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Hug your perodactyls


We are tribal beasts. Picking sides is inherent in our DNA. This began when caveman realized it was much safer to sleep with another caveman than say a pterodactyl. Nothing against pterodactyls, to each his own, but forget to pay the electric bill and I hear they would hold quite the grudge. Thankfully, we had a major climate event, precipitated by a massive meteor shower. Debris blocked out the sun, and all hell froze over. Those who had saved for the future were majorly pissed. All those pelts collecting interest and for what? For this? Thanks, Obama. But alas, a few survived. A few good cavemen, that is. The dinosaurs died, which is just as well. I’ve seen Jurassic Park. It was gonna be us or them fueling vehicles with the oily remains of the other, and besides, imagine the headache Mr. Ford would have endured engineering the Model T for dinosaurs, of all people. About the climate change, the democrats said, “I told you so,” and the republicans immediately blocked out their sun, and did so with stones. To prevent another event, a bipartisan counsel of caveman thought it best to offer sacrifices to the Gods. First they offered virgins, and then the Kardashians. The Gods were intrigued, but also disgusted with themselves. Prophets came along to tell us so much, and whether we believed them or not we decided it was best for all involved to go ahead and kill them. Soon enough, caveman evolved into people, and people into poets. No longer were bathroom walls utilitarian, but sounding boards of inspiration. Kilroy was everywhere, thick as thieves with the shithouse poet – remember the classic: here I sit all broken hearted? They don’t write shit like that anymore. Nowadays, it’s all crap. Somewhere in time we decided that worshipping several Gods was a major pain in the checkbook, and so we sent Them to the Cayman Islands where Jeff Probst hosted the very first Survivor television game show. Reality T.V. was born, alliances and betrayals until only one God took home the million-dollar prize. When that was all spent, blown on God knows what, God went ahead and wrote the all-time best seller, and more or less retired on the royalties. He washed his hands of us, and said, “God helps those who help themselves, now bug off.” We modeled corporate America in this fashion, finding it best to be screwed over by one Supreme Being than by several, just like in prison. And then the three little piggy’s came along, and took capitalism to the next level. Why should the fattest, laziest pig enjoy the fruits of the mere fat and lazy pigs? You want shelter; build a proper shelter. The Big Bad Wolf invoked the judicial branch of our governance, for we could no longer tolerate the savage beasts huffing and puffing and blowing down homes. Seriously, who does that? This inspired insurance companies, which inspired commodities trading, which inspired Wall Street. Everything was for sale, and marketing firms, inspired by Paris Hilton, realized over time that fear got top dollar. Fear sells mints and condoms and the things that condoms cover, politicians. Fear entertains; we peons are little more than gladiators in the coliseum dicing each other up for the king. Well, some of us are gladiators. Others are roosters in a cockfight, or snails in a snail fight. Either way, we wear the color liberal, or we wear the color conservative. We are yin; and they are yang. We fear those who aren’t us. We invent new and interesting ways to kill ourselves, and defend these ways and attack these ways with feelings and statistics. We kill for these ways. People die for these ways. Sadly, we hold fast to these ways, as these ways defend the very hatred that necessitates these ways.
Alas, here we sit, all broken hearted.
Hug your pterodactyls; the meteor showers are coming.