The world has taken a long weekend, leaving little to satirize (ok, I didn't look at the news recently). So, I have a recovered memory to share. Easterners will feel my pain. Westerners will wonder what the deal is.
Anyway, flash back to the long distant past. Taylor and Pixel and Scruffy and I are driving eastward into Pennsylvania on a turnpike, singing songs and playing the alphabet game. Scruffy is winning. There in front of us, in our windshield view of the world, appears that which is called "The Appalachian Mountains." The following transcript is based on a true story:
Me: "These are the Appalachian Mountains."
Taylor: "Mountains???"
Me: "Yes. The Appalachian mountain range runs up the east coast."
Taylor: "I don't think those are mountains. Maybe we're not to the actual mountains yet."
Me: "No, they ARE mountains. Really. They're just old and worn down, like Melanie Griffith."
Taylor: "Nah. This looks like the Willamette Valley. Pretty and rolling, something that lives between mountains, not the mountains themselves."
Me: "I swear. They're mountains. They're just more subtle and sophisticated than the garrish, unseasoned volcanic mountains out west."
Taylor: "Well....ok. I guess they're mountains. Hey, what does that sign by the road say?"
Me: "Summit. 917 feet."
Taylor: "Riiiiiiight......"
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1 comment:
I would have to side with Taylor. There is such a thing as rolling hills...not rolling mountains. Mountains are tall and majestic, like in the beautiful Northwest.
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