Arbor Heights is another one of those projects I’d been telling you about. Sure you’ve heard of it, but since there’s nothin’ else t’talk about, we’ll go with it.
A town, in a tree. Great idea for th'richy folk that live in them mansions and have nothin’ t’do with the rest of us. They’ll pay for dang-well anything, cump’ny said. They’s right too. After year and half it took’em t’build it, lots sold like a hooker in Congress. Billions of dollars t’make it all. Landed ‘em in all those super-somethin’ magazines, Forbes ‘n all. Anyway, things going real, real good for them, right? Scientifically grown tree or whatever with a buttload of that super fancy Miracle-Gro stuff, construction, then sales. New tourist spot, cha-ching!
And, y’know yer gramma. Somethin’ glitzy shoot up, she’s gotta goin’ see it. So we went. Huge hassle, you wouldn’t believe. All that money into flashyness, and the very best they can manage is a poor-paved, windy road? We saw the blasted thing, marveled a bit, and spent the next ten minutes figuring how t’get there. Wasn’t even pretty scen’ry, as you’d think. Ugly mountain, chipped and blown at to make th’road. Ugly shrubbery, what little lasted the blasts. The friggin’ tree was even disgustin’. Bold, they said. Original. It was shaped just like that swirly ice cream stuff you and your ma like s’much. No branches. Just a thick trunk, with a dull point at the top. In wintertime? Maybe. Summertime? Pshaw.
Marriage: compr'mise. In other words, she decides where you a’goin, and you get t’drive. Lovely little system. When we got there, she loved it, I hated it. We drove around th’trunk dozen times, and left for home.
Day after, whole thing burnt down. Crazy greenies went nuts, saying th’ecosystem was all messed, blah blah blah. Cump’ny folded hand, and went back t’whatever profit thing they been doin’ before.
Ain’t that the stupidest thing you ever heard? We come down from trees a million years ago, and big ol’ Moneybags McGee try and put us back up there.
Anyway, what was I sayin'?