Og's Blog, Part 7

part of: Og's Blog

by J. Marshall Craig

RAINY DAY: A glorious meal today. In fact, a glorious meal likely to last as long as it doesn’t begin to smell consistently like low tide. Weird little bastard named Vrol came up with this whole thing with cliffs and buffalo. I’m calling it “Jumpbolya,” but only to myself since, in my opinion, it needed more salt. More common, I find, as I attempt to defy my white skin and find rhythm by hitting my thickened cranium with the femur of a fellow tribesman accused of being a “liberal,” whatever that is, that I understand less and less of what I’m doing and why. Thus my thoughts remain my own and have stopped even mentioning “caveman’s rights” and have now made a liar of myself by denouncing an earlier proclamation that I believed only the women could lead us to peace and progress and that the men would inevitably fuck it all up just as our oral history and cave graffiti so plainly prophesize.

SCATTERED SHOWERS WITH A CHANCE OF DEVASTATING TORNADOES AND/OR EARTHQUAKES: Stopped hitting myself in the forehead with that bone. Took another chance when I believed no one was looking and again risked the “Google.” In the interest of one of the tribesmen who’s seriously crippled following a hunt, I sought knowledge … but Paleolithic typing skills being as one might expect, I accidentally entered “nipple” instead of “cripple.” Abandoned, now, I imagine, by whatever god I might have believed in … I am entirely speechless and haven’t slept for three days after what I witnessed. The cold mountain stream seems to soothe my altered self, however.

BLISTERING SUN: Still troubled and irrevocably distracted by my last “Google” I again took to the nearby stream for the relief of tension of the cold mountain water. Alone, unclothed and having my more private parts react much like a frightened turtle in withdrawal, I took to a nearby rock to again devote great effort into not thinking about anything whilst bathing in our mother sun’s glorious rays. After an hour, I awoke to the terror of having given my brain over to absolute destitution and intellectual suffocation … and the horror of having created more than half a dozen ideas for “reality shows,” whatever they are. Afraid to “Google” again in the light of my terrible, creatively vacuous dreams and, through my own carelessness, finding myself with rather an embarrassing and painful sunburn in a delicate area used to darkness whether at work, rest or play … I’ve decided to climb high above the forest floor and anchor myself in a tree and wait for my blistered nethers to dry, peel and fall to the ground like so many petals from an admittedly freakish rose.