As we troll along Virginian Avenue in West Jackson searching for a place to park, itís plainly obvious we are no longer in ski country. From the cockpit of my cute little diesel German wagon, I can actually see the underside of the dozens of lifted oversized pickups that line the avenue like some sort of motorcade for the leader of some backwoods Montana militia. We squeak in between two such personal tanks and, upon exiting the vehicle, surmise that the top of our ski rack is barely as high as the license plates on the vehicles in front of and behind us. I think about putting together some sort of sign to display on my dash so someone doesnít mistake my VW for a Prius and intentionally run it over, but just decide to go ahead and drink anyways.
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