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.
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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