I need a milkshake

I hope Molly and dad don't mind but I wanted to share a detail from their last email about their trip out West. It's about a milkshake.  

Molly - ...the viscous sludge, manhandled into dimpled styrofoam cups by an obese woman who set about the business with such grim determination that I knew we were in for it… 

Dad- Sometimes a negative can be as significant as a positive.  The Marianas Trench in it’s way is as impressive as the Himalayas.  The malts referred to above were created in a small town of less than 500 in Eastern Wyoming on US 20 by three earnest and immense women.   The malt shop had been in operation for about 6 months and in that time they had not developed the foggiest notion of how to make a malted milk shake.  The mixing wand for the milkshake was in a closed 2’ by 2’ box with a plexiglass door, the like of which I have never seen.  The strongest of the three placed the milk shake cup in the shake making box so that the mixing wand was immersed in the liquid.  She closed the door and then wrapped her blacksmith arms around the entire contraption.  In wrestling parlance she had placed it in a bear hug, and as the machine spun the mixing wand, the woman shook the entire machine as if it was a vending machine that took money but refused to dispense.   The malt she produced by these machinations was biblical in its badness.  It was malted milkshake hell.  If the best malt shop can be equated to the Taj Mahal or the Alhambra, this one could certainly be equated to the reactor at Chernoble, and is no less noteworthy.  Take my advice, avoid milkshakes in Eastern Wyoming like the plague.