Written by Daniel W. Steep
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Wednesday, 14 September 2005

image for Low Pants Boy "At least I had an excuse..."

The following emergency session of The Global Archeological Society will take place on January 22nd, 12005, in Bern, Switzerland, and will do so immediately upon the heels of the landmark discovery of ten-thousand year-old Low Pants Boy’s remains.

“I would like to begin this session,” says archeologist Wolf Gerhardt, leader of the archeological team that discovered Low Pants Boy, “by stating that the allegations by certain of my esteemed colleagues concerning Low Pants Boy’s having worn his pants that way on purpose, are patently absurd. Let us not forget,” he continues, “that we are speaking here of a human that died in the Orion-Seven meteor strike year of 2005, and as such, one that had a fully evolved brain, not too terribly much different from our own.”

“Is it not true,” says a session member, “that the boy’s belt was buckled in such a fashion so as to forbid the pants from being pulled above the Gluteus maximus?”

“This is true,” says Wolf, causing a rumble in the crowd.

“Well then,” barks another session member, “how do you explain that?”

“A swelling of the upper body brought about during the subsequent nuclear winter,” replies Wolf. “In short, it is my firm belief that the boy’s pants were blown downwards by the meteor strike, and his Gluteus maximus then swelled in direct accordance with the increased level of radiation that followed.”

“Poppycock!” bellows a session member.

“Ludicrous!” wails another.

“Gentlemen please!” beseeches Wolf. “Would you have us all believe that this was some kind of fashion statement?”

The crowd explodes in a crescendo of laughter, causing the two dissenters to slink back into their seats while visibly blushing in ruby red.

“What of this ancient noise making device that was found attached to the boy?” asks another. “Is it true that blood-stippling around the boy’s ears show signs of the device’s headphones having been embedded in the boy’s head long before the meteor strike?”

“This is true,” says Wolf. “We’ve analyzed the contents of this device and have found it to contain the audio remains of several young males, aided by a cacophony of noise making devices, wailing semi-coherent lamentations revolving around their desires to enjoy the company of young females.”

“What are the implications of that?” asks a member.

“We haven’t a clue at the moment,” replies Wolf. “Our best guess is that several smaller meteor strikes occurred over a period of years leading up to the big one, during which the genders became somewhat distanced from one another, in turn causing the necessity for a daily audio reminder to the young male of his procreative mandate along with a virtual plethora of reminders as to which gender its successful application would best be suited.”

“What of the stomach contents?” asks another.

“An ancient meat byproduct,” replies Wolf, “with potato strands fried in a lard compound, and a sugary carbonated brownish liquid -- all completely and utterly bereft of any nutritional value whatsoever.”

“What of the boy’s brain?” queries another, “have you accessed the data-banks and downloaded his memory yet?”

“We have,” replies Wolf.

“Wonderful!” shouts another.

“Do tell!” pines another.

“Hurrah!” bellows another.

“In phase one,” begins Wolf, “beginning in the cerebral cortex involving the last few moments of the boy’s life, we’ve discovered that his thoughts revolved around the reaching of a place he called Mickey D’s, in the hopes of meeting two of what he refers to as his homeys, which we’ve naturally concluded is a time-relevant slang for two fellow Homo sapiens. As for Mickey D’s, we’ve concluded that it’s probably the name of the land mass on which they fed upon the meaningless foodstuffs, which was obviously caused due to the previously mentioned increased levels of radiation.”

“Phase-two?” asks another.

“All about chicks,” shrugs Wolf. “What that means I don’t know. We’ve gone over it fifteen times and still can’t get the gist of it.”

“You mean chicks,” says another, “as in the newborns of the long extinct chicken, do you not?”

“Well that’s just it,” says Wolf. “We naturally thought that to be the case at first, until discovering that most of the boy’s subsequent thoughts didn’t exactly involve the consuming of chicks, so much as they did the chasing, conquering and subsequent dating of chicks.”

“How weird,” shudders one.

“Grotesque,” winces a second.

“Cool!” blurts a shaggy-haired third, causing a barrage of odd looks from fellow members.

“So what you’re telling us,” begins a dissenter, “is that this young boy who purposely wore his pants-

“Accidentally!” corrects Wolf.

“Below his Gluteus maximus,” continues the dissenter, “listened to strange sounds bewailing the necessity of procreation while dining on meaningless foodstuffs before heading off with homeys in the hopes of being gratuitously satiated by the newborns of a now extinct line of fowl?”

“Yes,” replies Wolf, “and they did it in a hooptie.”

“What’s a hooptie?” says one.

“An ancient beast?” asks a second.

“Probably slang for an ancient vehicle of some sort,” says the shaggy haired third, causing a smattering of giggles from nearby peers.

“What of the historical data absorbed during this boy’s lifetime?” asks another, “what has the downloading of that taught us concerning our ancestral past?”

“At best,” says Wolf, “the boy’s level of absorption concerning the historical data of his time seems to indicate that he lived during an era in which human beings detested schooling with a passion.”

“You mean those data banks are empty?” asks another.

“Not entirely,” answers Wolf, “but for all intents and purposes, especially as concerns historical accuracy, they might as well have been.”

“Give us some examples!” demands another.

“He seemed to think,” begins Wolf, “that his president’s name was Dubya, as opposed to the ancient texts which we now know clearly give the man’s name as being Bush, that rock still ruled, as opposed to what we’ve since learned at that time should well have been steel, and that Jay Lo was a Goddess, as opposed to what we now know her to actually have been, which is no more than an ancient screamer of odd sounds and bad maker of moving pictures with an overtly large Gluteus well-over that of maximus. Need I continue?”

“Wholly cow,” pines a member, “and we’ve descended from that?”

“Thank goodness for meteor strikes,” says another.

“I wish I’d have been born then,” says the shaggy haired one, who gets roundly and quite audibly flicked in the earlobe by a nearby member.

“What of the boy’s visual memory downloads?” asks another.

“Cleavage,” replies Wolf.

“No, no, no, his historical visuals!” demands another.

“Old cleavage,” replies Wolf.

“His imaginary visuals?” whimpers another.

“Future cleavage,” replies Wolf.

“The contents of his pockets?” woefully muses yet another, in the dire hopes that something erstwhile could yet be derived from this discovery.

“A few ancient coins and a sheath of rubber housed in a tiny square package, which we have since surmised was used during that time period’s hitchhiking craze, in order to keep the all-important thumb -- used to get homeys from point A to point B -- dry during the rainy season.”

The entire crowd sits in silent contemplation over all of this for several long moments, before a lonely member finally and ever-so hesitantly approaches the podium and asks the question they have all been in fear of hearing the answer to.

“Assuming that you’re wrong about the pants,” he says, “what, pray-tell, in your summation -- would this leave us as having been descended from?”

“Well,” sighs Wolff, “in short, that would leave us as having been descended from an oily faced, totally devoid of nutritional content gruel consuming, abstract noise craving, cleavage lusting, big Gluteus maximus loving, baby fowl chasing, hooptie utilizing, rubber on thumb-wearing, highly uneducated and low pants on purpose wearing mouth-breathing little cretin of the first order.”

“So,” gulps another, “what you’re saying is that we’re nothing other than the unseemly byproducts of -

“No,” interrupts Wolf, “What I’m saying is that regardless of all that, we’ve nevertheless managed to evolve quite beautifully, thank you!”

“Hurrah!” yells one.

“Huzzah!” shouts a second.

“Long live evolution!” shouts a goodly portion of the room.

“And may our loving and benevolent Goddess that is the ancient and forever virginal Madonna protect and maintain the current pristine and unfettered level of our evolvement for all times!” cries Wolf, who then proceeds to scratch at his oozing radioactive facial boils before quickly shifting his complete nakedness below the waist in an effort to accommodate the stretching of his significant other in the form of a newborn Yak.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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