Once upon a time, in the great land of Frog-leg-ville, known to you peasants as France, city head-honchos, or “mayors,” declared that the Macarena dance-off protests that swept the nation for bygone sevendays, were, indeed, practiced with questionable fervor.
You couldn’t make this stuff up even if you wanted to! Imagine all these fancy Frog-leg occupants thrusting their hips, flailing their arms, and shouting grievances, all while prompting the snoozing town criers (read: news sites) to reassess the definition of the word “protest.”
The alpha mayor, a mustache-waxing enthusiast and self-proclaimed soccer-hating anarchist, shook his fist skyward. “No more! Are baguettes not enough to satiate your grievances? Or perhaps, there are not enough varieties of cheese in Frog-leg-ville?” he exclaimed, demonstrating his acute understanding of stereotypical Frog-leg appetites. His heart throbbed at this newfound “extreme violence” as he popped another escargot in his mouth. Speaking of violence!
Over in Croissant-opolis, the grand duchess, known by her street name “Mademoiselle Roquefort,” chimed in with, “So they’re basically saying they’ve had enough wine and have resorted to dancing the Macarena – this is uncalled for!” She bewailed, her voice drowned under the familiar sounds of accordions battling it out in a nearby café.
Mademoiselle Roquefort was not expecting that her part of the kingdom would erupt in dance rebellion. Two left feet population had now become the biggest threat in the land of endless bread and never-ending wine.
Other big-wigs echoed this sentiment, their faces contorting into uncanny expressions of disbelief and mild indigestion, at the sight of the swaying masses of Macaren-ing marauders. Resistance was futile; the rhythm had taken over.
In conclusion, one could say that the Land of Love, Lights, and Loaf-Loads of Bread, had its cheesy heart stirred by an unusual form of protest – a rhythmic revolution, one that saw the tireless masses enacting the endlessly looped steps of the infamous dance, the Macarena.
Final thoughts, you ask? Well, the only advice is to let the rhythm move you and believe that even in the face of these cheesy crises like excessive Macarena dancing, the aroma of baking baguettes and the gentle lull of chansons will ultimately soothe the cacophony. Such is the peculiar pageantry of Frog-leg-ville!
