The Bukans are a pious people, and this meal, like every other, begins with a blessing. Here, the town shaman gives thanks to the severed heads of the furries who died that day in the great circle of life.
The hides are gathered and tanned for later use, while the heads are kept for luck charms and the bones serve as building material. With no bleeding heart liberal concern for morbidity, the Bukans are as practical as nature demands.
One special furry is cooked with the skin still intact. The hide will keep the juices from draining out during the process, allowing the limited luxury of tender, juicy meat. Such extravagantly prepared meat is the great delicacy of Buka. Normally, the waste of such a process precludes its use.
Luckily, the giant furries will provide the Bukans with an almost interminable supply of hide. For once, they can afford to be wasteful in the name of delicacy. In a few short years, they will be morbidly obese and littering all over the place. Then, they will finally be civilized.
As darkness gathers over Buka, the tribe, with full bellies for the first time in many moons, begins to stir with a primal urge to shake the night.
Yes, there are precious few things in this world as pure and beautiful as the Bukan tribe in the midst of a traditional dance.
It is a little known fact that Bukans are natural-born disc jockeys.
The shaman has unearthed a holy relic from the tribe's sacred chest. This mystical dancing surface may only be danced on once every generation, but tonight, the heroic deeds of Dikeledi and the great warrior Bukans warranted such treatment.
And like his father, and his father's father before him, Dikeledi shook in ecstasy as he danced an ancient dance until the first rays of dawn's morning light.
So ends our chapter of this eternal story. It is a beautiful tale, one that bespeaks the primal power of man's relationship with nature. It is only fitting that this tribute be enshrined forever in video as well.
Good night, my friends, and always remember the brave Bushmen of Buka. But if you'll excuse me, I have some fish to kill.
Sometimes I dream that I'm sitting in the back of the defunct Weinermobile as it careens driverless down the highway. At first I thought this was symbolic of the powerlessness I feel in life, but then I realized it's actually the Weinermobile's dream of being able to drive again.
Three years ago, when we were burying my uncle, Cleaver and some gross lady dog (Solstice???) showed up at the cemetery and starting going at it really loudly. It ruined everything and we had to have a "re-do" the next day and it cost a fortune. I've hated him ever since for that.
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