Survival of the Worthless

The place: a cave somewhere in a land that will someday be known as the Islamic Republic of France.

The year and month: 29,485 B.C., month of the first melting.

The day and time: day of the tree god, approximately 22 minutes after the daily death of the sun.

The situation: a suburban Cro-Magnon couple, Fredron and his wife Wilmamakh, are discussing their child’s future.

Wilmamakh:  Freddie, I am very worried about our son, Moron.

Fredron:       Arrgghhh… Moron is not my son.  I still think you shared the blanket with that Neanderthal-faced idiot, Bidenak, that time when I was gone hunting for two weeks.

Wilmamakh: I’ve told you until I’m blue in the face that nothing happened with Bidenak.  It was very, very cold and he just kept me warm.  Clintonakh was under the same blanket, and he has told you also that nothing happened.

Fredron:       You expect me to believe Clintonakh?  He would do it with a dead pig.  Maybe they’re both responsible for Moron.

Wilmamakh:  You have no room to talk.  I know that when you go out on those long hunting trips, you and your friends sometimes slip into one of the Neanderthal camps for a little recreation.  So how many hairy little hybrids are carrying around some of your genes, huh?  That’s even more disgusting than dead pigs!

Fredron:       All right, all right… enough!  I thought you wanted to talk about our, I mean your worthless kid.

Wilmamakh:  Yes.  I am worried.  I mean, Moron is past the age to become a man, find a purpose in life, and start his own family, but he still lives with us.  I am 32 summers old, and I still have no grandchildren.  It’s embarrassing.  What are we going to do about him?

Fredron:       Do?  We should have left him out for the wolves when we first realized how worthless he is.  He HAS no purpose, and he never will.  The kid is the worst hunter the tribe has ever seen. 

                   I was never as embarrassed with the guys as when we took him out on the hunt with us.  The first time he saw a mammoth, he screamed and ran.  And the kid would not shut up.  I mean just as we were sneaking up on some horses, Moron would start jabbering about how his feet hurt, and the horses would hear him and run away.  And he can’t throw a spear more than 10 arm lengths, even with a spear thrower.

                   So I thought that if he can’t hunt, maybe there was something else he could do.  I sent him to Grummonon the spear-maker to teach him how to make spear points, but he was a failure at that.  Grummy said that Moron ruined all the flint rocks and had no talent for making points.  And he complained about cutting his hands on the rocks.

Wilmamakh:  Yes, this is what I mean.  And remember when we sent him to Dalaila the shaman to learn how to speak with the spirits and heal the sick?  I never saw Dali so angry.

Fredron:       Of course he was angry, he discovered that your son was stealing the secret meditation herbs, sharing some of it with the local girls and selling the rest to the Neanderthals.  To the Neanderthals!

Wilmamakh:  Oh, that was embarrassing.  At the sacrifice ritual, Dalaila told everyone what a bad son we had and demanded that we pay two extra rhino roasts to appease the mountain god.

Fredron:       Exactly!  And then there was the time we asked Normonakh the rock painter to teach Moron how to paint pictures on the cave walls.  You remember how that turned out!

Wilmamakh:  Yes, I know.  He just has no talent for art.  The only animal he can draw is a rabbit, and his people all look like a combination of sticks.  Not everyone can be a cave painter.

Fredron:       He has no talent for anything.  And the worst thing was hearing that he became terrified when Normonakh tried to take him down to the deep rooms of the cave.  Our… I mean your son, crying!

Wilmamakh:  Well… he’s just more in touch with his feminine side than most boys.

Fredron:       Arrgghhh!  Feminine side... yeah, like when we tried to get him an apprenticeship with Carvakh, the best butcher in the tribe.  I thought that maybe if he became good at butchering the animals we kill, he would at least have some useful purpose.  But he faints at the sight of blood.

Wilmamakh:  There must be something he can do.

Fredron:       Like what?  He can’t hunt, he can’t make weapons, he can’t butcher meat, he can’t paint, he steals from the shaman and the spirits won’t communicate with him.  He is even too lazy to go with the women to gather plants and dig for roots.  You try to show him where to look, but he constantly says he can’t find any.

Wilmamakh:  I know.  Even our girls can do that.  There has to be something he can do?

Fredron:       Maybe he should become a cave checker.

Wilmamakh:  A cave checker? 

Fredron:       Yes, you know.  When we find a new cave, we send him in first to check it out and make sure there are no problems… like bears or lions.  It’s a short career, but at least he would have a purpose.

Wilmamakh:  No!  I won’t let my son be sent into a cave to be eaten.  There must be something else for him.  He must have some unique talent.

Fredron:       The only thing he knows how to do well is to avoid real work and to lie.  I have never seen anyone who can lie like him.  And he seems to know how to make people believe him, especially the young girls.  But that’s partly due to teaching them how to smoke the shaman’s herbs.  He is worthless!  He has nothing productive to offer the tribe.

Wilmamakh:  Wait a minute… that’s it!  He DOES have a talent.

Fredron:       What talent?

Wilmamakh:  Lying.  He is a great at telling untruths and making people believe they are true.  So there IS a career path for him!  In fact, there are two paths

Fredron:       You don’t mean…

Wilmamakh: Yes!  Public relations... or politics!

Fredron:       Noooooooo!

(to be continued)