Welcome back to Nature: Stranger than Fiction. We now turn our camera to a rare sighting of a Hobart-based Boganson tribal ceremony. Shhhhhh. We must be as quiet as possible so as not to disturb them. They are known to be a rather self-conscious group, good at preening and glowering under view, so we must do our best to leave them the impression they are not being watched.
It seems the "female" of the group on the far left is undergoing a Power Transfer from the wee marsupial, held up as a symbol of Boganson prestige. This animal is cunning, sly and communicates from the buttocks as it emits a powerful yet scentless odour that renders its victims charmed and sugar-coated, all traits that will be transfered to the young chieftainette. This Boganson is clearly dressed for the occasion in tribal relicry and ornamentation: the over-large sunnies holding back the new Romanian tress extensions, the many gold bangles (surely a fertility gift from the one chosen to mate with her), and a little junior Boganson-Glucksborg talisman in her left ham whose dentifrice contains the potent holy grail of Boganson tribal magic. She squats into position as if to eliminate waste, however in her case, nothing in, nothing out. Yet it is this position that allows her own buttocks to send and receive messages. As her business end is only on the receiving end of messages and power from the animal-god, it is safely covered in granny panties so as not reveal anything thoughts to an intruder. Bum crack is only exposed when messages are being sent out, such as when the subject "spoke" to those downhill from her while walking away with the junior talisman, but not when receiving such as we see today. Clearly in this subject's case, gravidity allows for more clear communications, since there is more "junk in the trunk", as the father-donor's new pals would describe the speaker-device.
The Boganson filly's stylist, we have learned, has been temporarily sent to an undisclosed location without communication possibilities with the outside world until her client returns to Danish soil so as not to react to the exposed granny panties with more disgust and frustration, not bothering to comprehend the greater meaning behind the knicker reveal. In fact, D-list celebrities are the least immune to the wizardry our subject demonstrates here; even if located on the mainland, they keel over in delight at the falling stock of their "friends" as such sightings seem on the surface at least to increase their own negotiating power with the flirtatious but oft evil bitch known as celebrity. The Western world, and certainly in quarters concerned with "fashion" and "style", does not understand that there is no shame in high water undies, as is so clearly prized in Boganson tribal rituals. Outsiders rarely give pause to the idea that this is a deliberate and clever maneover, instead often using a sighting of elastic bands as an excuse to grab upward and scream "wedgie". This would be a very unwise move to make with a Boganson, and it is for this that our young heiress to the Skanknak-MacBoganderry clan is now surrounded by bodyguards.
Wait, what is this? Oh, my, how about that! The junior Boganson-Glucksborg has kicked the animal-god in the face! My goodness! What will this do to the transfer of power? How will the animal-god react? Oh, my! My! Did you see that, everyone? A quick squirt of urine toward Ms. Boganson is a defense mechanism designed to put interlopers back on notice as to just who is running things. Let that be a warning to you at home: those who cross the Boganson magic or put it into jeopardy will see a quick reckoning. Moral to the story: never get your granny panties in a twist! Or else, ay!