Can't Be Explained, Can Only be Experienced!

Long ago a young bar keep wondered aloud about the origins of a long forgotten pastry oft served on a holiday from his erstwhile youth. Just then a stranger appeared from a purple mist and entered his tavern to hypnotic bass grooves and percolating guitars.

"I am in possession of the knowledge you seek" said the stranger. 

He then spun a tale as unbelievable as it was magical and bounteous of whimsy. He spoke of Longbrowner's and Pajooba's, of purple suits and twinkling purple lights. He spoke of friends, family, revelers of every walk of life from cities and ports the world around. He spoke of mystical guitar players from the shores of Lake Minnetonka and the intoxicating rhythms that they brought to the senses. He regaled the rooms inhabitants with this wondrous tale and insured them that such revelry was not out of their reach. 

"It takes only a full heart and a spirit of celebration to achieve the heights of such enchantment. If you believe truly in your oneness with your sistren and brethren, the happiness of the moment, and you dress yourself in gowns and garments of royal purple you will have achieved what it takes to jubilate in this tradition."

"What is this otherworldly day that you speak of stranger?" the young barkeep inquired.

"This day my friends," he said with a purple gleam in his eye, "is Flippington's Day."

With that the stranger floated towards the tavern door, purple glitter and fog wafted through the air behind him, and then as if in a dream he was gone. When in from a window open high in the rafters flew a falcon. He gazed upon the confused assemblage, winked and whispered, "Zanthon."