Every year when Daylight Savings Time began they performed the Magic Chicken Dance that kept the plagues away, ensured a bountiful production of methamphetamine, and purified the trailer park in the foothills. Last year had been wonderful, the dance had been more splendid than ever. The oldest member of the tribe was no longer able to do it, what with being stiff, arthritic, toothless, given to tremors and convulsions, and quite staggeringly insane, but his adult son had taken over, demonstrating all he had learned from his thirty year old father.
And there had been festive foods! Corn dogs and jello!
Oh, it had been truly very, very wonderful!
The spirits smiled upon them.
A fertile year.
At least, that's how I think life is in California's more rural Republican counties. It might be a little different than that, but I'll never know, because I have no reason to go into the bush. The very few visitors we've had from there usually demonstrated unstable mental characteristics, and had not been able to communicate very well. Some of the chemicals used in manufacturing crystal meth interfere with brain functions.
But the Magic Chicken Dance is something that anthropologists will surely be fascinated and thrilled by, and I encourage them to go into the hinterlands to record the native rituals on film before they disappear. Just avoid getting eaten. Accidentally.
If you survive, there's a PHD thesis there.
Head inland till you hear banjos.
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