There are two things you can’t choose in your life.
Your parents.
And where you live.
Somehow, those stinky bastards to the west of us got beautiful, snow-capped mountains. We got plains. Plain plains, with no trees. The people who established our state had to be tough mother fuckers, building homes out of sod and gathering cow shit to burn as firewood to keep themselves warm and cook their dinners.
They stand on their peaks, looking down, noses in the air, making fun of our flatlands and our beef. Our ability to grow the food that feeds the world.