse unless he lost 400 pounds or is secretly this guy (a distinct possibility given the striking resemblance):

While writing this post, I was shocked to find that “Summit County Colorado douchebags” does not yield a productive Google search, offering me yet another entrepreneurial opportunity.  By this time next year, your search engine will explode from all the pictures of tall-tee’d douchebags waddling around in their dresses.  (There may be one photo of a girl who, although one of my best friends, repeatedly subjects me to this fashion misstatement and deserves to get called out next time she’s wearing that horrendous hot pink knee-length vest that I hate.)  First million in the bank: check.  And with that first million I’m going to move to another snow-filled venue where people ride in normal clothes and are capable of holding a conversation in second-grade English, without using any of the following: gnar, gondy, pow, bro, bra, bro bra, steez, steezy, and shred (unless as a verb pertaining to cheese).  With that, let the steez fly.
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