Thag 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.

Having settled the issue of if the members of the Thunka Grunka tribe had free will or not, Thag settled back into life with his tribe.

For once, it was almost peaceful. He and his new mate, Twigla, were happy. Thag enjoyed the prestige and respect everyone gave him for leading the hunters so well. (Not to mention how they grokked his cave paintings and practically worshiped his beer.)

He and the other decent hunter, Fonzag, were in the process of training a new generation of young men. But they were having problems with Donjuag.

Donjuag was the son of Gnock, whom Thag had been unable to save from cave lions, so he felt even more responsibility. But Donjuag was a moody fellow. Unpredictable. He was also in love with Fonzag’s mate, the luscious Vunga.

“Heyyyyyy,” Fonzag said to Thag, as they walked out to their hunting grounds. “He’s being uncool with my lady.”

“Him not do anything,” Thag told Fonzag. “Him just infatuated.”

Donjuag ran by, his spear held high above his head, whooping with excitement.

“What him do?”

“Thag, that cat is full of energy,” Fonzag explained. “He’s not sleeping well either, at least that’s what his mom said.”

“Him crazy,” Thag said while Donjuag finished his sprint with a forward flip. The young hunter over-rotated and did a face plant. Thag laughed. “Donjuag funny.”

Donjuag, undeterred, got up, and did a back flip, whooping with delight.

Fonzag looked on, worried. Thag slapped his diminutive friend on the back (careful not to touch Fonzag’s ridiculous hair) and said, “Fonzag not worry. We wear Donjuag out on trail. Him too tired to pitch woo at Vunga.”

Donjuag started running again, landing a forward flip this time, and Fonzag grunted. “I don’t know, he’s got a lot of energy.”

New Scientist: Puppy love makes teenagers lose the plot. Photo by esterase. Look here forhumorists with too much energy. Originally published 2007.

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 and jabberers. Originally published 2007.

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’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.

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.

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 and Alltop. Originally published in 2006.

The winter had been especially severe, and as Thag had predicted, the clan didn’t have enough food to survive it comfortably.

To the Shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother, this had been an opportunity to blame Thag.

“The Sky God is angry with us for putting Thag on this council,” he told the assembled Elder’s Council, which was meeting to discuss how to deal with the food shortage.

A few nodded their heads, while others just looked worried. Thag looked bored. But really he was just angry. The long winter would not have been a problem if they’d had a successful hunting season before it. But they hadn’t, because the Council made one of the Elder’s sons, Dubyag, the leader of the hunters. Many hunters had been killed by the reckless and idiotic leadership of Dubyag (famous for getting kicked in the head by a wooly rhino). The result had been a minor revolt within the Thunka Grunka clan. The Elder who’d pushed for his son to be leader was exiled (and presumably dead in the harsh winter).

Thag had been forced to take back his mate, Onga, and he’d been made the leader of the hunters again. He now had to sit on the Elder’s Council; and if listening to the endless disputes and debates was not bad enough, he had to sit next to the Shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother.

The phallus-with-a-face shaman had been a thorn in Thag’s side ever since he stole Onga away from him the previous year. He was frustrated by how the council continued to listen to Weasel’s insanities.

If nature was their greatest challenge, Thag thought the Shaman was the tribe’s greatest enemy.

“We must sacrifice Thag to the Sky Gods and that will appease them.”

“Sacrifice? What is sacrifice?” one of the most ancient Elders, Methusalag asked.

“We will take him to the top of the mountain, and there tie him to the Earth, so the Sky God can take Thag. This will appease the Sky God.”

“But Thag is our most experienced hunter,” Methusalag said. “How this help the Clan? We need him for hunting, now that the passes are clearing of snow. He must take the hunters out for early hunt. Many will die if he does not.”

“Sky God will continue to be angry,” the Shaman argued. “We can make Dubyag the leader again.”

“How grok Sky God angry?” Thag said. “Maybe it Snow God. Or Wind God. Earth God. Maybe it Invisible God.”

A few of the Elders chuckled. It was well-known that Thag did not believe in the Shaman’s new theory of unseen gods that controlled their fate.

“See,” the Shaman said, “he makes all the gods angry when he talks so.”

“Thag not center universe!” Thag exploded. “If be gods, why they care about Thag? Why care Weasel? Why not help Dubyag if he so good for gods? Why let Dubyag get many hunters killed? Why gods care about Thunka Grunka at all?”

It was an excellent series of questions, and the Council nodded.

“Thag not center universe,” Methusalag agreed. “But in case Shaman right, he no longer be on Elders Council. Stay leader hunters.”

Thag beamed a smile at the old man, and said, “Methusalag grok much. He should Shaman be. Him know wisdom.”

Humor-blogs.com, Alltop also know wisdom. Funny wisdom. Originally published in 2006.

Something was rotten within the Thunka Glunka Clan, and the putrid stench swirled around the vortex that was Thag.

The previously unassuming Thag.

Thag was a competent hunter, a low-key leader, once a loving partner (before his mate Onga had left him for the clan’s shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother) and a burgeoning artist.

It was Thag’s art that had caused the stench storm; in particular, a satirical painting showing how Dubyag — the leader imposed on the tribe’s hunters — had screwed the mammoth, so to speak. Thag just didn’t blame Dubyag, who was ambitious beyond his abilities. He blamed Bushenor, an influential Elder who had foisted the incompetent Dubyag on the hunters.

It had been a political decision that had caused the hunters dearly, and would, in turn, cause much hardship over the coming winter for the whole tribe. Some would die for lack of food. Just like the hunters who had met their demise in a poorly conceived hunt of a rutting (and enraged) wooly mammoth.

Since Thag’s painting had raised the issue, he was asked by the surviving hunters to speak to the Elders before a gathering of the tribe. Thag had reluctantly agreed, but he was nervous. Never before had he spoken to so many at once:

“Thag not like being center attraction,” he began, “but Thag speak must!”

The Elders were silent, though others of the Thunka Grunka Clan grumbled in the background.

“Elders make Dubyag leader of hunters. Dubyag not wise. Not Dubyag’s fault — him kicked in head by wooly rhino. Him bad leader of hunters. Some die. Mrogak learn fly when mammoth throw him from cliff. Not learn land. New Thunka Grunka with strange hairdo, Fonzag, get turned to jelly. Bad. Many hunters hurt. No meat to cure for winter. Many be hungry. Bad.”

Words were failing Thag quite seriously, but when he saw the others nodding their head — even some of the Elders — he plunged on: “all because Bushenor want me to take back Onga. All because phallus-with-ears shaman not want her any more. Bad. Not Thunka Grunka way. Thunka Grunka be not selfish!”

More grunting in agreement. It was true; for the clan to survive, everyone had to play their part. Everyone had to cooperate and sometimes, put their personal wants aside.

“Thag take Onga back, but only if Elders make him leader hunters. Only if Bushenor leave clan.”

Dead silence. It was a serious demand, for Bushenor was an old man. He would not live very long outside of the clan. But he had caused two hunters to die, and most of the others to be injured beyond the point where they could hunt big game. Many nodded when they saw the wisdom of punishing Bushenor, not his incompetent son, Dubyag.

And not a few took note that Thag did not ask for the shaman to leave, though much of this originated with his own selfishness around stealing Onga from Thag.

The Elders argued into the night, but finally agreed. Bushenor would leave the clan. But Thag would have to take Onga back, for the good of the tribe. And he would take Bushenor’s place on the council.

Both of which displeased Thag, but he acquiesced: “sometimes Thag have take one for team.”

Scientific explanation of why people need a push to cooperate. And these folks always play well with others. Originally published in 2006.

It had finally happened. No, the Thunka Grunka Clan was not about to finally get rid of that walking meat stick, the shaman Weasel-Scratch-Face Brother. It was not nearly such good news.

His ex-mate, Onga, had finally got on the shaman’s nerves.

Onga had left Thag for the shaman nearly a season ago, and in a strange way, they had been good times for Thag. He’d become the leader of the hunters. He’d discovered art — in the form of cave painting — and this artistic flowering had garnered him even more respect. (And nookie.)

But now the shaman was demanding that Thag take Onga back. This was a problematic request. First of all, Onga was pretty sure that she didn’t want Thag back. (She had, after all, left Thag of her own accord, even after he did everything he could to make her happy.) Secondly, Thag was absolutely sure that he didn’t want Onga back, even if he had to admit that his dalliances with some of the eligible women of the tribe were not as sexually satisfying as his long-term relationship with Onga.

A further complication was that in the summer the Thunka Grunka Clan were going to the Gathering, a conclave of clans that only happened once every few years. This was an excellent time to procure a new mate, or if nothing else, really party down.

On the other hand, Onga’s father, Bushenior, was one of the Elders, and he carried a lot of sway with the tribe. Things might get uncomfortable if the Elder decided to take a stand against Thag. There was already talk that he’d have the hunters accept his son Dubyag as the new leader of the hunters. This would be a disaster, as Dubyag was a cretin even before he got kicked in the head by a wooly rhino. So, there was the other hunters to consider — would he consign them to poor leadership, injury and possibly death, just because he didn’t want Onga back?

It made Thag’s head hurt, and there was no easy way to make the decision. Even his art was suffering, he noted, as the horse he was trying to draw ended up having five legs.

He would sleep on it. Ever since he was little, he always made better decisions after a good night’s sleep.

But first, perhaps that nubile Blodja would like to go for another “walk” in the forest.

Did you know that it was best to sleeping on it for making the best of complex decisions? Sleeping by fatal cleopatra. And humor-blogs.com is anything but sleepy. Alltop neither. Originally published 2006.