Ah, Bill Bryson. He knows how to tickle the funny bone.

I drove on to Grand Teton National Park. And there’s another arresting name for you. Tetons means tits in French. That’s an interesting fact — a topographical tit-bit, so to speak — that Miss Mucous, my junior-high-school geography teacher, failed to share with us in eight grade. Why do they always keep the most interesting stuff from you in school? If I’d known in high school that Thomas Jefferson kept a black slave to help him deal with sexual tension or that Ulysses S. Grant was a hopeless drunk who couldn’t button his own fly without falling over, I would have shown a livelier interest in my lessons, I can assure you.

At any rate, the first French explorers who passed through northwestern Wyoming took one look at the mountains and said, “Zut alors! Hey, Jacques, clock those mountains. They look just like my wife’s tetons.” Isn’t it typical of the French to reduce everything to a level of sexual vulgarity? Thank goodness they didn’t discover the Grand Canyon, that’s all I can say. And the remarkable thing is that the Tetons look about as much like tits as… well, as a frying pan or a pair of hiking boots. In a word, they don’t look like tits at all, excpet perhaps to desperately lonely men who have been away from home for a very long time. They looked a little bit like tits to me.

—The Lost Continent: Travels in Small-Town America