Secrets in Lace

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Lazy Modern Man descended from Homo Pigerus.


"Try not to drop the baby dear, I ain't going down for it." (Chris huh.)
 








Modern man is descended from what I have dubbed ‘Homo Pigerus.’
Not to be confused with Homo Suidae, the actual pig-men that do still live among us, but a literal translation of lazy in Latin, which is one of my favourite tongues.
A dead tongue but a good one, that’s what my friend always says. (She’s still looking for a man with scratch, by which, I take it, she means money…and good looking?)
Hah! Good luck with that one, Baby Girl.
(She’s checking the horoscope again and making like it’s her day.) But of course we were sitting around in tree-tops, unable to sleep at night, and all we had to do was look at frickin’ stars and wish for a better way of doing things…one that’s not quite so difficult…right?
Otherwise we would still be swinging from tree branches and picking lice off our social betters in the hopes of a quick snack and maybe a few humps from behind if we were in estrus…God, what a gnarly old tree that was.
But I digress, ladies, (and  gentlemen, too, ‘cause I know one or two of you read this blog in the rather forlorn hope of gaining some insight into the minds of women.)
Boy, you are S.O.L.
I’ll give you a little hint, boys: we’re like a man with a vagina, in other words about what you’d expect if you or your buddy had a you-know-what.
But let’s face it, its hard work and takes too much concentration to sit around in tree branches all day long. The food’s terrible, you can’t sleep at night and obviously there’s not much privacy. Sticking a big wad of moss in your crotch every twenty-eight days or so gets old pretty quickly, am I right, girls?
You ever had that feeling? You know, like the one where you’re just dropping off to sleep and then all of a sudden, holy crap, it’s like you’re going, and then “GAAAH!” and then you grab onto the edge of the bed, like that’s actually going to help or anything.
It’s that falling sensation. It’s like a half a frickin’ million years have gone by and we’re still scared of falling out of that frickin’ tree. And what’s with kids, eh? Show ‘em a frickin’ tree and the little bastards want to go climb it so they can enjoy the thrill of knowing that they might fall down and break their damned necks.
Seriously, I mean it, back then we said, shit, we’re better off roaming the great plains and trying to eat as much grass and twigs and roots and shrubs as we can, better to contend with the frickin’ lions and the Goddam crocodiles when all we want is a drink of water. And yeah, a half a million years later, we still have that irrational fear of being eaten. Right, ladies? You know what I’m talking about, or, or yeah, the one where we’re scared shitless a fricking mouse is going to run up our leg and crawl into our frickin’ pussy. That’s what we call an atavistic fear, if you’re the writing type, and I know I am. Still scared of snakes going up our legs, eh, ladies?
Holy, crap. What’s with them guys? Are they always like that?
But seriously, folks, those fears go back a long ways and we got to conquer them.
Yeah, man, like living in a tree: don’t drop the baby, although I admit there’s nothing like taking a good dump from the top of an acacia when a micro-bus full of frickin’ alien tourists show up on their way to the airport at what’s that place. Oh, yeah, the Plains of Nazca in frickin’ Peru.
That at least makes sense. They say that’s an old alien spaceport, you know, in which case, why not put it a little closer to town?
That’s what my friend says, and she’s usually got her own unique insights.

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