Every year, we gather around a large campfire the size of the moon. Absorbing the telekinetic energy waves from the fire, we are transported to the pale planet and party till the owls grow constipated with love. It's called the Festival on the Moon.

This year, there was no festival on the moon. I'm afraid the tradition will be broken forever, as the fire was stolen by Poseiden, son of Odysseus and goddess of the Seven Sultanic Samurais.

Only in a such a bitter state of finality do we truly appreciate the gentile customs of the past and cherish how one sudden event miraculously became an annual event to be practiced by all. And so, we mustn't ever forget Young Jung, who founded -- quite accidentally -- the Festival on the Moon.

No one knows when Young Jung was born, or whether he truly young. With the sacred artifacts of the Jeweled Phoenix, we can only ascertain one thing -- that Young Jung was born atop of Mount Olifirus. For those of you who flunked elementary school geography, Mount Olifirus is located beyond the tree of eternal height and betwixt the toes of time. It is a mountain as high as the sun, but as short as the moon. And, it is this very paradoxical whim that set Jung to befall the fate that he destined to befall.

You see, at some time between midnight and quarternight, everynight, a man with no beard climbs to the top of Mount Olifirus. He is a feared and wretched man with bones as thick as his skin and an axe as powerful as Captain America's bloody thighs. At the mountain's peak, he sacrifices three children to his ancestors. One child is for poverty, one for pride, and the last one for power.

On the night of the twenty five satellical eclipsii, the man with no beard brought Jung as the sacrificial child of pride. As a man of no pride and a chemical propensity towards saturnic ameobic bonds, Jung's body began to aggressively react to the high level of lead in the mountainous air of Olifirus. You see, as one born on the mountain, he naturally cannot survive on the mountain. And so, his arms began to wiggle madly like strands of seaweed in the Dead Sea. His legs began to bounce up and down like the belly of a giant laughing Reckirusous.

In a sudden fit of despondency and immediate termination, Young Jung's body and soul exploded into a giant fire. Mount Olifirus exploded in flames! It melted instantly, killing millions upon millions of protistas and innocent solicitors that made up its eco-system.



And so, the first campfire the size of the moon was witnessed by all. They came to witness this dramatic and powerful scene, only to be teletransported onto the moon, where a festival was taking place. The festival lasts for all but 20 minutes.

Afterwards, Mount Olifirus grows back to its daunting size. Trees, shrubs, and Coocarkuku flowers grow like the fine hairs on a baby wallyboo. But, each year, on the night of the dancing bellybutton, Mount Olifirus explodes again, and melts to the ground. All the local inhabitants come to see the daring sight and celebrate on the moon.

That, my angelic friends, is the Festival on the Moon -- a cherised tradition, which now, sadly, may be lost forever. Damn you o' merciless Posieden -- son of Odysseus and goddess of the Seven Sultanic Samurais! Damn you!

I don't remember Poseidon being the son of Odysseus...
» randomjunk on 2006-10-22 09:52:41

Me neither. :|

Although I do remember the Seven Sultanic Samurais. :O
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