When the snows of winter dust the mountain's head like a case of terminal dandruff, that's where I'll be. I'll bring my sacks of wet origami and all my friends, and we'll hike up the mountain, scaring squirrels with small grisly puppets along the way, until we approach the tree line. And that's when the festival begins.
On the first day, the ritual altar to Geraldo Rivera is established at base camp. The frolicsome paramecia, too, are unleashed to wreak havoc on the fields. We divide into small groups, some to gently rub themselves with mustard, some to mumble the words to "Hey Jude", and some to polish the scuba gear in preparation for the next day.
On the second day, the small arms are distributed to the faithful, and a few scapegoats are selected to be tied to the statue of Anubis with ropes woven of discarded shoelaces. The tension builds throughout the day, as the slave workers dig the "Pit of Ecstasy" at an inhuman pace. At dusk, the hunters return, and the blood from their kills is poured into "Pit of Ecstasy". Those who have proven themselves the most skillful at the spitting competition don the sacred scuba gear and are flung into the "Pit of Ecstasy", where they writhe and wallow, ignored, until the next morning.
On the third day, while the hired mourners wail, the altar is torn down, and the caches of exotic condiments are buried for next year. All agree that it was a fine festival, and life is good.