"I finally finished my report for the executive board. At first, it was just gibberish and incoherent ramblings. But on the third day I was visited by an Incan Monkey god, who told me exactly what to write. Now, if I can just find someone to translate his simple but beautiful language..."~Dilbert, to the best of my recollection, anyway"We have met the Incan Monkey god, and he is us."~DeNae, when asked how her novel is coming along
13: I'm thankful for my swimming pool. One day in church I quipped that "rain is something that happens in Utah so folks like us can fill our pools." There were a few visitors from Salt Lake City, who I noticed did NOT chuckle warmly along with the Las Vegans.
Which I suppose is the point, isn't it? I mean, they acted like somehow they had WORKED for all that rain, and we free-loaders were just slurping it up like we were entitled to it.
Well, what had they done to guarantee adequate rainfall? Danced for it? HA! If dancing were the criteria, Las Vegans would all be living in arks. High ceilinged arks, of course, to accommodate the poles.
When we lived in Seattle, we would gladly have let Las Vegas borrow a few thousand gallons of rain during their killer summer months. All they had to do was ask. And, you know, figure out a way for us to fax it to them.
Of course, in Seattle "killer summer months" meant "August 17", the 24 hours of the year when the temperature soared all the way to 90 degrees, and stricken residents had no choice but to head to one of the roughly forty thousand beaches in the city until the crisis had passed.
Now that I live in the last place you can stop for gas on the Highway to Hell, let me just tell those sniffy Utah rain hogs that they should be grateful we Las Vegas-ites have swimming pools.
If I didn't have someplace to catapult my children to every summer when we're on our 279th straight hour of 'Simpsons' reruns, I'm afraid I'd become so crazy with the heat and all that family togetherness I would, in my frenzy, begin hanging up on the food storage shelving salesmen and home security installers who call me eighty-six times a day.
Near as I can tell, those boys are singlehandedly keeping the Utah economy solvent, on account of you can't have too many wire racks loaded with number ten cans mounted all over your garage. And then you'd best rig the place with a state-of-the-art security system, because let's face it, three hundred pounds of red beans and potato pearls are just too much for weaker willed burglars to resist.
Around here, we send our returned missionaries to the Barbazon School of Blackjack Dealing. Or, if they can't get in, BYU.
But hey, that's just us.
Your water-sucking, pool-hugging neighbors to the south.