During a recent fire pit bonding session, my husband went on a rant about social media. He believes that Facebook sucks up too much valuable time ("Why do you need to read a graphic description of Charlie's flu symptoms, or see photos of Erica's new, hoochie mama shoes on Instagram?"). When the kids send him a text, he claims his troglodyte fingers get in the way of texting back. Twitter is worse, he claims, because nobody needs an hourly update on someone else's eating/drinking/pooping/sleeping/nagging/children-driving-me-crazy lifestyle. "CAVEMEN SURVIVED JUST FINE WITHOUT TWITTER!" he shouts.
Sure they did. They just clubbed each other over the head to communicate. But what if there WAS such a thing as cavemen Twitter?
After a few more sips of hot, buttered rum, my husband concocted various scenarios that might have occurred in the days when communication was often reduced to a simple "Ug". *PLEASE KEEP IN MIND THAT THIS WAS A RUM-INDUCED CONVERSATION! We really aren't that weird!* Yeah, right....
ANGRY CAVEMAN TWITTER:
"Me start fire. Ug."
"Me start 'nuther fire. Ug"
"ME BURN DOWN YOUR VILLAGE! UG!"
"Now they answer."
"Where water? Ug."
"Me need woman. Me want you. Me have small loin cloth. Ug."
Response: "How small?"
Response: "Not interested. Ug."
MISUNDERSTOOD CAVEMAN TWITTER:
"Nuthin' to do in village 2 nite. Ug."
Response: "Make bear tooth necklaces?"
"That dumb. Ug. Me chase cantaloupe."
"Tweet wrong. Antelope. Ug."
Response: "Vegan now. Berries and twigs only. Granola poops. Ug."
CAVEWOMAN FASHION TWITTER:
"Me have newest leopard print wrap. Ug."
Response: "Me have Victoria's Secrets Bobcat print."
"Me got mine from Caveman Outlets R Us half price. Ug."
Response: "Latest monkey butt satchel soft."
"Bear balls also make good satchel."
Response: "Sale on rabbit skin thongs. One hare fits all. Ug!"
CAVEMAN BLIND DATE TWITTER:
"Me took new woman back to cave tonight. Ug."
"No beaver around. Got crabs instead. Ug. Me no go on second date."
"Me kill rabbit for dinner. Ug. Interested?"
Response: "Don't care."
"What if me kill deer?"
Response: "Party at my cave. Ug. BYOC (bring your own club).
CAVEMAN FATHER-TO-FATHER TWITTER:
"Your son grow up quick. Ug."
Response: "We call him Stinky Fuss."
"Me have daughter. Ug. She have three good teeth. Stinky Fuss interested?"
Response: "No. Son prefers making mollusk shell necklaces. Ug. "Daughter need big man with whale blubber to keep warm in winter. Me go find new cave
boyfriend at Brontosaurus Burger Barn. Ug."
Once the fire fizzles out, we decide that Twitter would have been dangerous in the hands of cavemen. My husband still sees no value in it. He'd rather howl at the moon and beat drums to communicate. Guess he'll be shopping for a rabbit hair thong and a monkey butt satchel for his club.