Pinatas might be a traditional expression of Mexican culture. They might be a legacy of the Spanish invasion. They might the desacralized descendants of offerings to Aztec gods; they might a Catholic metaphor for the destruction of evil by good.

They might be made in government-sponsored pinata-making workshops. They might be “made from US materials, assembled in Mexico”.

They might be purchased in a busy Partycity on a Saturday afternoon, the fuss and bother of shoppers selecting candy for gender reveal parties and goody bags getting one well into a smashy-smashy mood which seems unfair to unleash on a harmless pile of tissue paper and cardboard.

Either way, there is no better metaphor for the ubiquity and persistence of entropy than the glitter pinatas often contain.