Hey, gang, look what it is! That's right, it's St. Simparootieville's Day! That merry day, only once a year, on which we remember St. Simparootieville's heroic deeds in behalf of his war-tour fatherland, Angria. What would the good people of Angria have done in 1537 with all those cheese sandwiches if it hadn't been for the quick thinking of St. Simparootieville!
And so, although so far removed in time and place, every last bobbin in our great, sewing-ma-chine-like society makes St. Simparootieville's birthday a time of general rejoicing. Little bits of tissue and cardboard are handed over to the central government only to be redistributed to other people. Little bits of meat ball are flung in the air at precisely 11 a.m. There is universal singing.
Happiest of all the myriad little artisans and dye-makers. Arms akimbo they stand in the doorways of their workshops and beckon to passersby to come and see their baubles and goodies, all done up for the occasion in shades of khaki. For khaki was the favorite color of St. Simparootieville, and in his honor the maidens swathe themselves in khaki wool, corduroy, and taffeta.
Drink up! Sing songs! Shake hands! Everything is barrel-vaulted on St. Simparootievilles' Day!
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