Hypothesis: That the Long Pig (human) doesn't seem to be going anywhere anytime soon so perhaps urging a measure of decorum is the best thing the rest of us can hope for.
There is a behavioural study that was done on baboons somewhere in Africa recently that poked a few reasonably sized holes in the old "Might it right" theory that a hell of a lot of long pigs seem to base their life around.
Though it has been a popular belief in the past that the strong, brutish, "alpha" males in, not just the baboon troops, but family groups of all primates, were the ones most likely to mate with the females and pass on their genetic junk. The study has shown otherwise.
Now I could use terms like "alpha" and "omega" and "procreate" and stuff like that, but I understand that many long pigs can wary of discussions that don't relate directly to, or make mention of, themselves, so I will simplify things.
Instead of "Alpha Male", I shall, from this point on, use "Robbo".
When talking about the "Omega Male", I shall now use "Geoffrey".
Instead of "Females", I shall use "Tina", "Rhonda" and "Charleen".
Instead of calling them "the Troop", as that is what a family group of baboons is called, I shall call them the employees of "Drake & Leister: Chartered Accountants"...you know...to simplify things.
So its the time of the yearly company Christmas party and this year Drake & Leister: Chartered Accountants have put on a pretty good do. Though they haven't hired out a restaurant or paid for everyone to go on the ever popular, but annoyingly messy, "booze cruise", they have brought in a caterer named Felipe who once worked in a restaurant down the street from Jamie Oliver, and who must be good because he has a French accent.
They've also got a band to play, but as its the boss's son's band and they do little else but regurgitate whatever flavour of "pub rock" was popular when everyone was wearing flannel, nobody expects too much and therefore nobody is let down when they suck.
Robbo is in fine form. He was partly drunk when he turned up and has taken full advantage of the well stocked bar, which is operated by Inga, the Polish immigrant with the big blah blahs and long blah blahs.
She was a professor in astrophysics in Warsaw but because she doesn't speak English well enough in Australia's "multicultural society", her credentials don't mean squat. Inga would rather be back in her 2 bedroom flat that she shared with 5 Irish girls, eating lentils in front of Moulin Rouge, but she's stuck serving slobbering wankers like Robbo, for what she is fairly sure is a good bit less than minimum wage. On her breaks she runs through the necessary equations for creating a small nuclear warhead in her mind.
Robbo hasn't noticed her obvious apathy toward his loud and annoying attempts at humour, her disdain for his lewd gestures, or her revulsion at his slipping her his address on the back of a square of toilet paper.
He believes that a love of football, perfect vision, and the ability to be heard above any other human being, makes him the most charming man alive. He hates that he's an accountant, is embarrassed by it. His footy mates think he's a roof tiler, a vocation that he came up with without considering the implications. Roof tilers, from being on roofs all day, are ridiculously tanned and so, to keep his lie plausible, Robbo goes to a tanning salon twice a week and has done for the past 5 years.
Robbo has come to the Christmas party for 3 reasons; #1: So that he can take advantage of the free booze. #2: So that he can hopefully take advantage of his boss' good will to climb the company ladder through blokeish yammerings about football, thereby foregoing the need to do the actual work that would otherwise be necessary. #3: So that he can take advantage of a drunk Tina, Rhonda and Charleen, who he believes will be impressed by his polo shirt because it has a crocodile on it instead of a penguin.
He has a video camera set up in his bedroom and rohypnol in his pocket.
Geoffrey wasn't sure whether "fashionably late" was still fashionable, so turned up at 8:30 instead of 8pm as was stated on the invites. He ma have a couple of drinks, or he may not, but he's seen what Robbo is like and his interest in a beverage wanes.
His ignorance of most things sporting means he is left out of a lot of Monday morning conversations at the office and that he has no way of climbing the ranks in a football centric workplace than by busting his gut and working hard, which he does, not so much with passion, but with the she defeated resignation felt by a great portion of the population.
His beard makes him look part bushranger/part Rolf Harris. His jeans are pulled too high and he believes that frilly cuffed shirts, like his, will soon be the rage thanks to the growing popularity of pirates and Jonny Depp, even though his last attempt at pre-empting fashion, two tonnes skivvies, like those in Star Trek, failed miserably and garnered suspicious looks from parents of small children.
He is polite, sympathises with the Polish bar girl, and therefore doesn't bother her with mindless prattle, and offers to get drink for other, not so that he can spike them with date rape drugs, but because he honestly believes it is good manners.
Tina, Rhonda and Charleen turn up and, having picked up the $3:95 scent of their generic pharmacy brand perfumes, Robbo lunges into his mating dance, which consists of a rich tapestry of laughing and talking loudly, and putting down any perceived rivals for the ladies affections.
Ignoring Geoffrey, he turns on his best mate at work, Jonno.
Jonno's mates think he's a plumber, and whether its a private school upbringing or the fact that he doesn't irradiate his brain twice a week for a tan, Jonno manages to hold his own.
An unannounced drinking contest erupts between Robbo and Jonno, understood by both men to be a sure-fire way to the girl's hearts.
Meanwhile Geoffrey chats to Tine, Rhonda and Charleen. He comments on their dresses and hair and gives them heart-felt, well thought out presents that show he has paid attention to them over the past 12 months. He nods sympathetically when they complain about cramps and mid-cycle spotting. He pulls out their chairs for them, is supportive, and later, when Robbo has passed out into his pavlova, and Jonno has pissed himself and is rocking back and forth under the toilet hairdryer, trying to dry the urine stain before anyone notices, Geoffrey has a four-way with Tina, Rhonda and Charleen on the supervisor's desk.
This is basically what they've noticed with baboons. The males who are more attentive, caring and respectful are the ones who are more likely to pass on their genes than the chest beating macho types. The newborns in the baboon troops and perhaps also in Drake and Leister: Chartered Accountants, foregoing the use of birth control, are far more likely to be genetically linked to the Geoffreys than the Robbos. Making the Robbos of this world akin to a genetic Nazi party. They make a lot of noise and draw a lot of attention, but in the end...they're just wankers...literally.
My point is this. There is a point to not being a wanker, and though the last thing that I want any of you to do is procreate and expand on the already oversized 7 BILLION OF YOU, I would like to see less dumbarses born, so that some actual thought might go into things and you might all realise breeding is fucking things up royally.
Lets look at that number; 7 Billion. That's 7 with...a sizeable number of zeros behind it, 7,000,000,000 if you go by the U.S. standard and 7,000,000,000,000 pretty much everywhere else. Any way you look at it...its a lot...TOO MUCH!
At the turn of the 20th century there were 1.5 billion and Europe was starving because the earth wasn't able to sustain us. It was thought then that the earth had reached the limit of how many of us it could support. Science stepped in the ease the problem with the invention of nitrogen based fertilisers, but like with most things, the long pigs learnt nothing from the past.
They didn't say, "Hey...luckily we've averted disaster with science, but we'd best go easy on population from now on because really...we've just bought ourselves some time is all." No...long pigs go into a breeding frenzy and within 100years they multiply the population by a whopping 500%.
It is expected that at current rates there will be 12 billion of you by 2050. Thats pretty much twice as many people as we have today. Twice as many cars, twice as much food consumed, twice as much resources used, twice as much land built on, twice, twice, twice!
Just consider it: Litter, traffic, queues.
When rats are in a situation where there are too many of them, they go mad and start murdering and eating each other, and the same thing happens with piggies on farms. We know we're looking at trouble in the near future, we are already experiencing a "global food crisis". If animals go nuts and kill one another when there are too many of them and food is scarce, what do you think you long pigs (animals each and every one of you) will do?
By the way if you are wondering where I got the term "Long Pig" from...its apparently what the cannibal community (yes there's a community of them) call humans. I guess it helps distance them from it. Ha! They literally ARE what they eat. Silly cannibals.
Stay Filthy and check this out.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wB6yoeS3vm4
