In The Air & Candy Gore

Each slash of the knife, each thrust of the blade, sends great gouts of sweet red goo splattering across the floor, pouring down to fill the punch bowl below; celebrants clamber up on unsteady chairs, dirty shoes tearing at the paper tablecloth, to reach inside–

Eager hands press inside deeper than seems possible, tear at tender tissue, come out sticky-red and full of treats–individually wrapped candies and plastic toys, squishy organs making such silly noises as they deflate on the ground, the spurting mass of a sugary heart–

A dozen feet away, out of splatter distance, the band strikes up a jaunty tune; little voices rise in happiness, weaving into the music in dissonant unison.

Someone slips a gag into the pinata's mouth; how rude of it to try to disrupt the fun!