As I get closer and closer to the downhill side of a human being's life expectancy in the wild, it's hard to accept the fact that despite all my advantages I have not amassed a large territory with many fecund and fertile females and large stocks of food. I am not a spokesman, a chief, or a shaman of a numerous and powerful tribe of warlike apes. The disappointment grows more each day. I mean sure I still go out and go through the whole process, but there's no passion to it, it's so mechanical. Mark the trees, throw some stones at the neighbors, show some tooth, beat the chest. It's all just a charade.

Hey, what're you gonna do though right? Nowadays you gotta keep up with the Joneses or you'll get crushed under progress. A cold, lifeless existence full of jealousy and deceit, I long for the old days when you could just scream and thrust a sharpened stick through that fucking vendor's throat. Serves those bastards right too, tramping all over your home turf, staring at your mate's swollen red hindquarters. Now the worst you can do is key his jaguar while he's dropping a steaming load in YOUR CONFERENCE ROOM.

I sure could use a vacation.