The Ballad of Hunter Grog

 

And the tale of Hunter Grog was over just like that!

Grog crept stealthily through the tall grass toward the woolly mammoth. One accurate strike and the whole cave would eat for a moon. He had chosen a female, smaller than a male and easy to kill. Leaving the herd, the lone heifer, without calf, grazed contentedly oblivious to the form slowly approaching from the downwind side.

 

Grog could tell the approximate age of the cow because of the lack of a calf, which meant the meat would be sweet and tender. No part would be wasted. From the nose to the toes this animal would die for good cause. Even babies could teeth on bone fragments that would be puzzled over by archaeologists in fifty thousand years.

 

Like any humanoid, Grog’s vision became tunneled from exhaustion of a long hunt and  concentrating on his goal of achieving food for his family and his tribe and not being aware of  his immediate surroundings, or a rather large male mammoth who was approaching  Grog as he closed in on one of the bull’s harem and he raised his spear for the kill.  In one clean swoop the huge animal stomped the Neanderthal crap out of Grog leaving him a pile of piss and bones twitching in the grass, a hearty meal for hyenas who had been observing all of this from a nearby cliff. And if you think the archaeological team would have a problem with the bones in the cave you can just imagine trying to connect the heel bone to the thigh bone of the remains of Grog the Mammoth Hunter!

 

When the hyenas finished dinner and moved on, the other hunters, you know, the ones who had Grog’s back until it was flat on the ground, moved in, collected what personal belongings were still in one piece and made their way back to their cavies, sans mammoth meat or what was left of Grog. There was no wailing and the gnashing of teeth when they grunted out Grog’s fate. The hyenas apparently didn’t leave enough meat for them to even bring home. Yeah! You heard me right. So much for theories about the religious contemplation of early man about his place in the grand scheme of the universe. And it is as it ever was. The dinner plate! Own it or on it. Suddenly all alone Grog’s significant whatever was faced with the age-old question: To live and love another day or hold to Grog’s memory and starve to death holding his broken spear.  It would be life in Grog’s brother’s arms. Neanderthal Family Law. She said, “Ugga,” he said, “Bugga” and just like that, love was in the air, and all over Grog’s bear skin blanket! And the tale of Hunter Grog was over just like that!

 

William lost his heart and his mind to whatever demons were buzzing unseen around that pretty little head

Austin Texas, 2024. William, Grog’s great great great 20 to the 30th power grand nephew five thousand times removed spies a comely lass perched on a stool in Coyote Ugly Bar sipping on a drink.   There seemed to be a chemistry between them. They seemed to have known each other in a previous life. Her eyes met his and a spiritual union was formed. As she shook her head, causing her long blonde hair with black roots to fall sensually down around her firm, pouting breasts William lost his heart and his mind to whatever demons were buzzing unseen around that pretty little head, and let me tell you, brothers and sisters, they were open for business. I know. I used to be married to her sister, but that’s a story for another time.

 

Here’s the way the male mind works. Men believe anything a woman tells him as long as a certain agenda is followed. And that agenda is to get her out of that bar. Her agenda is to make him swallow every cock and bull story that proceeds from her ruby red lips and so the game begins. And William the Conqueror begins his quest to slither through the Astro Turf of the bar on 6th Street with his own little spear.

 

She begins with, “I’ve never met anyone like you!” (In this bar.) and ends with, “I’ve never done this before.” That’s standard for the predatory creature known as the West Texas Firecracker. Age appropriate is only pertinent the next morning if she tells you she has to catch the school bus. Then you have to face the age-old question. Prison or no prison. It all depends on how deep your pockets are. But let’s say she’s street legal, shall we?

 

Street legal Firecrackers usually have a more seasoned method. This involves a tangled web that goes hither and yon until you will believe anything you’re told. Oh! She was a virgin when you met her? Right? The pro will go as far as you let her go. And one more factor. You’d think the older the man the smarter he becomes. Oh no! The steady loss of brain cells and testosterone weighs heavily on the Tyrannosaurus Ex, but the Firecracker can fix all that.

 

It takes about two years for a Firecracker to insinuate herself into a situation, which gives the relationship time to mature as “Big Daddy” slowly comes to the realization that this isn’t Ritz, it’s just the same old crackers. Enter factor two. Do you believe in love? I do. I’ve been in love with every one of my six wives and several of their sisters and being in love is not to be taken lightly. Love is a many splendored thing especially if you’re well connected enough to afford all “she” thinks she needs to get by, which is on a sliding scale depending upon how silky the sheets are. The man may even become aware but continues because she’s better than nothing and frankly he likes it. And he’s in love.

A Firecracker is not the fountain of youth

 

The longer this goes on the more committed a man will become. He begins to understand that a Firecracker is not the fountain of youth and in fact advances the aging process considerably as the years go by. As her past fades into the past his future evaporates like rainwater on a Texas road he discovers that he “needs” her more than she needs him. By the way she is committed only to herself. Hear that wooly mammoth sneaking up. He won’t either. And in the end his bones will mix with Grog’s.

 

Does this make women evil! No! Does that surprise you? It shouldn’t. The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world, but the owner of that hand must be cleverer, more self serving, more intense if it, and the content of that cradle are to survive. Because just like Grog was capable of killing that mammoth as he’d killed so many before, William can close enough to provide the security she was looking for in that bar so very long ago. In spite of all the feminist ideals, all the equal rights, all the transgender ideas, the hand that rocks the cradle will not prevail against the one that racks the gun. She doesn’t have to. She’ll just outlive him. (Google it!) And this does not detract from her basic core value. She may even have a soft heart, hell, may even fall in love herself, with him! Imagine that! But longevity is a medical fact. The man is the one on top and does all the work. And drags home those mammoths and all the blood pressure associated thereof. 

 

So, the West Texas Firecracker is not necessarily evil. No more than the man is for using her body for what it’s good for. Will she miss him when he’s gone. Perhaps. Will she survive? Definitely. The species will survive, and Hunter Grog and William the Conqueror will be together, happy ever after.