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kramer1
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The Men and The Min, Round 2.
Before we get to the heavy and thoughtful analysis, let’s sling a little mud, whaddaya say?
I’m well versed in both cities, having lived Here since ’88 and having visited There since well before that. My creds are well established. Both of my parents grew up There, at least partly, mom in a hamlet called Burgettstown, dad for a brief time in Mt. Lebanon, a nice, close-in ‘burb not unlike Mariemont.
My wife’s from Aliquippa. Went to Hopewell High with Tony DOR-sett, before he became Tony Dor-SETT.
Freud would call it Steeler Envy, this animus we/you have for the Team Up North And East. Not sure why, beyond the football glory, that we so covet Pittsburgh. Everything else There is subpar, compared with Here. For example:
Mt. Washington There is a heap compared to Mt. Adams Here. They have a million-dollar view of the city and about three decent bars with a view. Their Beer (Iron City Light, nice liquid oxymoron there) is something we’d use to clean sinks.
Their Myron Cope, RIP,was a little squeaker compared with Our D. Lapham, who Played The Game.
Their sloppy sandwiches for obesity-seeking bohunks is dog food compared to the elegant mess of Our chili.
Their version of the English language requires translating. “Crick” means “creek” boys and girls!
Yunz, yinz, some damned thing meaning “you people.”
Dahntahn, ahtside, Troy PAWL-uh-MAWL-oo.
The “Paarts” used to play at Forbes Filled.
That portion of your dress shirt, up around your neck? Why, that’s a caw-ler.
Another day, another daw-ler.
Oh, rilly?
Nawt, gawt, hawt, spawt. Translation: Not, got, hot, spot.
Whut the heck’s goon on dahn dere?
They even call their own city Picksburgh. Rhymes with Hicksburg.
They need books to explain the way they talk. Picksburghese. There’s a website, presumably to teach their infants to speak local while jamming their infant pieholes with pierogies so they can all waddle around dahtahn like little earthbound Goodyear blimps.
You think the winter stinks here? We’re Cancun compared to Picksburgh. It used to be, the belch from the still mills kept their sky perpetually gray, and forced everyone who lived within 50 miles to clean their windows of soot several times an afternoon. Now, it’s just the climate. It’s as if the Big Weatherman in the Sky simply decided to keep the place in character once the mills shut dahn.
They have potholes in Picksburgh suitable for a family of four.
Deer run rampant in the semi-rural areas. If you havent had your rusting Ford wrecked by a buck, you’re not rilly from Picksburgh.
It snows in Awk-tober. A lawt.
Next time you come across Picksburgh-er waving his terrible tahl, get very smug and wish him gawdspeed. Then tell him it’s better here.
Before we get to the heavy and thoughtful analysis, let’s sling a little mud, whaddaya say?
I’m well versed in both cities, having lived Here since ’88 and having visited There since well before that. My creds are well established. Both of my parents grew up There, at least partly, mom in a hamlet called Burgettstown, dad for a brief time in Mt. Lebanon, a nice, close-in ‘burb not unlike Mariemont.
My wife’s from Aliquippa. Went to Hopewell High with Tony DOR-sett, before he became Tony Dor-SETT.
Freud would call it Steeler Envy, this animus we/you have for the Team Up North And East. Not sure why, beyond the football glory, that we so covet Pittsburgh. Everything else There is subpar, compared with Here. For example:
Mt. Washington There is a heap compared to Mt. Adams Here. They have a million-dollar view of the city and about three decent bars with a view. Their Beer (Iron City Light, nice liquid oxymoron there) is something we’d use to clean sinks.
Their Myron Cope, RIP,was a little squeaker compared with Our D. Lapham, who Played The Game.
Their sloppy sandwiches for obesity-seeking bohunks is dog food compared to the elegant mess of Our chili.
Their version of the English language requires translating. “Crick” means “creek” boys and girls!
Yunz, yinz, some damned thing meaning “you people.”
Dahntahn, ahtside, Troy PAWL-uh-MAWL-oo.
The “Paarts” used to play at Forbes Filled.
That portion of your dress shirt, up around your neck? Why, that’s a caw-ler.
Another day, another daw-ler.
Oh, rilly?
Nawt, gawt, hawt, spawt. Translation: Not, got, hot, spot.
Whut the heck’s goon on dahn dere?
They even call their own city Picksburgh. Rhymes with Hicksburg.
They need books to explain the way they talk. Picksburghese. There’s a website, presumably to teach their infants to speak local while jamming their infant pieholes with pierogies so they can all waddle around dahtahn like little earthbound Goodyear blimps.
You think the winter stinks here? We’re Cancun compared to Picksburgh. It used to be, the belch from the still mills kept their sky perpetually gray, and forced everyone who lived within 50 miles to clean their windows of soot several times an afternoon. Now, it’s just the climate. It’s as if the Big Weatherman in the Sky simply decided to keep the place in character once the mills shut dahn.
They have potholes in Picksburgh suitable for a family of four.
Deer run rampant in the semi-rural areas. If you havent had your rusting Ford wrecked by a buck, you’re not rilly from Picksburgh.
It snows in Awk-tober. A lawt.
Next time you come across Picksburgh-er waving his terrible tahl, get very smug and wish him gawdspeed. Then tell him it’s better here.
hitn the bottle again I see Kramer...
! Pretty sure I will have to get the duck tape out.:tape2:
