DUDE, Inc.
Two notoriously dirtbag scammers play Catch Me if You Can with the ski industry
By PAT KEANE

Josh and Bert had been ski bums all their lives. The deceptions, cons, and maneuvers they employed to scam gear and free tickets were classic tales in the annals of dirtbaggery. But as they grew older their antics and mooching began to catch up with them. Eternal optimists, they didn't foresee the devastating turn of events that endangered their plans to ski free forever.

"Our sponsorships and comps have hit critical mass," confided Bert at the Annual Board Meeting (as they called it) of their phantom enterprise. The Board Meeting occurred each November as a way to conjure up stories of epic personal adventures and media coverage, so they could market themselves to industry reps and score free skis, boots, and other gear listed in what they called their "Annual Report."

For years Josh and Bert perfected the practice of scanning magazine photos and altering the credits with their names—Josh as the skier dropping 70 feet of air off a Chamonix cornice, Bert as the photographer shooting Josh ripping bottomless fluff in the Chugach. For kicks, and to strengthen their offering as a package team, they sometimes switched roles to create the illusion that both were world-class skiers and photographers. The shots were carefully selected so facial features were never quite discernable. Josh's longtime girlfriend, Gloria, was a graphic artist in Tahoe. From the previous year's ski magazines she would create a dazzling, credit-altered portfolio for each of them to pass around at industry functions.

The first time they attempted such bravado at the annual SIA convention in Vegas, Bert and Josh were blown away by how few industry reps even read ski magazines, let alone checked photo credits. And so their success continued for years. Experts at marketing their faux alter egos to the industry, Bert and Josh assumed false identities for the sole purpose of furthering The Cause. It's not that they lacked skills to pay for skiing. It's that employment would get in the way of logging 180 days each season at the resorts of their choice worldwide.

Besides, they did work during the off-season. Josh was a commercial pilot—not always for the most reputable employers, but his accrued hours in the sky earned him the right to fly almost every winged aircraft imaginable. He could have toed the line and become a $200,000 a year flyboy for a major airline, but his ulterior motives—hanging around ski towns, partying, chasing babes, skiing powder—ran counter to that kind of success. In other words, when you leave 150 paying customers sitting in a 737 on the tarmac because it just dropped two feet of fresh, word kinda gets around at the office.

Bert worked in sales during the off-season for much of his life. He started door-to-door at a young age, then worked phones in boiler rooms, tried his hand at a few car lots, and drifted through furniture stores. He usually hung around for the last commission check in November and then walked out, not to be seen again (or at least not until the end of May, or whenever his summer savings stash ran out, whichever came first). Bert and Josh both had a gift for gab—or bullshit, as many resort workers who figured them out put it. Now, after all those years of defrauding the industry for free gear, travel, lodging, and skiing, their jet-set wintertime lifestyle was about to dry up like a June snowpack.


Their karma caught up with them in October when a well-known company purchased one of their photos for a major ad campaign. Soon after, the true identity of the skier and photographer were revealed.

When confronted by a high-level executive who talked like a lawyer, Josh reverted to the classic denial mechanism of projection before slamming the phone down. "Whatdaya mean it's not me in the photo? That guy's old lady must've scanned and altered the picture. My attorney will be contacting you." Soon a heliski operator called to inform them that their scheduled freebie week was cancelled due to "conflicts surrounding the possibility that any photos may get published."

The news was out, and the grim reality of actually having to pay for skiing began to sink in with Josh and Bert. The Board Meeting now took on urgent significance. The Determined Ultimate Dirtbag Experience, or DUDE, Inc. as it was acronymed, was in cataclysmic danger of running in the red.

As the Annual Board Meeting convened, Josh and Bert moved through the agenda. "What're our prospects for the year?" asked Josh.

"Ugly. Word's traveling faster than Jeremy Nobis on skis," said Bert. "Credibility dropping like a Holden huck."

"Hey, don't I have a credit on one of his shots?"

"No, we don't poach cover shots, remember?"

"Oh, yeah."

The two Executive Scambags of DUDE, Inc. began to realize that the directions of their lives were on the verge of being seriously altered, possibly forever. Quickly, they brainstormed a Strategic Plan, one they would never have contemplated before the recent turn of events.

"What's the ultimate goal?" asked Josh.

"To ski."

"What will make it happen?"

"Endless freebies."

"There are no freebies. The gravy train ran out of track."

"What about trust funds?"

"You can't fake those."

"Oh." And on and on it went, until they finally understood.

"We need money," stated Josh.

"Ouch!" replied Bert. "You mean get jobs? During the season? That defeats The Cause!"

But Josh had that flash of brilliance in his eye that comes of a scheme taking shape. "Not necessarily..."

Next...