I was riding home last night and saw a strange sight.  A woman was mowing her lawn on a Z-Turn mower.  At the woman’s feet, sitting cross-legged, was the woman’s daughter- I’d say the girl was nine-ish.  Did I mention the woman was mowing on a hillside?  I thought about stopping and giving the woman a lesson in logic.  Clearly, she does not understand the relationship between mower blades and the limbs of children.  However, I drove on.  I was hungry and I am sure the logic would not have been appreciated.

This episode did get me thinking about the history of man.  When you think about it, our existence is extraordinary.  For most of human history we were not only stupid enough to risk chopping off our daughter’s hands (or the prehistoric equivalent of said act), we were also woefully ignorant of all the dangers surrounding us.  To whit:

Caveman A (we will call him George) picks up a dead animal.  He sniffs it and notices it is only slightly rank.  Before anyone can stop him, George gobbles up the dead animal.

Caveman B (we will call him Todd) looks at George in alarm.  “George, dead animals are possessed of a bad spirit.  You will surely die.”

George waves Todd off.  “Quit being such a worry wart.  I’ve done this dozens of times.”  He rubs his hands over his stomach.  “Good eatin’.”

In this scenario, George does not get sick and die.  Instead, he teaches everyone in the clan that eating rancid meat is fine.  He also sows the first seeds of doubt about religion.

Two years later, George and the clan eat a dead mammoth that they have found.  It smells a little bad and it has a few flies, but what the hell.  A week later, three quarters of the clan has died of botulism.  George, who is one of the lucky survivors, has a religious epiphany.  He whips himself with a willow branch to show his fealty to the gods.  Three weeks later he succumbs to sepsis, brought on by the festering wounds on his back.  The remainder of the clan interprets George’s demise as punishment from these same gods for teaching the clan to eat rancid meat.

In the next scenario, Prehistoric Man J (we shall call him Woody) wants to cross the river that is swollen from the flood.  Woody thinks there might be more game on the other side.  He is also looking for a new woman.  His last woman died in childbirth at the age of 14.  That made three in a row.

Prehistoric Man T (we will call him Todd 2) thinks the river crossing is utter foolishness.  “Woody, just wait a week or so and the river will not be so high.”

Woody is undeterred.  He is also in a breeding mood.  “Screw that.  I can make it.”  And he does.  The rest of the clan follows his lead.  One child almost is lost in the river, but is saved by an act of heroism that will become an oral tale for the ages.  Todd 2 stubbornly refuses to cross.  Todd’s balls were long ago crushed in a rock-throwing incident gone wrong, so he feels no compunction to chase women.

The clan crosses the river and finds a world of plenty.  They also find another clan.  This clan is warlike and has overwhelming numbers.  The second clan kills all the males in the first clan, including Woody, and enslaves all the women.  Unfortunately for the second clan, one of the women in the first clan is carrying syphilis.  Over the course of the next eighteen months, all but one of the adults in clan 2 dies from venereal disease.  The children who remain die of starvation during the winter.  The one remaining adult lives by cannibalizing the bodies of the dead children (cannibalism again?!) until she dies of botulism brought on by the warm temperatures of spring.

Back on the other side of the river, Todd 2 survives until he is 87 years old.  Todd 2 is clever and intelligent and appropriately cautious.  But, due to the ball crushing of his youth, Todd 2 is unable to breed and pass along these desirable genes.  In his old age, Todd 2 develops writing and draws up elaborate plans for the wheel, fire, and a water sanitation system.

Ten years after Todd 2’s death, another clan comes across his writings.  Unable to make heads nor tails of Todd 2’s instructions, the clan uses the found scrolls as crude toilet paper.

One man in the clan abrades his rectum terribly.  He had contracted dysentery from drinking tainted water.  He dies a horrible death a month later, but not before impregnating several teenage girls in the clan.  Twenty five thousand years later, a descendant of Abraded Rectum Man starts her mower and motions to her daughter.

“Wanna ride?” she asks.

It’s raining.  Again.  Oh, no.  Anyway, we have had a lot of rain lately.  On a fundamental level, rain is a good thing.  Without water all biological activity would cease.  That would be bad.  The earth would not quit turning, however.  Cruel world and all that.

For those of you for whom religion is a thing, there is a biblical story concerning some serious rain.  Forty days and forty nights straight.  Flooded the whole damn planet- or so the story goes.  Of course, these are the same people who said that snakes and donkeys can talk, so take the flood story with a grain of salt.  Perhaps a grain chipped off from Lot’s wife.  That’s what she gets for not listening to her husband.  Take heed, women.  Obey your man.  Just like Tammy Wynette.  She was a famous Christian woman.

Tall tales aside, it could actually rain for several weeks on end.  I know that it hasn’t really ever happened in recorded history (at least in this locale).  But it theoretically could happen.  I saw Waterworld.  And we all know how much life imitates art.

For example, there are Jawas everywhere around here.  Those little bastards hate the rain.  You would think they would move to Arizona or some place like that.  We ought to build a wall.  It would only need to be about four feet high or so.  And C3PO could stand behind the wall taunting them.

“Your odds of getting over this wall are 13,282 to 1.”

Speaking of Waterworld, it is a far underrated movie.  It isn’t any more hokey that Dances with Wolves or Field of Dreams.   Plus, Dennis Hopper is in it.  I was in a college class once where my professor showed Blue Velvet.  It is a very disturbing movie for rural, Christian girls to watch, I will tell you that.  I will never forget their faces when Dennis Hopper goes full on sex pervert.  That is the problem with higher education these days.  Dennis Hopper.

A flooded world wouldn’t be that bad.  We could all float around eating ducks and growing plants on our rafts.  If you didn’t like someone, you could just put some floaties on their arms and give them a little push with the Pole of Justice.  Voted off the island, if you will.  Someone would probably pick them up.  If nothing else, they would be good to eat.  Post-apocalyptic worlds are rife with cannibalism.  (I know, everything always goes back to cannibalism.  Maybe I don’t have enough iron in my diet.  Who knows?  I’m not a doctor.)

I wonder if there would be any cats in a flooded world.  Most of them hate water, you know.  Perhaps there would be a mass cat suicide.  I’m not sure how cats would accomplish this, but where there is a will, there is a way.  Feline innovation is, like Waterworld, also underrated.

Did you know that Dennis Hopper is still alive?  I wouldn’t have figured that.  He doesn’t seem like somebody who would live a long time.  Then again, Keith Richards continues to defy the odds.  Maybe both of them took some sort of experimental preservation drug in the late 60’s.  Now, they are IMMORTAL.

Here’s a postapocalyptic world that will make you shudder.  Only Dennis Hopper and Keith Richards are left.  But there can by only one.  So, they are massing their cockroach armies in a final battle for supremacy.  The winner gets all the cockroach concubines he wants.

If you think Keith Richards buggering a cockroach is a disturbing image, watch Blue Velvet.  I’m telling you, Dennis Hopper is pretty convincing.  And not in a good way.

The guy from Dune is in the movie Blue Velvet as well.  Yes, the main character who passes the witch test and kills Sting in the end.  “I will kill him!” says Sting’s character.

But then he doesn’t.  Spoiler alert- one sentence too late.

On a sidenote, are those big worms in Dune some sort of Phallic symbol?  Like if a man can control his penis, then he can rule the universe?

At least he can use his voice to blow things up.  That would be useful.

Sting used to be an English teacher named Gordon.  He probably got fired for showing Dennis Hopper movies.

My stepson was talking to Suri the other day.  He always talks to Suri.  Suri is the one with all the answers.

“Suri, do the Warriors play basketball tonight?”

“The Warriors play at seven pm central tonight, Savage Weiner.”

My stepson said something else.  Apparently, it was a garbled message.

“I do not know what you are saying, Savage Weiner.”

At this point, my wife intervened.  She asked my stepson why Suri was calling him Savage Weiner.  After a bit of dissembling, my stepson admitted setting up his account to be addressed in this manner.

“For whatever for, dear heart?” my wife asked.  Or something to that effect.

He had no good reason.  Little boys rarely do in such instances, particularly when their mother is involved.  Eventually, he blamed the whole thing on his older brother’s friend, Leo.  Apparently Leo calls himself Savage Weiner and my stepson thought he should follow suit.  Damn you, Leo, for corrupting your friend’s younger sibling.

Of course, we lectured my stepson on why he shouldn’t have Suri calling him Savage Weiner.  My wife used words like appropriate and class and told him that he might very well lose his phone if he didn’t quit having Suri call him Savage Weiner.  Eventually, my stepson agreed that he shouldn’t have Suri call him Savage Weiner.

Two days later I was reading a book.  I heard my stepson talking.

“How much degrees is it outside right now?” he asked.

“I’m not sure what you are asking, Ballsack24.”

“What’s the temperature right now?”  I smiled.  I have repeatedly told him that he should ask about the temperature and not degrees.  It is so rewarding when a child listens to what you tell him.

“The temperature is fifty eight degress, Ballsack24.”

Needless to say, Suri is not calling anyone Ballsack24 in our household these days.  But it got me to thinking about possible alternate identities (as expressed by Suri).

“How do you spell Syria?” asks Donald Trump.

“Are you effing kidding me, Smallhandspussygrabber?”

Perhaps Scott Walker wants to know something.  “Suri, how do you spell Syria?”

“That’s the same stupid question Smallhandspussygrabber asked, Goggleeyed Homunuculus.”

“Where is the nearest donut shop?” queries Rush Limbaugh.

“You don’t need another donut, Fatassballlicker17.  Try a walk.”

Just to be fair and balanced, perhaps Bill and Hillary are having an argument.  It seems that Bill thinks that the best way to get to Little Rock is on little used highway 47 while Hillary prefers an alternate route.

“Suri, what is the fastest route to Little Rock, Arkansas?” drawls Bill.

“Highway 47 all the way, Wetcigar 69.”

“I think you are mistaken, Suri,” Hillary replies.

“Screw you, bitch.”

As you can see, the possibilities for electronic alter egos are endless.  MuffetsOrangeisKingofttheWorld 12, signing off for now.

Talking to you, Stevewearswomensunderwear 93.

 

 

I am a monkey.  At least, I dreamed I was a monkey.  How fun that was.  I swooped from tree limb to tree limb without a care in the world.  Well, leopards.  They are a care of monkeys.  Of course, there were no leopards in my dreams.  My dreams seldom have any problems.  Except the dreams where I am falling to my death.  But monkeys never fall.  Ergo, no problems.

When I was a kid, I used to have nightmares all the time.  Sometimes giants were coming after me.  Sometimes it was vampires.  Occasionally, it was some sort of boogey man type creature.  This was before my monkey days, so I always had to run from these monsters.  Invariably, my legs wouldn’t work.  I’m sure there is probably some sort of Freudian explanation for all of this.  EEEE EEEEE EEEEEEE.  But I am a monkey who eschews Freudian explanation.  I throw my own feces around for fun.  EEEE EEEEEE EEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

I only know one letter of your Arabic alphabet.  We speak monkey around here.

But what kind of monkey am I, you ask?  Stupid question.  I am a macaque.  Macaques are the only monkey who live in a northern climate.  Actually, there may be others, but I am too lazy to Google monkey facts.  I am also a monkey and not interested in your stupid Googling.  Feces throwing, that is my game.  Throw enough feces against the wall and some of it sticks.

That is monkey existentialism.  It doesn’t have to mean anything.  Don’t you have a damn wall to build or some people to bomb?  Nobody ever got hurt flinging shit.

The good thing about monkeyness is that your existence is simple.  There is no Suri.  Suri is a concept beyond the mind of a monkey.  Just because I can hear my stepson asking Suri a bunch of damn questions he could silently look up himself, does not mean I can comprehend a disembodied voice.  Besides, do you know where Suri is?

She is everywhere.  Except you cannot see her.

Suri is a digital Bigfoot.  Speaking of Bigfoot, I wonder how one would taste.  Perhaps a bit gamy.  But maybe I am selling them short.  I hear dog is not as bad as you’d think.

I just remembered another care of monkeys.  People often eat them.  But not this monkey.  I live in a virtual world.  Like Jesus or the Silver Surfer.  If either of them flung feces.  Come to think of it, Jesus kind of looked like a darker Bobby Sands.  (A little IRA joke there.  You don’t hear those every day.  Terrorism is not a joking matter.)

The Unabomber, Osama Bin Laden and Timothy McViegh go into a bar.  See?  It already sucks.  Plus, it makes no sense.  The Unabomber and McViegh hated people.  And Muslims don’t drink.  Of course, sometimes jokes are ironic.

Monkeys don’t get irony.  That’s iron-EEEE-EEEE to us monkeys.

I wonder if there is a macaque somewhere taking a nap right now and dreaming that he is the MO.  That would be extra freaky.  But would he really even know he was dreaming?  Hard to say.  Scientists are split concerning the notion of consciousness in monkeys.  You would think there would be a test.

Pass this test and you are self aware.  Fail, well…. it wouldn’t really matter.  Back to shit throwing.  It would be terrible to be a monkey with tennis elbow.  Just watching other monkeys slinging the old poop.  Sad monkey.  Very sad.

Perhaps I will be a monkey again tonight.

FSM willing.  Unless the FSM is only a figment of my imagination.

I wonder how the FSM would taste?  Like Italian, I suppose.

This is purely speculation at this point.  Nobody can say for sure whether the FSM is real or not.

Metaphysics is pretty much asinine.  I could be the Jackson Pollock of Wisconsin macaques.  I just need to be discovered.  In my dream.  Perhaps by the team from Inception.

I’m a monkey inside of a MO, inside a macaque, inside a MO again, inside a FSM, firing bolus’ against a dream wall.  That top will never quit spinning.

The top is you.  Or the shit is you.  Hard to say at this point.

You know, in some alternative universe this blog post is never over.  It is eternal.