Mogey and Smush rode their Conestoga wagon across the land, over hill and dale, en route to what was supposedly a really fun polka festival. On occasion their route forced them to pass through a tunnel, but tunnels in those days were extremely dangerous. Collapses were common, and many of the older passages were held up only by chewing gum, duct tape, and cupcake wrappers.
Being the superstitious lad he was, Smush would reign the oxen in at every tunnel, coming to a halt just before the entrance. He would hop spryly from the wagon, spit on the ground, and then climb cheerfully back up into the driver's seat.
"I must ask you, Smush," Mogey said as his pal performed this ritual for the umpteenth time, "where did you learn such an odd tradition? Do you really think spitting will bring us luck?"
"I don't spit for luck," Smush replied. "I've just had this terrible taste in my mouth since we passed through Timbuktu. I think it might've been that anchovy and mustard turnover I ate."
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