When the Gornūks fly and the smell of roasted Shmlengæn fills the air, everyone except you knows that it’s time again for the beloved Björkândet celebrations to start. The proud citizens of the European nation so well known for the festival have gathered in Düenkâlsheffen Square once again to light the Schrumdinküp flame and officially start the week of festivities.
“It’s the best time of year,” commented local Svën Cråitrūdo. “We’re all just happy to have this joyful season after the past few years’ hardships.”
Those hardships, of course, refer to the terrible events which everyone except for you is already aware of because they read the news and you don’t (you ignorant Lystokkåéîp). The nation’s people, whose demonym is so obvious I won’t now mention it, have struggled to come to terms with the pain wrought by that political figure whose name you sort of recognize but can’t actually recall who he/she/they is/are. Even so, their bright eyes show that the proud people still hold that same bravery of their legendary warrior King Guftenwęk Bjorkænefvsœn, who led them in the ancient battle of Kkjyjkbvntyqren’kv.
Everyone is, of course, looking forward to the final event of the celebrations, the iconic Walk of Thrûktátára%&nkmūncsh®ennok, which is easily pronounceable for any remotely culturally aware person, a group which – once again – does not include you, you mouth-breathing backwater bumpkin. Your lack of knowledge on these events betrays your disgraceful ethnocentrism; read the news once in a while, or the pernicious Gr#çülpr√ will eat your fingernails and plug your ears with his m̛̬̣͕̟̻a̼g̴͡҉̻̝͍͈͉ͅo҉͍̣g̢̟̤͖̗̝o̳͉͇r͕̳ko̡̬͇͈͢ wax.
