Utah Skiing Opens With a Pow!

Bow to the Kings and Queens of WorldCup

Pickled Think

"Reparative Therapy" at BYU in 1972

Live Rock Revelations

Chick Chat

Aspen Extreme: Part 2

Surefoot Orthotics


Comics & Images

Phat Tat

Ski Bums


100 Dirty Words (2)

by tommy kirchhoff

The reluctant son of a Mafia don

chose smartly to draw the curtain;

for while in his house, high heels and a blouse,

he smell of gay pride was for certain.

He spent winter days sans cute negligees,

at a two-run converging “SLOW” sign.

In ski patrol red, he worked—but his head

dreamed daisies and shopped Calvin Klein.

Now this little lad had a powerful dad

whose sight was as straight as his chin.

And if he had seen that his son was a queen

he’d prob’ly have poofter done in.

But the son had a guise for inquisitive eyes

that held him in ranks of all men.

With a right-clever mind, his linguistics refined,

he impressed with the might of his pen.

His elegant words were always preferred

for their exaltation to snow.

They prompted a grin and read masculine

in a way that no one would know.

His gay friends all laughed at his dark holograph

and pushed him to scream, “I’m a fruit!”

But our hero just yearned for this bane to be burned,

and powerfully penned like a mute.

He pondered a way to show he was gay

without a keen cut to his throat.

But much his chagrin, pulled the curtain again;

in black fishnet stockings he wrote:

“I want to be where I can grow out my hair

and gaze atop great snowy buttes.

On steeps my fear molts by the clutch of my Strolz

as I push down through tight, rugged chutes.”

When this poem was done, wasn’t missed by a one

and drew cheers on three tones of shtick.

The mob called it “Tough!”

“Behave!” cried the cream puffs;

and patrollers said, “Dude, that was sick.”

Though he tickled the fags with metaphorical shags,

gave patrol and the family some pride,

this imprisoned nance didn’t victory dance.

In fact, he just wanted to hide.

He toughed out the season for vertical reason,

but his thoughts of out-coming grew dim.

Then April he gained a Pulitzer reign

and his tyrannical father approached him.

He said to his son as he pulled out his gun,

“I can’t say I’m into this powder.

But I’m not just a thug, come give Dad a hug;

oh my heck, I couldn’t be prouder.”

In a life-threatening choice, son hardened his voice

said, “Dad this may come a surprise.

I once touched a girl and I started to hurl—

don’t kill me, but I only like guys.”

Dad drew a deep breath that exhaled like death;

raised his hand as he started to speak.

“I swear on this pinky, I too was a twinky,

and I still like to drag twice a week.”