Setting: A sunny afternoon at a park bench in Portland, Oregon. Two friends, Mike and Raj, are eating sandwiches and sipping iced coffee.
Mike (pulls a small, worn rabbit’s foot from his keychain):
I tell ya, Raj, I don’t care what anyone says—this little guy works. I had it in my pocket when I got that promotion at work. Coincidence? I don’t think so.
Raj (grinning and shaking his head):
Mike, you got that promotion because you worked twelve-hour days for two months straight, not because of… a severed limb from a rodent.
Mike:
Rude. It’s a symbolic charm, not a severed limb. And it’s not just the promotion. Remember the time I found that $20 bill on the sidewalk right after rubbing this for luck?
Raj:
Yeah, and five minutes later, you stepped in dog poop. Did the rabbit foot take a break?
Mike (laughing):
Okay, okay. Maybe it was on lunch. But seriously, man, this stuff goes way back. My grandma used to swear by it. Said it had to be from the left hind foot of a rabbit caught in a cemetery during a full moon.
Raj (eyebrows raised):
That sounds more like an occult ritual than a lucky charm. You know what else goes way back? Bloodletting and leeches. Just because something’s old doesn’t make it wise.
Mike:
You always gotta bring science into this. Can’t you let me have my magic?
Raj (smiling):
I’m not trying to ruin the fun, man. I just think attributing your successes to a charm takes away from you. You’re smart, you’re capable. You make your own luck.
Mike (mockingly):
“Oh, Raj, I believe in logic and data. Let’s run a double-blind randomized trial on my rabbit foot’s effectiveness.” Come on, dude. Some things just feel true.
Raj:
But feelings aren’t facts. I mean, if you believed rubbing a pineapple before a test improved your score, and you happened to pass, would you start carrying pineapples around campus?
Mike (pauses):
…Maybe if they fit on a keychain.
Raj (laughs):
Touché.
Mike:
Okay, let me ask you this. Haven’t you ever had a weird little ritual? Knocked on wood? Avoided walking under a ladder?
Raj:
Sure, but I don’t believe in them. It’s more like a reflex—like whistling past a graveyard. Doesn’t mean I think ghosts are gonna grab my ankles.
Mike:
So you admit it—you have some superstition in you.
Raj:
Maybe a smidge. But I draw the line at thinking a rabbit’s foot controls my destiny.
Mike (sincerely):
I guess for me, it’s not about control. It’s comfort. Like… I know it’s not scientifically proven, but it gives me a boost. A little mental edge, you know?
Raj (nodding thoughtfully):
That part I get. If it helps your confidence, I won’t argue. But just promise me one thing?
Mike:
Name it.
Raj:
If a rabbit ever asks for its foot back, you give it up. No questions asked.
Mike (snorts):
Deal. But only if it comes during a full moon and speaks English.
Raj:
Then it’s probably a scientist in disguise, here to debunk your charm.
Mike:
In that case, I’ll rub the foot and ask for a raise.
[They both laugh, clink iced coffee cups, and keep chatting as the sun dips behind the trees.]
Science Vs Superstition 
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