If We All Came Out of Africa

If we all came out of Africa eons ago wobbling on mushy, inadequate stumps and brains, and only starting to stand erect, which we did, (even the creamy colored doughboys who claim to be pure white, whatever the hell that is, or could be, on any spectrum, ever), then why don’t we learn it from the first time we crawl into the dirt and start to mix it up?  Crawl comes before walk or run, right?  You’ve got an empty vessel so why not begin filling it up in kindergarten?  It’s a pretty cool story if you ask me, way better than some geezer with a beard who huffs and puffs and blows, and way more fun than learning how to sit still and stand only when called upon to play ring-around-the-rosy?

How else to adjust your stance for sliders and curveballs, not to mention all the inside fastballs buzzing at your head, so you can have a decent chance to hit the ball hard?

There are some mean, nasty standards in education at work these days.  Start early, stay late,  work you little ass until it gets into gear.  Count, measure, divide, conquer.   Don’t talk back or turn around.  Better yet, don’t talk at all.  Stay put and wait for instructions.  Cogs are constantly needed in all sectors at all times.  Test for strength, but not flexibility.  Who cares where you came from.  We know where you’re going.

Talk about incest making you crazy and eating your own young.  All that hormonal breast meat and solid fat to swallow.  Talk about spitting out the tough gristle and bone.

Numbers decisively kicked the pansy ass of words long ago but they don’t seem to able to do much with the triumph of will better than forming one endless line and standing around with digits in pockets to gloat and grope.  Anyway, I’m not convinced that the softness quotient of an ass can really be measured. That’s not just the money doing the talking either.  Statistics tend to work most conveniently for those who have no idea what’s happening and are trying to keep it that way from a great distance and from deep inside a hole.

Doesn’t the obvious seem important as well as the useful?  What if I don’t want to be a cog and I don’t want to obtain a license to ride shotgun?

What if I want to keep access to what’s inside of me closed to strangers?  What if I feel as much a part of the race of puffy clouds as the race of overly burdened human scooters?  One thing I know how to do all on my own is avoid too much oil and fat.  Then don’t call me up so much on your stupid toy telephone, that’s what.  You don’t have to know what I’m doing until I want you to know.  Until I know.  Most of the time it’s no big fucking deal, not even to me.

Why ask why time after time only to regurgitate the same old shit that last worked best on a bunch of grubs who never crawled beyond the top of one little hill way out in the desert?

What’s that real funny joke about denial?  I don’t remember, but I’ll believe I’m not an animal, or you’re not an animal either, when either of us no longer eats, drinks, shits, or pisses, and continues to live to tell about it.

Now, I see that the strict, worldwide arbitrator of equally proportionate and temperate cool, the United Nations, has declared velvety cream sauce a world treasure.  What is that supposed to do, keep those raw fish gorging Japanese in their slippery place?  Best stick to white rice it would seem.  That’s some world you got there, Bang Ki Moon.   I guess I should bend over and enjoy.  May I have another, sir?  I’m not talking about eels, either.  Don’t get me started on parasites.

Did you know that psilocybin mushrooms grow best in slightly gushy cow shit?  I think if you can’t swallow a whole lot of truth at once, start small and work your way up slowly.  It might take a million years or so, but so what?  It’s not like it’s a race.  It’s not like you have anywhere else to go.  Keep it simple. Concentration is a key.

The universal need we all share to take a great shit should be a simple enough starting position.  It worked for many of the greats, Albert Einstein, Cleopatra, Ivan the Terrible, Mao, Kareem, Wilt Chamberlain, John Coltrane, so why not us?

There are clearly plenty of assholes all over, more than enough to go around.  It’s so easy to find one it’s no challenge.  That’s been true in Palo Alto, Potsdam, and Paris.  That’s been true forever.  That’s the kind of forever that means what it says, no beginning, no end, no stopping us now.

For those of you who glibly declare your truth stranger than your fiction I want to know how you can tell the difference without hardly trying.


About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
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