It's Like Epic Man

Nights are long around the fire. Winters especially.

The sun’s gone down early, you’re sitting on a charred rock chewing on wild goat jerky wishing there were something on tv, wishing you could update your Facebook status, but it’d just be the same old thing:

“Remembering my old clubbing days, lost a spear today, God, I miss the Ice Age.”

But see, there’s this wacked-out dude in the tribe, every tribe’s got one like him, he’s like blind and that sucks and all ‘cause he can’t even watch the fire, so he must be really bored. So bored he starts like pounding on some dried out skin tied to a log the tribe uses like a pot (The tribe’s still figuring out this newfangled ironsmithing stuff; it’s like harder than the old days when you like had to program a VCR and shit.) So the blind dude, everyone calls “Homer” probably because he’s got this mammoth beergut. You say beergut, but the tribe’s still mastering the whole agricultural thing. No hops=no beer. So, who knows how he got fat, it sure wasn’t off this effin jerky.

DUM-dum-dum DUM-dum-dum DUM-dum DUM-dum-dum DUM-dum-dum DUM DUM

Homie pounds out on the goat skin, and then the dude starts mumbling to himself. He’s like calling out to some chick called, Mousa, which is kind of a sucky name for a chick, you think. But, like, no sooner has he called out her name than he gets all possessed, like Linda Blair and shit. But the stuff that comes out of his mouth, man. This ain’t no green vomit, dude.

It’s, like, epic, man.