My Dad is Awesome

My dad was a ski patroller for 18 years. I'm not gonna lie, but he's pretty badass.

 One day my dad was notified of a stuck skier.

The man was found in an out of bounds section of the mountain, which was punishable by season ticket removal.

Which the man argued against vehemently. It was 100% obvious that the man was of fault, especially since the man had to have ducked under a rope attached to a sign that said, "NO SKIING: Out of Bounds".

The man argued that there was no sign. So my dad, with his superior brain capacity, radioed another patroller to check and see if the bounds was still intact.
The other patroller said something to the effect of: "Boundary line intactness is a 10-4."
At which point it was time to clip the man's ticket.
At which point the man got rather angry.

So naturally, to vent frustration, he yelled some bad words and made angry faces. When that didn't help, he went into a pole-smashing tantrum.

Unfortunately, he wasn't aware of one fact. My dad is a friggen stud. Therefore his ski poles are also studly, by association. Basically, the poles were smelted from the titanium from Mt. Olympus and forged by Hephaestus himself.

The man's ski poles were quite the opposite. I'm no expert on ski poles, but I'm 98% certain that they consisted of melted down Bud Light cans, smelted from the nearest trailer park, forged by some toothless meth addict.

Inevitably, the man's little pussy ski poles couldn't handle the raw power of my dad's.
They snapped in half, just like Joe Theismann's leg.

Needless to say, this did not help the man's frustration.
He eventually skied away, but not before offering some brutally low IQ scoring remarks.


Later that day, the man proudly strutted into the main patrolling headquarters. He was going to have that rude ski patroller fired for... whatever he did. That rat bastard.

"I need to talk to the head patroller," the man said to the receptionist.
"Okay, I'll call him down," the receptionist said.

This was it! He would finally have the last word! He would get vengeance on that terrible man who simply enforced the rules. He was going to talk to the head patroller! The wholly god of the mountain, commander of all patrollers and skiers who worshipped the snow he skied on.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor from the head patroller's office.

The man began to practice his speech in his head; thinking of how exactly he should embellish his story to make it most incriminating. Something involving axing a bucket of kittens to death perhaps...

He saw a giant shadow with rippling muscles and began his complaint.
"Hello good sir," the man began, "I had a conflict with one of your patrollers today and-"

But the man stopped mid-sentence.
Because there...
in the hallway...
stood my dad.


"I'm the boss, mothafucka."