Once a year, the inhabitants of suburban New Jersey gather together in celebration of that most joyous of autumnal days: Homecoming. On drizzly fall afternoons, as birds warble and leaves float gently to the grass, in the distance the sound of revving engines and pumping subwoofers disturbs the bucolic atmosphere, announcing the arrival of the Homecomers.

A long caravan of every imaginable sport utility vehicle emerges, each equipped with infinite trunk space and a sturdy tailgate, for it is known that on this day no man shall be without these essentials.

The wagons purr to a stop and their brood spills out, busying themselves with tent poles and hammers. Within moments, a canvas city is erected and the day’s festivities can begin. In play, children scramble through mud while their parents spit-roast the heartiest of Oscar Meyers. It is reminiscent of a renaissance fair.

During this charming harvest festival, the people share all manner of delicacies painfully acquired through a season’s toil. The revelers usher in the colder months, enjoying the last of their summer bounty before winter’s frost makes Cheetos and Miller Lite scarce.

Yes, the onlookers eagerly stuff themselves with meat and mead in anticipation of the day’s sporting events. A pastime whose spectators can gorge themselves while watching others exercise is a great pastime indeed.

The day’s climax manifests in the crowning of the Homecoming king and queen, figureheads of fruitful farming. Both are perfect physical specimens, the best the human race has to offer, and were selected using the same process as prizewinning pumpkins. The attendees feel secure knowing the fate of the human race is saved with the pairing of these two thoroughbreds.

As the day winds down, the steel caravans head back to their homesteads. They leave in their wake muddy lawns, a plethora of refuse, and happy memories of living the American Dream.