diary of a caveman

The hunters drove us from our watering hole again today. We gatherers have an agreement with the hunters to share goods equally, but more and more often our partnership appears to be tilting disproportionately in their favor. The hunters still demand from us the choicest berries, but the meats they offer in return seem to be of a quality that diminishes further with each passing trading day. Last time, the hunters tried halfheartedly to convince Grok that the lips and assholes of their slain beasts were some exquisite delicacy, knowing that if Grok offered even the slightest protest, their persuasive abilities could be bolstered quite effectively by simply brandishing their spears and clubs.    

A spear, of course, would be of little practical value in the hands of a gatherer, as we find ourselves in our undesirable station with plenty of justification (among our numbers can be found several failed hunters, who draw the harshest verbal barbs from their sneering former brethren each trading day). We would be even less useful with a club, as evidenced by our lack of success with the females who gather berries alongside us. I simply can’t bring myself to club one of my peers over the head, regardless of any perceived disparity of physical strength between us. Instead, my preferred method of seduction is to treat our tribe’s women with respect, listening to their anecdotes and doing them occasional favors of service, but this inevitably leads to their telling me that they don’t want to risk our great friendship by mating with me. Next thing I know, one of the hunters is dragging them off by the hair to begin a relationship characterized by its terribly imbalanced power dynamic, in which the male of the species is forever rearranging the terms to benefit his own needs at the female’s expense. If only these females could see that everything they’re looking for in a mate is tantalizingly close by, gathering berries practically under their noses in fact, I would have much more confidence in the future of our race, as I suspect that generations from now it will require brains as well as brawn to win the day in our ongoing battle to conquer our menacing environs.

Such is life for the gatherer, firmly entrenched here on the second tier of human evolution. From the time I wake and take my morning shower, in which I stand underneath a wooly mammoth as he sprays water onto me from his trunk, then invariably turns toward some unseen imagined audience and mutters, “it’s a living,”  I seem to be disrespected or slighted every step of the way. My only solace is my cave paintings, into which I have invested much of the little free time I can spare. The time spent honing my craft temporarily takes my mind off my loneliness, but increasingly often I find myself painting pictures of naked females, then staring at these crude renderings while I masturbate myself to sleep, rarely completing the task due to the dry, hardened callouses on my hand, which I fear are my only enduring keepsake of this unsatisfying career of foraging for scant nourishment through the unforgiving brambles.

Update 3/2/10: So, a mere ten days after I wrote diary of a caveman, the movie Year One arrived in my mailbox. And to my horror, I discovered a disturbing amount of overlap between the first 150 words of this piece and the first ten minutes of that movie. I still like what I’ve written here (the whole thing is basically just a delivery vehicle for the awesome Flintstones mammoth-shower joke anyway); it just goes to show that not only do great minds think alike, but mediocre minds as well. And yes, I do think my writing has at last improved to the point where it could believably be called mediocre.


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February 2010
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