That's all great and sensitive Sarge, but I wistfully wile away the occasional free moment I might have thinking back eons ago, of those halcyon days when a man could trundle through savannah, carefree and unencumbered, dragging his knucles on the ground. Grunting and snarling, drooling and rolling their big heads from side to side, glancing about for a chance meeting with yon fair Neanderthal maiden. Perchance it is at one of the higher end watering holes, close by the treeline. Yeah, that one. The one without the crocodiles. She, looking demure and coquettish in her hyena fur thong bikini. He, sauntering amongst the bushes and reeds, martini glass in hand, poking the other manly Neanderthal guys occasionally for a few intimate grunts and snarls as he tells raunchy jokes.
Then, his beady little eyes lock onto her equally beady eyes across the crowded dance ground. His ears begin to burn, there's an uncomfortable feeling in the groinal area and you suddenly remember where that bone went after the brontosaurus rib lunch you had with Grog, your wingman. Hey! Where is Grog? Probably still asleep back there where you spotted the Tyranasaurus Rex creeping around the brontosaurus ribbone pile.
Anyway, back at the meatlocker, err the waterhole, beady eyes locked. He moves in, trying coyishly to slice her out from the herd of her friends and maneuver her back toward the really big rocks, over by the pool tables. Subtle nudges, a few crooning burps by her ear, his left arm slowly encircling her waist. Going in for the kill. oh yeah, baby.
Suddenly, there's this tap-tapping on your shoulder. He looks down. Sees his target's little, mousy friend. Yeah the one with the really thick glasses and the knee length boa constrictor skin dress and bobby sox. BOBBY SOX! As you look down in amazement, she squeaks: "Oog, tell Eena me want go home. Now." He looks left, then right, No Grog swooping in for the interference play. Wait. wait! There's Grog. He's running along the tree line, T-rex nipping at his heels. He thinks "Ung! flying solo on mission now." He jinks left, blocks the mousy one's hand from reaching in to grab Eena's elbow. He rolls right, cutting off the mousy one's feeble attempt to back door him.
Suddenly, he looks up, grins large, pulls out the street cred equalizer and whacks both broads upside the noggin. Yeah, maybe he hit the mousy one a little harder that the breechcloth one. But as he drags them both away toward his cave, his buddies are hooting and slathering while clapping him on the shoulder, Cries of Oog! Gonna do menage-e-trois tonight, stud? Oog! Need chaperone? Oog! Where Grog?
So, into the sunset shuffles our hero, Oog, Caveman conignsor. Clubber of women. Hip Neanderthal Dude, solo ace. Gettin' ready to do hot monkey lovin' in the dirt.
