(Or was it margarine?)
In the Andes, or perhaps the Himalayas, a mountain of butter rose up overnight. Some took it as evidence of divinity, others a thing of pure randomness. “But why butter?” they wondered, though not in English.
There were those who resolved to climb it, first thing, booking flights to converge from all over the planet. The locals weren’t so keen, worrying at what might happen were the butter mountain to start to melt. It was cold on top, sure enough, but the bottom… Well, that would surely melt when it got warm enough.
Others, with an eye for a quick buck, herded scores of pack animals up the narrow mountain passes, and loaded them up with large bricks cut from the butter mountain. A quick test and everyone who tasted knew. If it hadn’t come from heaven, it surely tasted like it did.
Within a fortnight, Reynaldo Glassioux, Hampton Stephens-Stevens, and Chuck Bix had summited. They slid down the last 60 feet to no ill effect. Almost overnight, the butter mountain became a massive tourist sensation.
At least, that is, until the mountain of chocolate appeared.