Cingular Wireless versus the Greatest Realist Novel of All Time

So, there have always been signs that the environment of Missouri is hostile to me and mine. That large tree that fell without warning on a perfectly windless sunny day at just the right moment to smash up the passenger side of Pete's car as he drove beneath, for example. But now I've realized the specificity of this hostility. The air of Missouri literally hates Victorian novels. To wit, the following cellphone exchange:
Pete: So, what'd you do today?
Zil: Well, I took the kids to the doctor. [Long complaining ensues.] And then I worked on my personal statement.
Pete: For what?
Zil: You know, that summer seminar on Middlemarch? [Zil's phone suddenly turns off. Pete calls back.]
Pete: What was that about?
Zil: I don't know. Anyway, what's hard about this statement on Middlemarch... [Click. Pete calls back.]
Zil: I hate this phone. What was I talking about? Oh, Middlemarch. [Click. Pete calls back.]
Pete: Don't say that word anymore!
Zil: Are you kidding me? I can't say...
Pete: I'm serious, don't say it!
Zil: This is so ridiculous. All right. Let's talk about baseball. [Conversation continues for another 20 minutes without incident.]

What's crazy is, I've actually condensed this exchange and cut down the number of times my phone hung up when Pete or I said the word "Middlemarch." So tell me, Missouri, why do you hate George Eliot?

Last night's read-alouds: James Marshall's Hansel and Gretel, The Hello Goodbye Window, The Amazing Bone, Animals Should Definitely Not Wear Clothing, Goodnight Owl, Have you Seen My Cat?

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