You know, the primitives are pathetic, absolutely abysmal, ungrateful rectal apertures.
Chief S itting Bull contributed a great deal to Skins's island, much of it his own work, his own carefully-crafted literary creations.
He was the Greatest Primitive Ever; when a Mount Rushmore of the greatest primitives is ever sculpted, the bird-smacking stoned red-faced primitive's angry mug will dominate, in a place similar with that of George Washington on the real Mount Rushmore, the other three (whoever they'll be) sort of in back of the line.
But when he died, there were only two memorial threads on Skins's island; one by his good friend the CalPig primitive, and a "silent thread" by the brain-damaged primitive, and both had receded to the back pages by the end of the day.
The primitives have an odd set of priorities.
The primitive heroes seem to be one guy who merely copied-and-pasted news stories--didn't create any original works--and the late red round one, who was around for about seven months, and was always asking for money.
Neither of which was worthy of licking Chief S itting Bull's moccasins.
When the other two died, the primitive grief-fest went on for days.
