A Slightly Hyperbolic Tale of a Man Who has Accomplished Relatively Nothing

Ashton Macaulay: A Slightly Hyperbolic Tale of a Man Who has Accomplished Relatively Nothing

     Welcome to what I can only assume will be a barbaric yawp attempting, but failing to describe the distant, rose-tinted episodes of my life. I’d like to say that what is contained here is a truthful retelling of what has happened to me, but frankly, that wouldn’t be very honest. My memories are like a shifting tide, and much like the tide are uninteresting (other than that moon part). What are interesting are the twisted versions I spit out after a long evening hitting the crack pipe with my albino mountain lion Stormageddon (that’s an example of hyperbole). So, without further pomp let us begin with the tale of my first memory.

1. The Creation of Man and Language

     At the beginning of time there was not but a stump and a small tribe of caves-people (that’s a technical term for the more colloquially used Cro-Magnon). These caves-people were fond of sitting around said stump and staring at each other. This might seem to most an odd first memory, but I assure you that without the creation of language I would be unable to regale you with the muted humor that has been my life. I remember this day well, as I was not quite in existence, but had a vague awareness of the important events taking place.

     These cave people were of a rather large lifestyle. Their lives revolved around the merciless killing and eating of creatures, without much regard for all else. However, at the time, creatures were scarce, and all that was left for foraging were the rejects of God’s holy workshop (I mean, he had to put them somewhere right?). On that day it was a one legged zebra with a mild mental disability that walked out of the proverbial mist. The presence of such easy prey was enough to stir the caves-people out of their eternal staring match and to action.

     The leader, Ug was the first to strike. Ug may not seem like a creative name, but let us remember that there was not yet language, and the narrator was fond of inconsistency. The zebra half snorted, half whinnied and pranced in place for all to see. I can only guess as to what its thoughts may have been. Who are these strange creatures? Where are their stripes? It was somewhere around that point that Ug struck the creature with a large rock that he kept because it resembled his mother-in-law. The zebra, unaware of what death was, continued to stand in front of Ug, spasmodically twitching in a gesture of friendship. I am loath to report that the zebra did not survive.

     This national geographic heartbreak may seem unrelated to the conception of language, but I assure you, we’re getting there. That night after the zebra was divided up through a complicated political system of rationing and sacrifices that revolved mainly around height; the caves-people ate. Ug was biting off a juicy piece of zebra haunch when he noticed that Lug (another member of the tribe with magnificent chest hair) had a much tastier piece of zebra haunch in the dirt in front of him. Ug walked over, grabbed it, and took it back to his seat.

     I have a sense that many of you may dissatisfied with my first memory. You may think to yourself in the middle of the night Hey, that man-child is only twenty-four years old! That’s not as old as the beginning of time. How would he know such things? You would be right to question the validity of this particular story. However, I would caution you to head the truth of my second memory, for I can say with fifty percent certainty that it is true. Fifty percent is good when you consider that my life has been a series of misguided coin flips by a lackluster deity.