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28. 2. 2013

Hey workaholic, gambler, mammoths are no longer, they do not exist!

And what if there are some? 

So first. Mammoths became extinct already. You can’t hunt them! Never, do you get it? Even if you were running around the woods and cried hunga dunga mungaranga bunga and beat your breasts all day and night. You won't find any. They just are not. 

Workaholism and gambling are relics of a hunting instinct rushing us to hunt mammoth.

We have to go after the prey until we hunt it down or until we hunt down ourselves, we fall down and die. We do not have much choice. On our hunting success depends the life of our band. Maybe a whole pack of females in our preharem and theirs, possibly also ours, biological offsprings. For the rest, some slury chatter, mutual lice and other parasites picking, all by the fire in front of the cave, having enough time for eating well done mammoth legs, the time must come later. First, the biggest prey in the whole forest, the biggest business in the whole district, the greatest win in the entire casino, the hottest of all cremation cremators. Then it will be all fine. Everything until then are just ridiculous games of joy and happiness. Bah. Nobody cares of that. Meaning lies only in the miraculous performances of superman and must be redeemed with a high stress and suffering of all profitting. Get out of the way, because you do not understand the mammoth mission, the beeing chosen one.

That’s the way we always chase the mammoth. We gotta get him and we know that we do so. We work. We have a noble vision. The greatest mammoth  of all ice ages. The more hours I will chase him, the more praise I get, and I'll soon be promoted to an independent, responsible mammoother. Also get a 3.14159nut pay raise. 

Rubbish. Once I have to dig the hole, into which it drops and wait. Have to think a bit how big it should be to fit in not killing me when it gets caught. Have to take it easy. Got it? 

I return to my cave every night and tell my prewife, as tomorrow will be the mammoth day. But I'm tired and did not even notice that the Neanderthal from the neighbour rock band snuffs around her. The pig. He will die out 34,500 years before our future era anyway. My descendants will 34,533 years after his extinction make crosses to hang themselves and worship it as asexual fetish for at least another 1980 years. Mine, not his! He is going to remain only in 2% of genes of my offsprings. He sits all day on a palm dancing with putrefying bananas. Then sings and you bloody females are getting crazy of it and wonna feel the propper banana. 

No no. I get the mammoth and then show them all. They’ll just sit back and stare as calf at a flint. 

They say I should hunt squirrels at least. Bah. That‘s horrible. Such an ingorance. No one understands me. Everybody is against me. All plotted. They are ripe for a shaman, not me. I have to catch the mammoth. After all, it's for their own good. I'm chasing, slaving, thinking and hunting.Wwaiting by the moonlight at the clearing,. I’m a good listener. I offer a secure relationship between hunter and my prey with clear boundaries. I'm getting there. It's clear. I can feel it in my coat. Such an itching like by bags of huge prehistoric fleas.

What was the bang? Fallen tree. A second. Yeah, I hear him stomping. That's him. Big boy. Huge like a hell! Yesyesyesyes. Come on, come to daddy. 


Crack. 

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Tomáš Pour