Eat the cry bulb!

Cry, cry, and foam from the mouth!
Your lazy ass let the leaves go dry!
Chomp it down, dirt and all!
A soft-cored surprise you may find inside!

— A chant of "encouragement" for the season's victim

By consequence of their peculiar demographic distribution, professions in the orderly Stunveldti society tend to have a strong subspecies bias. One that for the most part escapes this fate is farming, with equal shares of segmented and scaly in the profession, and a bit less representation of the coastal waterland silky.   The segmented farmers from the inner circle of the island committed to mischief in this regard by spreading and establishing a disgusting tradition... or delightful, depending on which side of the game you end up on: By mid summer, during the harvest season of the crying bulb and other pungent tubercles, farmers from each village will shout the yearly dare out loud, claiming that the farmer that harvests the last crying bulb of the season will have to publicly eat that last plant raw, in its entirety, and in one go.
Cries of "Dirt and all!" are heard among the younger as they peer each other's gardens and fields and rush to harvest their own.   The real heart of this event happens in the strip of land where segmented and scaly populations intermingle the most: The former have a natural tendency to enjoy raw, pungent vegetables, while most scalies find the idea disgusting. This is where, with extreme delight, the segmented will band together to invariably have the laziest scaly in town realise, too late, that their modest crop's leaves are wilting a bit later than everybody else's.   Chants and cruel traditional songs are sung, sometimes accompanied by instruments, as the loser mournfully yanks their prize from the earth. They test the consistency of their crop between their fingers. A cold sweat may break if the farmer finds the bulb to be squishy.   Tears dribble down as the rows of little pointy teeth tear the layers of the plant in a most disagreeable way, spraying its irritating juices in a nasty cloud. Occasionally, halfway through their ordeal, they will find the creamy white layers give way to a stinky brown core that sends the spectators into an excited uproar.   Sometimes, the victim will be on outhouse leave for a while afterwards. The next day someone may visit, carrying some delicious crying bulb soup they "happened" to make too much of. Good neighbours looking out for each other, you know.