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this is why insomniacs take sleeping pills
03/08/01 @ 10:57 p.m.
One of the perks of insomnia is that it gives you an opportunity to consider the great philosophical questions of our time. Why are we here? Is there a workable utopia? Has God abandoned us? And how does Chris O’Donnell still get work when he’s as bland as fuck? Having answered all of these questions (apart from the O’Donnell thing) I’ve moved on to whether or not cavemen ate their own poo. You have to realise we’ve discovered pretty much every food there is, and we’re at the stage now where scientists are tinkering with it just to keep us interested. But think back to the first humans. Back, before a time when people actually liked Kevin Costner, back, before a time when the Queen Mother had only 7,000 wrinkles on her well-fed face, back, still further, to the time where dinosaurs had started new lives in their underground cities and left the surface of the earth to the bald monkeys. Food was a mystery to them. The latest archaeological research suggests that there were no celebrity chefs, no cook books, and very few restaurants. These guys had to eat whatever they could find. They saw an animal running past and thought, “I wonder what that tastes like?” They dug things up out of the ground and decided to eat them. They pulled things off trees and decided to eat them. They plucked things out of the sea and decided to eat them. They saw round things coming out of the back end of a chicken and decided to eat them. There’s a continuity of thought there: “Thing pops out the back of chicken. I eat it. Thing pops out the back of me...” They ate their own shit, there’s no doubting it. They saw something coming out of a chicken’s beaver (remember, beavers don’t have chickens) and they figured out a hundred ways to cook it – don’t tell me they never ate their own shit. It would have been like a vending machine to them. Other cavemen went hunting or fishing or climbing up a tree, while the sophisticated caveman had a lie in, a lengthy, leisurely shower, scratched himself a bit, then, when he’d worked up an appetite, squatted above a plate and squeezed himself a bit of lunch. What I wanna know is how long they ate it for before moving on to the kinds of things we eat today, and how many recipes they tried before giving up on it altogether. My doctor won’t give me sleeping tablets. You all see I need them, right?
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