beer theory of history

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, had become a decent hunter whom Thag thought could someday lead the others. 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 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 also has free will.

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Thag’s year with the Drunka Grunka was drawing to a close, and he was almost ready to head back to his own tribe, the Thunka Grunkas.

His relationship with the slender and beautiful Twigla was blossoming, and his artwork was a major triumph, despite the many critics within the Elder’s council of the Drunka Grunkas. They even liked the cow, though they were most excited about Thag’s surrealistic depiction of a mammoth stomping a shaman to death. At first, the Drunka Grunka shaman, Cave-Bear-Bite-Leg-Brother, had objected to the depiction, but then Thag explained:

“Him not good shaman. Him shaman of Thunka Grunkas, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother.”

“Why don’t you like your shaman, Thag?”

“Him seduce Thag’s mate. Him demote Thag from leading hunters. Many hunters die without Thag lead them,” Thag amplified. “Him big phallus with ears.”

“Ah,” Cave-Bear-Bite-Leg-Brother said. “I grok.”

When the mural was finished, the Drunka Grunkas planned a festival to celebrate the artwork. A special brewing of the Drunka Grunka specialty, a delectable potage they called ‘beer’.

Thag had noticed that many of the Drunka Grunkas got quite chatty once they’d had a few bowls of their “beer”; in his experience, Thag was used to men not talking much, while the women of the tribe did most of the gossiping, gabbing, and generally keeping the lines of communication open within the tribe.

Because they had beer to supply calories, the Drunka Grunka men didn’t need to spend quite as much time hunting; in fact, they seemed to spend as much time hanging out talking as the women did.

On the other hand, the people of the Drunka Grunkas had noticed that Thag was laconic at best, and positively taciturn at worst. The Elders sent the shaman to find out why.

“You don’t talk much, do you Thag? But from your artwork, it’s clear you have a rich inner life. Why don’t you share it more?”

“Thag say something once, why say again?”

“But it would be nice if you could explain your artwork to some of the Grunkas that don’t get your art.”

Thag shrugged. “They not grok, Thag not make them grok.”

“But it would be –”

“Thag let art speak for itself,” Thag interrupted. “Besides, Thag go back Thunka Grunkas soon. He not be here to explain.”

“Fair enough Thag. When do you think you’ll be leaving?”

“Ah, soon. But now, Thag have something he do want talk about.”

“Oh, really?”

“Twigla,” Thag said, raising his eyebrows. “Her come with Thag?”

“Does she want to?”

“Yes. Her grok Thag.”

“Well, that will get tongues wagging around here; even more than usual,” said Cave-Bear-Bite-Leg-Brother. “Let’s have a beer and we can discuss it with the other Elders.”

“Thag talk on this. Yes!”

New Scientist story: Men talk just as freely as women. Mammoth pic by The Bucky Hermit. Other talkers.

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The trip back to the Drunka Grunka’s lands would be a long one — of all the Grunka tribes, the Drunkas lived the farthest away from the place of the Great Gathering.

But Thag was happy. For at least one season he would be free of his mate’s incessant nagging, not to mention her infidelities. And he wasn’t only leaving the frustrations of Onga behind — for many turnings of the moon, Thag would be free of the annoying shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother.

He was traveling back to the Drunka Grunka homelands to learn the art of making the delectable new beverage, beer. In exchange, Thag was going to paint a magnificent cave mural for them. So while he might be leaving his own tribe, the Thunka Grunkas behind, he was starting to see that there would be no shortage of behinds.

For some reason, the Drunka Grunka women were blessed with an overabundance of fundament — they looked like a herd of mammoth from the back — and it wasn’t until their second week on the trail that he learned why.

Twigla was a beautiful young Drunka Grunka woman, who was without a mate, and one evening as the Drunkas bedded down in their sleeping furs — most of them were paired off — Thag noticed that Twigla was unmated, and sad. In fact, she sat on a boulder at the edge of their campsite, watching the moon rise, a few tears glistening in the silvery light.

“Why Twigla sad?” he asked her as he joined her on the boulder.

“Twigla not have mate. Twigla lonely.”

Thag was intrigued, especially to hear that she had the same command of the Grunka tongue as he did.

“Why Twigla not have mate?” he asked. “Twigla beauty.”

“Thag nice caveman. But not true. Twigla have small bottom.”

“But shapely,” Thag observed, hoping he did not overstep his place as a guest of the Drunka Grunkas.

“Thag think so?”

“Shapely!” he grunted.

“But much junk admired by Drunka Grunkas. Big butts men get!” she wailed.

“Not grok,” Thag grunted. “Twigla beauty.”

She stopped sniffling and wrapped her arm around his. “Me glad Thag learn make beer,” she sighed.

The sabbatical was looking better and better.

Based on New Scientist Story: Stone Age junk. Humor-blogs.com has junk too.

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Thag really was starting to enjoy the Grunka gathering. His mate, Onga, was behaving herself, and even the new religion of his tribe’s shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother wasn’t bothering him anymore.

Every fifth or sixth summer, depending on the position of the stars, all of the Grunka clans would gather and share their stories, swap items (sometimes mates too) and have a bit of a prehistoric party.

As part of the swapping, Thag hoped to learn to make a new drink invented by the Drunka Grunkas; a delectable potage they called “beer”. He had tried to exchange his mate, Onga, for this training, but alas, even the most inebriated tribe in the Grunka clan had heard of her infidelities and general shrewishness. Instead, he agreed to travel home with the Drunka Grunkas and do a special cave painting for them.

He just had to get the Elders of his tribe, the Thunka Grunkas, to agree.

“So why do you want to return with the Drunka tribe when the Gathering ends?” their most ancient and wise Elder, Methusalag, asked him.

“Thag want learn make beer.”

“What is beer?”

Thag had brought a skin of it around, and shared it with the Elder Council. Methusalag drank first.

“But Thag, you are the leader of our hunters. You will be gone for turning of many seasons,” said Frettag, the Elder’s biggest worrier. “You best hunter. Thunka needs you.”

The skin came to Frettag, and he smiled. “Perhaps this is worth the effort. We think on it.”

The next day they met again, intending to let Thag leave.

“No! Thag should not leave!” Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother told the assembled Elders. “I have a new drink too, given to me in exchange for the wisdom I have learned about the Gods.”

Thag was surprised to see the Shaman. He had spent most of the Gathering in conference with the other “wise” ones of the Grunka clan, talking about the new idea of “gods” –supernatural beings who controlled the elements, and who, naturally, could only communicate with a shaman. When not discussing this nonsense, they spent the rest of the time drumming, chanting and eating mushrooms that made them act even sillier than this new drink, “beer”.

Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother passed around a skin filled with a white substance, that didn’t taste as good as the beer, but did have its own appeal.

“It comes from an animal that can be tamed and even eaten,” the Shaman said. “It called cow.”

“This drink does not have the same effect on your head,” Methusalag said as he sampled the milk.

“But cow-juice can come all year. All you have to feed the cow is grass,” the Shaman said.

“Hmm. That could be good,” the ancient Elder agreed.

“Beer come from grass too!” Thag interjected. “Need no cow, just how make it!”

“We understand Thag. We will think on it another night, and tell you our answer tomorrow.”

Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother crossed his arms and grinned smugly at Thag. The hunter didn’t even understand why the Shaman wanted him around. He’d been trying to get rid of him for years, so that he could breed with Onga. Of course, he’d had to live with her constant complaints too.

That night, most of the Elder’s Council was struck down by horrific fits of gas and diarrhea; it was later known in Grunka legend as the Night of Many Pongs.

“Thag not like milk!” Thag groaned to Onga as he clutched his bloated belly. “Me drink only beer.”

In the morning, the Elders told Thag he could go.

Based on New Scientist story: Early Europeans Unable to Stomach Milk. You will definitely be able to stomach humor-blogs.com.

Read the early Thag stories here…>

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Everyone at the Grunka Gathering was in good spirits, except Thag.

Every fifth or sixth summer, depending on the position of the stars, all of the Grunka clans would gather and share their stories, swap items (sometimes mates too) and have a bit of a prehistoric party.

It was a grand affair, and luckily for Thag’s tribe, the Thunka Grunkas, they only had to travel five or six days to join in the festivities.

But Thag was not having as much fun as he hoped. First of all, nobody was willing to swap for Onga, despite her beauty and physical charms. Her affair with the Thunka Grunka shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother, had become somewhat of a Grunka legend, and nobody wanted that kind of trouble. (Even though there were lots of mates willing to be swapped to Thag, despite his lack of physical beauty and charm. His cleverness as a hunter, and even more importantly, as an avant-garde cave painter was also something of a legend.)

Worse than all of this though, was the new respect shamans had for Weasel-Scratch-Face Brother. They were all quite taken with the idea that there were supernatural beings who controlled the element, and that only they had the magic to communicate with them. In fact, they had spent most of the Gathering eating mushrooms that made them act quite strange, and coming up with a list of these new “gods”.

Thag had taken to heckling them during these psychedelic meetings.

“Where god? Thag see no god. Show Thag god!” he demanded. Eventually the shamans had had enough and the Grunka elders told Thag to desist.

Then the Drunka Grunkas arrived to the Gathering with a new invention they were very excited about sharing with the clan.

“What be?” Thag asked his colleague, the leader of the hunters from the Drunka tribe, Barga.

“We drop barley in water, let sit sun. Good. Try. Make you feel all squiffy.”

Thag took the proffered skin, filled with this new drink Barga and his tribe had invented. It WAS good. A bit bitter, but there was something nice about it. And what was that delightful feeling in his head?

Suddenly, the shamans and their invisible gods didn’t seem so important.

“You show Thag how make? What called?” he asked Barga.

Barga nodded. “We show all Grunkas how make. We call beer.”

Barley and blue sky by illum123. More things that will make you feel squiffy can be found at humor-blogs.com.

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