Evolution is for Babies

Bear with me for a second.

The ancient Sumerian story of Nibiru is similar to the story of Stargate. An alien race enslaves humans, they rebel, and the alien race flees. This is a nutshell version of both of these stories as well as most of the relationships I've been in.

The Mayans designed their calendar to not only show years but complete galaxy rotations.

Then I got thinking. Even though I'm in the camp of people who think Apocalypse 2012 is a joke, I couldn't help but wonder if the Mayan belief of a galaxy rotation was actually based on the return cycle of Nibiru.

And then it hit me. Here I am preparing myself for monsoon season when I should be preparing myself for the enslavement of humanity.

Sure I keep bottled water, canned goods, and plutonium around the house like everyone else. But what would happen if something simple yet significant were taken from us? If electricity were somehow removed from civilization we'd all be screwed. Raise your hand if you know how to hunt and forage. Now, those of you that THINK you know how to hunt and forage but have never done it put your hands down.

Here's what I'm really getting at: In the last hundred years, in the blink of an eye in the history of humans, we've forgotten how to do all the things that have allowed us to evolve to the top of the food chain.

"So what's the solution?" you ask. "Should we all take survival courses? Should we invest in alternative energy sources? Should we stock up on Capri Sun?"

And to your suggestions I laugh. Condescendingly.

With just a few good years left before civilization collapses, I propose we do all of these things. We should definitely invest in alternative energy... to power giant robots that will get all of our food for us and protect us from alien races. We will enroll them in survival courses and reward their efforts with Capri Sun. While the alien race/giant robot battle rages on outside, we can take comfort in knowing that our ethanol-powered I-pods just finished downloading the entire second season of The Real Housewives of Alpha Centauri.

There can be only one...

Sitting in my backyard and looking at all the wildlife (i.e. bees, a stray cat, and a dead beetle), I began thinking how truly strange it is that no other animal has learned to have a conversation with humans. Who wouldn’t like to sit down and discuss independent cinema with a caterpillar?

I was reading an article this morning about the discovery of a new type of human that appeared 2 million years ago called Homo gautengensis. What I find interesting is that scientists have been looking for a missing link for so long, but what they are finding more and more evidence of is a series of different kinds of humans that coexisted in history a few million years ago. These aren’t just different races but completely different variations of humans.

Once I began thinking about how interesting it would be to live among other types of humans, I eventually began to feel even more lonesome. The drawback to survival of the fittest is that in the end there can be only one… kind of like Highlander… or Mortal Kombat.

Men: Not Unlike Velociraptors

Today’s inspiring tale comes from an experience I had this morning with a coworker (as usual).

“I hate men,” Cordelia (name changed to protect my career) mumbled as she passed me this morning. Then I did what I normally do when I need to ponder a comment or question: I sat on the toilet for a few minutes.

The Revelation According to The Post Apocalyptic Cowboy as described to Cordelia:

It’s not that most men are scoundrels… we’re all scoundrels (potentially). Men are hunters. Men are warriors. That is, we used to be these things. In today’s world we’ve become Abercrombie and Fitch wearing pansies. What happened to us?

Because of this sudden (in the eye of time) transition to a comparatively mundane existence, our chemicals are going nuts. We’re supposed to be routinely strategizing and killing things with our bare hands.

Men like sports because we all want to be beating someone to death on a battlefield.

Ladies, when we become combative when we’re asked to do something trivial like take out the trash it’s because, in reality, we know we should be wrestling an elk to the ground. We should be plundering a village. We should be creating and destroying empires. Alas, we are separating recyclables.

It’s not that we don’t want to confess these feelings and be held in your caring arms. We’d just rather be held in the cold arms of death in a wintery field and clutching our intestines that have recently been spilled by an enemy’s swift attack. It’s just not the same. You understand.