Clodchunk's Revenge

Ever since Homo erectus struck his first match, mankind has sought satisfaction in the communal consumption of burned, dead things. And when some Neolithic dude or dudette searching for a good buzz discovered alcohol, we were off to the races.

These two pivotal discoveries, fire, and later, alcohol occurred roughly 136,000 years apart, yet each helped pave the way for the modern-day barbecue. Not that there has to be alcohol at barbecues, but if you saw the caliber of folk I hang out with, you'd know it could only help.

So today I started thinking: What was the first barbecue like, the first one with alcohol on hand? This was probably during the Neolithic period, so imagine with me if you will . . .

. . . a sunny day in Asia Minor, a block party is in full-swing and the blocks are granite. The event is a B.Y.O.V. (Bring Your Own Vessel) gathering. Oonka Ugga is scolding her children for bothering their father.

“Goon-Goon! Morsquat! Leave your father alone! You know it takes him forever to build ONE SIMPLE LITTLE FIRE! And you know he’s even slower when people WATCH HIM!”

“But we wanna learn how to build a fire!” whines Goon-Goon.

“Well, you certainly won't learn by watching your father! Now scoot!”

Clodchunk Ugga is a man on his knees, literally and figuratively. Sweat is beading on his brow. A tiny spark kindles amid the leaves and twigs before him. A fragile flame takes hold and Clodchunk Ugga can’t believe his good fortune. Excitedly he blows on the fire and . . . the fire goes out. Clodchunk’s thirty-third time’s a charm, however, and this time the fire leaps to life.

”Hah, Oonka!” he yells derisively, pointing at the flames. “Take that and shove it where the hot and golden ball don’t shine! And while you’re at it, stop belittling me in front of the kids!”

Oonka groans, dismissing her husband with a wave of her dainty, calloused hand. “Oh, puhleeze. People have been building fires for 136,000 years and it took you that long just to build that one! Do you have any idea how slow you are at fire-building compared to Wham-Bam Boom-Boom?”

“Now that’s just great!” yells Clodchunk. “It’s been all of five minutes since the last time you mentioned him! Congratulations, you broke your own record!”

Despite his bravado, Clodchunk feels emasculated. Soon he is pouring his first gourdful of bite-bite juice. Several gourdsful of bite-bite juice later, Clodchunk is itching for a fight and if it turns out to be with Wham-Bam Boom-Boom, why, that's even better.

It’s just a matter of time before Wham-Bam saunters over, all cocky and arrogant-like. He is tall - nearly 5'7" - and his jet black hair stylishly glistens with boars' fat. He sneers at Clodchunk then gives Oonka a long and leering once-over.

“Well, hi there, Oonka.”

“Hello, Wham-Bam,” Oonka demurs, coy and blushing.

Wham-Bam directs his attention to Clodchunk.“Who started that little flicker for ya, Cloddy old boy? Did Goon-Goon do that? Or was it Morsquat?”

Clodchunk pretends to ignore Wham-Bam, squats down near the flames and points. “Hey, wow!” he yells. “A diamond – right there by the fire! Well, will ya look at that!” He reaches toward the flames then jerks his hand back. “Ooh! Ooh! It’s way too hot for me to even touch it! I guess I’m just not man enough!”

Wham-Bam rushes over to where Clodchunk still squats. “Where? Where’s the diamond? I don’t see it!”

“Right there!” Clodchunk bellows, still pointing. “You can’t see that? Why, it’s huge!”

Wham-Bam gets down on his hands and knees, his rump in the air, his face practically in the fire. “I still don’t see it!” he yells.

"It's right - THERE!" grunts Clodchunk, shoving Wham-Bam's head into the flames which instantly singe off Wham-Bam's eyebrows. "Oh, sorry, Wham-Bam. I guess that was nothing but a big - dumb - rock . . . kind of like you."

Alarmed, Oonka hurls a gourdful of bite-bite juice at Wham-Bam’s head in an attempt to cool him down, but the alcohol, combined with the boars' fat and an errant spark, cause his hair to erupt in flames. Explosions can be heard for blocks. A second dousing of bite-bite juice only makes things worse for some reason.

Grinning, Clodchunk jerks a thumb in the direction of Wham-Bam’s smoking, bald head. “Now, that,” he boasts to Goon-Goon and Morsquat, “is how you build a fire!”

Short Comedians

My ex-husband is a stand-up comic who for years milked our kids for all the free material he could get. Actually, being a writer, I did, too so I’m not pointing any fingers. Now the kids are teeenagers and suddenly they aren’t that funny anymore. Any parent of adolescents knows what I mean. But the ages of three to ten were the golden age of kiddie comedy in my household, and it was great while it lasted.

            When my son, Jon was three, he was sick and I left him in the car with my mother while I ran into the store for his prescription.

            “Grandma,” he announced from his little car seat in the back, “I’m gonna throw up.”

            “Just a minute, Jon; I’m coming,” my mother said, fumbling to unfasten her seat belt and find something for him to vomit into. Due to my fortuitous failure to clean the car, she was able to get her hands on a fast-food paper bag. “I’ll be right there,” she said.

            Scrambling out of the car, despite her bad knee and reliance on a cane, she threw open Jon's door and thrust herself in just in time to hear him say, "But not today."

            Jon was the kind of kid who would chatter happily to anyone who would listen - and often to those who hadn't planned to. One day, when he was about four-years-old, a friend of my husband's stopped by. And even though Jon had never seen him before, he linked his arm through Larry’s, guided him to the love seat and cuddled up against him. Within seconds, Larry couldn’t get a word in edgewise as Jon explained the intricate plotline of a Teletubbies video he was watching.

            “. . . and the yellow one is La-La. La-La almost always has an orange ball with her. The purple one is Tinky-Winky and Tinky-Winky has a big purse. The red one is Po, and Po . . .”

            After at least five minutes of this, Larry glanced at me and made a brief comment, prompting this gentle reprimand from Jon, “Excuse me, Larry, but if you’re going to keep talking like that, you’re not going to be able to hear this.”

            By the time our daughter, Sydney was three, she had perfected a dry, low-key delivery that takes some comics years to develop. And when she was three-and-a-half, her father and I were sitting at the desk of a carpet salesman who was writing up our purchase. Sydney started fiddling with the man’s calculator. When I told her to put it back, she put me in my place by quietly but arrogantly dismissing me: “Talk to the man, Mommy.”

            Flash forward to Jon age five and Sydney age seven. I was driving somewhere with the two of them in the backseat. Not surprisingly, Jon started complaining about his sister.

            “Mom, I’m never going to believe Sydney again. She always tells me these really great things she’s going to do for me and then she never does them. She just lies to me, so I’m never going to believe her ever again.”

            Sydney executed a masterfully elongated silence before saying in a very sly tone, “Hey Jon, I’ve been workin’ on that rocket ship for ya.”

            “Oh really?” Jon called out in a delighted little yelp, all excited and ready to jump on board.

            When I recounted this anecdote to the kids the other day, Jon said, “I hate you for lying to me about that rocket, Sydney.”

And Sydney said, “It’s still in the attic.” She was even lying to him about the attic since we don’t have one.

Anyway, even though they rarely cough up charming and quotable nuggets these days, the kids are still the cheapest source of material my ex and I have – at least until they get wise to us, unionize and demand compensation. If that happens, I’ll hire a couple of four-year-olds. Like elephants, they work for peanuts - except for the ones who are allergic, and they work for cookies.