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Thag not want get tattoo!

By on July 13, 2009 in Odd Science, Skwibby fiction, Thag

image of thag shouting at pain of tattooThag was the leader of the main hunting party, of that there was no doubt.

This wasn’t entirely due to his acumen as a hunter. Part of it was because his predecessors had been idiots and extreme risk takers. Under Thag’s leadership, the hunters of the Thunka Grunka clan would have continuing success, but there was a problem.

For once, it wasn’t because of the f*&king shaman –Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother– and his continuing quest to bed Thag’s mate, Onga. No, it was a more invidious problem, to whit, the tattoo craze sweeping through the clan.

All the youngsters had picked up the habit at the yearly Great Gathering, held just a moon ago. At first, Thag had hoped it would die off, but it was becoming a thing. All the young hunters were painting pictures of the animals they had killed — not on the cave walls, as Thag was fond of doing — but on their own bodies, using bone needles to put the ink beneath their skin.

It was painful, but popular.

And if Thag didn’t get one soon, he was going to lose the respect of the younger hunters, who all had at least one by now.

So he’d decided on a cave bear. Just a little one, on the left bicep. It still hurt almost as much the time he got kicked by the giant deer. (He hadn’t been able to sit for weeks.)

The only consolation? Onga thought the tat was kind of sexy. And Weasel Brother absolutely refused to have anyone touch his skin with the tattoo needle. He said it was blasphemy, but Thag knew the truth — he was just too old to try new things.

Inspired by:
Monkeyluv: And other lessons on our lives as animals, by Robert Sapolsky. Photo by loufi. Originally published 2005.

Other tattooed hominids exist today.

Thag not like cut his toenails!

By on July 10, 2009 in But is it art?, Hinky History, Skwibby fiction, Thag

aurochOnga was always asking him to cut his toenails, and it made Thag crazy.

If he cut them too close, then he had nothing to protect the end of his toes. Good nails were especially important when you jumped on the back of an auroch during a hunt. If you didn’t have long enough nails, you might not be able to hold on.

Then again, he had to admit it was not auroch hunting season.

She could get really insistent, making veiled references to how well-groomed Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother’s toenails were. (The shaman was always trying to one-up Thag in any way he could.)

In fact, it was the shaman’s adroitness with cave art that got Thag started on it.

He couldn’t help it that all he could draw well were aurochs — which were an important religious symbol, of course, and the representation of which got under Weasel’s skin — and toenails.

Actually, it had taken him a while to perfect the representation of toenails, but eventually he got it down, and filled an entire cave with them (and aurochs).

“What?” he asked Onga. “I cut them off; I can’t paint them either?”

Modern long-nailed auroch-lovers exist too.

More about the discovery of Lascaux cave paintings. Originally published in 2005.

Thag want be millionaire!

By on July 9, 2009 in Odd Science, Skwibby fiction, Thag

Grunk's career had been cut short by the business end of a woolly rhinoIt had been an unlucky hunting season.

First of all, their big man, Grunk, got himself gored by a woolly rhinoceros in the first week of the expedition.

Grunk — always the big swinging dick that Grunk — had tried to stab it in the eye instead of dodging to the side. Still, if he’d been successful, that would have been sweet. They could have ended the trip right there. The jackpot. Instead they had to chase the rhino until Grunk’s massive bulk finally fell off the horn.

After Grunk’s wipe out, morale was low. Their youngest and cockiest hunter, Mrog, made the somewhat risky decision to prove to the others that the Thunka Grunka clan still had the moxy to take down any prey they wanted. Including cave lions.

Yep, Mrog had been an idiot. It was probably best that he hadn’t had a chance to mate before he became cat food.

That just left Thag as the only other hunter with an ounce of creativity or ambition. After all, if they came back to the Grunka village without a shitload of meat, his mate Onga would be sharing slappies with that bastard shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother the next time he went out hunting for sure. Especially since their last fight and the total failure of the shalli whacker.

So when they saw it, Thag knew they just had to take it down. It was the fabled unicorn — basically a tall woolly rhino with twice the speed, and twice the horn.

Remembering Grunk, the other hunters were keen to just let it go on its way, but Thag said no, they should risk it, but no hot-dogging. They would work as a team.

Later, Thag would remember that as the defining moment of his life, and always told the youngsters to take risks, but calculated risks.

It didn’t solve the problem with Onga though.

Inspired by:
Elasmotherium | Too scared to be a millionaire?. Originally published in 2005.

Now all our horny creatures are on the web.

Thag brain not hear, honey

By on July 7, 2009 in Odd Science, Skwibby fiction, Thag

Sideview of Thag's brain, on task“Thag, don’t forget to bring home that chunk of mammoth meat you left to hang in the forest.”

No response from Thag, who is knapping flint with his whacker. He is making more flint arrowheads to replace all of those he lost on the last hunt.

“Thag?”

Thag is absorbed by his work, and does not respond to his fetching mate, Onga, despite her proximity, and his deep love for her. He is not ignoring her, his brain is simply not hearing her.

“Thag!”

The whacker slips and several hours of work are wasted as Onga’s frustrated shout breaks through his concentration.

“What?”

“The meat.”

Thag gives Onga a blank look. “I was reminding you not to forget the mammoth meat you left in the forest. We need it for tonight.”

Thag grunted.

“You know, Weasel-Scratch-Face Brother listens to me.”

“Weasel-Face is a woman,” Thag rumbles. The Shaman was always sniffing after Onga.

“And you are a jerk!”

Onga storms off, and once again, Thag is in trouble. (Though his brain cannot tell him exactly why. It might have something to do with meat.)

Other wiring problems here.
Essential Difference here. Originally published 2005.

Thag make sex toy!

By on July 6, 2009 in Hinky History, Odd Science, Skwibby fiction, Thag

That invents the first sex toyThag was preparing himself for a long hunting trip.

He’d already sharpened his fire-hardened spear, and collected fresh grasses for insulating his clothes and moccasins. The last thing he needed to do was cut himself a fresh set of knives for skinning the many mammoth that he would no doubt catch. (Well, him and the other guys.)

But he was worried. As he knapped a piece of shalli — the name they gave to their local flint — slowly breaking off flakes to create a sharp knife, he thought about the problem.

He’d seen the way that his mate, Onga, had been eyeballing the shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face Brother.

He wasn’t supposed to think of Onga as his, per se, but there was just something so creepy about Weasel. The thought of Onga doing it with the gimpy medicine man made him itch with annoyance.

“Shit,” he said as he broke his skinning knife in two.

He looked at the siltstone he’d been using to knap the knife. It was long, tubular, polished smooth. He took the shard of knife and etched a ring around the top of it.

Yes, that looked about right. He would give it to Onga as a Parting Gift. Perhaps that would keep her distracted enough to forget the dubious pleasures of Weasel-Scratch-Face Brother.

And if it didn’t work out, it would still be a tremendous shalli whacker.

The archaeological evidence: ancient phallus unearthed in cave. You may also enjoy the primitive humor-knapping of these folks. The next chapter in the Thag Saga.

Originally published in 2005.

Thag grok free will!

By on August 7, 2008 in Odd Science, Thag

Thag grok free will!The journey back to the Thunka Grunkas had been a long and difficult one, but Thag had finally returned from his sabbatical with the Drunka Grunkas, learning how to make beer.

Along with this new technology, Thag also returned with the willowy and beautiful Twigla, his new mate.

Naturally, Thag had been somewhat concerned with how his old mate, Onga, was going to take this news. But he needn’t have worried. She had already moved on, mating with one of the most ancient Elders, Methusalag. This was a mating of convenience, really. Methusalag needed someone to take care of him in his dotage, and Onga was still making grunties with the Shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother.

So at first, all was well. He and Twigla settled in quickly — Thag returned to his post as leader of the hunters, and at the same time, started his first batch of beer. Twigla quickly befriended the luscious Vonga, and her mate, Fonzag, who had become a decent hunter; Thag thought he could someday lead the others when he was too old. With Thag leading the hunters and providing beer, the tribe prospered.

But in his absence, the Shaman had solidified his hold on the tribe’s religious development.

“It is the will of the gods that Thag has returned to the Thunka Grunkas, and their divine wisdom makes him brew us beer. They lead him to the mammoth,” Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother told the assembled tribe the night when everyone enjoyed the first batch of Thag’s beer.

“What?” Thag asked.

“It is not your own will, but that of the gods, that brings these good things to us.”

“You not want me go to Drunka tribe. Thag convince Elders.”

“This too was the will of the gods.”

“Where be gods?”

“All around us, Thag. Do you not see their work when the wind blows, when the rain falls? This too is their will.”

“Thag see wind. Rain. Grok no gods.”

Thag had enjoyed perhaps too many bowls of his first brew, and was feeling less inhibited than normal.

Fonzag who had also had quite a few: “Aaay! Let’s be cool.”

“What mean?” Thag asked.

“Not sure, but he is the Shaman,” Fonzag said.

“You should listen to your best hunter,” the Shaman said, “he understands it is the will of the gods that rules, not our own mortal desires.”

“Thag make own decisions,” Thag insisted as he stood up.

“No, it is an illusion. You just feel like you make your own decisions. See, you think that you made yourself stand, when in fact it was an impulse sent to you by the gods. But don’t feel down about it, Thag. A man of limited perception cannot see the will of the gods around him. That is why the Grunkas need the Shaman. Otherwise, we’d be guided by idiots like yourself.”

Thag looked thoughtful for a moment, and pretended to move away from the shaman. Then he hauled back his hunter’s fist, and punched Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother in the nose (with enough force to break said proboscis, and knock the smug Shaman off his feet).

Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother moaned in pain, and Methusalag said, “Thag, how could you?”

“Not Thag’s fault,” Thag explained. “It will of gods.”

New Scientist Story: Determining free will . Humor-blogs.com and Alltop also have free will, at least as far as the feeds allow. Originally published 2007.