That’s right bitches the Grenade Games are back, and chunks are guaranteed to get spewed. If anything last year’s event only primed peeps as most shreds seem to have spent the last week getting shit canned. So, not that the party needs anymore hype, but I thought I’d share an experience from Grenade Games 5.

In my teen years the Whiskey movies and Big Brother and Blunt magazines heavily influenced me. That meant lots of getting wasted and trying to break bottles over my head (a trend I’m kind of surprised hasn’t returned with all the renegade partying going down, not that it necessarily should but that’s a different issue). That also meant lots of puking the next day. I’ve spent some vicious hangovers on my knees barfing barley sandwiches on the side of runs (I wonder if Ullr—a name oddly reminiscent of the sound someone upchucking makes—considers this a form of praying, or perhaps something like a sacrificial lamb?). But never in that time had I puked off a chair lift. In the 18 years I’ve been partying and shredding at resorts I’ve always made it to the top before I had to heave leftover hops—call it a source of pride.

Then came that fateful day riding up Jersey Cream. Maybe it was the faint swaying of the chairlift or the warm breeze swarming around my face. Maybe it was the stench of B.O. from not showering for five days. Most likely it was the fact that we had been partying for ten days straight, so I’m going to blame this one all on the Grenade Games (who takes responsibility for their own actions these days anyway, right?).

I tried my damndest to hold it down. My eyes peeled back. A sweat broke on my brow. Someone beside me farted. I knew it was all over, a sort of violation of the last high and holy place I had not defiled over the years.  Then the wretch, the stomach clench, the vile stench spiraling earthward. Look out below ye unwary skiers. And then I felt much, much better.

It’s Tuesday at 4:47 and I’m three beers deep. See you at the Games. --Gerhard Gross.