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Thag not fooling himself!

By on August 18, 2009 in Thag

Fonzag's spiked hairThag was worried about the morale of the other hunters in the Thunka Grunka tribe.

As their leader, it was his responsibility to ensure they worked together well, and it looked as though he had misjudged things.

One of their youngest hunters, Donjuag, had been putting the moves on the mate of Thag’s second-in-command, the spike-haired Fonzag. Thag couldn’t really blame Donjuag for being attracted to the voluptuous and sensual Vunga, and he couldn’t really fault Fonzag for feeling a little jealous.

Donjuag and Vunga were much closer in age, but Thag had said it was all just youthful high spirits, and that Fonzag shouldn’t be worried about it: “Them not serious, Fonzag. Not worry you.”

And then Fonzag had caught Donjuag and Vunga making “lip smackies”, and the proverbial mammoth dung soiled the water hole.

Fonzag head-butted Donjuag, which was actually quite dangerous given Fonzag’s brutally spiked hair. Several other tribe members intervened before he could deliver a second blow.

“Heyyyy!” Fonzag cried. “I got a right to keep him away from my lady!”

“You not kill Donjuag!” Thag explained. “It uncool.”

“Heyyy,” Fonzag said contritely.

Vunga, who had the hips that launched the thousand facile thoughts in Donjuag, said: “it didn’t mean anything Fonzag. I was only kidding.”

Her kidding self, Thag thought, but he didn’t voice it.

“Really babe?” Fonzag asked.

“Of course, hon,” Vunga reassured her mate.

Fonzag looked at her, and gave her a kiss. “I believe you babe.”

Him kidding self, Thag thought, but he didn’t say anything.

Luckily, Donjuag was unconscious, so he didn’t hear any of this, but Thag knew they would have to come up with some kind of solution. He watched Fonzag and Vunga work on fixing Fonzag’s now badly bent hair spikes.

“Love triangle bad for Thunka Grunka,” Thag said to the shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother.

“Oh, it’s okay,” the shaman said, “it’s sorted out now. The Gods have decreed it.”

“Foreskin-Face-Brother is fooling himself,” Thag told the shaman. “But not Thag.”

New Scientist story: Fooling yourself is an ancient and useful trait. Humor-blogs.com always plays the fool. Alltop too. Originally published 2007.

Thag not talk much!

By on August 13, 2009 in Hinky History, Odd Science, Thag

Mammoth by ThagThag’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 and jabberers. Originally published 2007.

Thag not grok milk!

By on August 11, 2009 in Hinky History, Odd Science, Thag

Thag not got milk!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 and

Thag grok cow!

By on August 10, 2009 in Odd Science, Thag

Thag grok cowThag’s sabbatical with the Drunka Grunka tribe was not as idyllic as he thought it was going to be, but on the whole, he was quite enjoying his stay.

First of all, the Drunka Grunkas had invented a delectable potage they called “beer” and it was good stuff. He’d already learned all he could about making it himself, and had even come up with the innovation of adding a plant to the mix that gave the “beer” an extra something. (The Drunka headman in charge of the beer called it “hops”.)

Then there was Twigla, who was beautiful and clearly was falling in love with Thag. Sure, she didn’t have the impressive bottom that the Drunka Grunkas valued so much in their women, but Thag was a Thunka Grunka, and they valued size in the top and the front.

But the Elders were driving him crazy.

In exchange for learning the secrets of making beer, Thag had agreed to paint the Drunka Grunkas a mural (and show his artistic techniques to anyone who was interested).

“You should make the next bull bigger,” Cave-Bear-Bite-Leg-Brother told him. On the whole, the Drunka shaman was much nicer than Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother, but he still had his own theories on art.

“And it should have an extra set of horns,” insisted Critarg, one of the Elders.

“Yes. Extra horns!” the shaman said enthusiastically.

“I think six sets would be appropriate,” suggested Critarg.

Thag sighed and continued painting. He drew the outline of a very small cow.

“That’s a cow!” Critarg shouted in horror.

“Cow good,” Thag said. “Some Grunkas drink its milk.”

“Not Drunka Grunkas. We only drink beer and water,” explained the shaman. “We don’t need pictures of cows.”

“Cows good,” Thag said, “me grok cow. Cow stay.”

Critarg threw up his arms and said, “I’m going to get the council.”

Just then Twigla walked by, waggling her firm, tiny bottom. Thag smiled at her, and continued smiling, even when the shaman, Cave-Bear-Bite-Leg-Brother said, “what if we draw a representation of the Sky God as a kind of super-sized Cave Bear with a lightning bolt-shaped phallus?”

Here’s the science of Reactance. And here are two other groups who might not know art, but who know what they like. Originally published 2006.

Thag not grok big bottoms!

By on August 7, 2009 in Odd Science, Thag

Grok big bottomed goddess?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 and Alltop have junk too. Originally published in 2006.

Thag Go Grunka Gathering!

By on August 5, 2009 in Skwibby fiction, Thag

Barley under prehistoric blue skiesEveryone 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 and Alltop. Originally published in 2006.