There is a story. And it must be told. You may call it an outpouring triggered by an extreme level of frustration brought on by a bunch of highly dedicated morons intent on destroying the balance of a human mind. Or you may call it a garbled representation of the inter-connectedness of all things incomphrehensible. Whatever it is, it is my story, and my story needs to be told.
Going into detail would ruin the experience for both you and me. For I would have to relive the horror of having had to deal with a dangerous species lurking around disguised as earthlings, and you would have to wade through pages of absolutely spine-chilling horror the likes of which has not been experienced for a long long time. It all began when the Great Wise One With A Foot-long Beard decided to let loose his wisdom on this unsuspecting world. Who was he you ask? I don’t know, if you find out let me know for there are a few things I would need to settle with him. So I will refrain from the detail. Suffice to say that this is a saga of epic proportions, a magnum opus that has spanned centuries and has been a long time happening.
Whats also been a long time happening is the migration of the wildebeest, the grand show played out on the plains of the Serengeti, the world’s greatest wildlife spectacle. Over a million wildebeest, accompanied by another million or so of zebras, gazelles, and random NatGeo photographers, make their way across the Serengeti chomping off the grass they find there and make their way to the Masai-Mara in search of food and water. And then turn around and make their way back again. Somewhere in this grand cyclic journey between Tanzania and Kenya and back lies the answer to many of life’s mysteries, for if you can figure out why they do this (apart from the obvious because they got to eat part) you may find answers to a whole lot of questions you may have regarding your place in the universe and general scheme of things.
And a grand journey it must be. What fun. What joy. What an overwhelming sense of well being. Curious onlookers probably lining the streets and blessing the majestic beasts as they make their collective way across the vast plains. Lions and other dangerous predators also lining the streets and eating the random majestic beast as they move past them. Then there are the occasional lumbering hippos heaving their masses around in gay abandon oblivious to the fact that they are completely out of their depth as well as their natural habitat. The wildebeest, zebra, gazelles and the accompanying NatGeo photographers wind their way along this trail until they come to the Mara river. This horde, once it reaches the river, continues its onward movement and simply plunges into the river fully intending to get across to the other side.
That’s where the party really livens up. That’s when things really start to kick in. For the river is where the crocs are. Lurking around, these prehistoric creatures, smacking their huge lips wait for the beasts to come tumbling into the river. For the crocs its simply party time. Thousands of food literally being dumped in on your plate. It’s like having a months supply of breakfast, lunch and dinner dumped onto your table from a dump-truck.
Now would you mind? Of course you would. Well, maybe not the inconvenience of having a mountain of food sticking out of your roof for the better part of the month, but the awful smell of decomposing food because it is going to take a LOT of days to eat your way through a mountain of food. But crocs – they have no such problem. They probably are born without a sense of smell. It doesn’t matter. They don’t need it. With a snout and jaws like that it wouldn’t matter if they weren’t born with any of the other senses either. The point is that they are crocs. You are not. You have your sense of smell. And you will react strongly. Now crocs, they have only one reaction to any kind of anything – and that is to chomp up whatever gets in the way. This probably explains why they have managed to survive since before the time of man. And probably will far outlive him too. Far out into the future when man is done destroying everything around him that he loves or hates, or maybe both, it will be the crocs that will wander the streets of this planet and dine at the finest restaurants in the cities.
OK. So thats about as far as I will go into the detail of this tale of horror. Then, as promised, I shall skip the rest of the detail, and cut straight to the point. Migration – basically you need to be able to move stuff from point A to point B so that it continues to contribute usefully at point B much along the lines of point A. There is a purpose to why point B exists. If there wasn’t, then it wouldn’t have needed to exist, and there would be no need to migrate anything from point A to point B. But The Wise Man, in all his infinite wisdom, says why would you want to move anything from point A to point B at all? Just forget all about point A when you have created point B and get on with life. What Wise Man with Foot-long Beard forgets is that it would all have been ok if we would have had a crocodile farm at point A and a space research centre at point B. Then we would not need to move all those crocs to the space centre to get on with life. It wouldn’t have been possible anyway. It takes great courage and a complete lack of your mental faculties coupled with an absolute disinterest in life to undertake such an act. If point A and point B were as described above, then The Wise Man with the Foot-long beard’s words would have been justified. Don’t bother moving things around, let sleeping crocs lie.
But what we have here is a different situation. What we have is a monkey farm overrun with monkeys of various shapes and sizes at point A. And we want to move same monkeys from point A to point B. It is required that they be moved from point A to point B. It is absolutely essential that they be moved from point A to point B. And if Wise Man with Foot Long Beard in all his infinite wisdom did not see this at the time he was building the monkey farm, then he should go in for a change of beard.
This was one chapter in this glorious saga. The other chapters would be dedicated to the building of the monkey farm, the space research centre, the transportation of monkeys from monkey farm to the space research centre, and so on and so forth. Those are all stories in their own right. Someday, when we have all monkeys successfully moved from the monkey farm to the space research center, when the resulting research is successfully furthering the cause of man, when Wise Old Man with Foot Long Beard is thinking straight again, when all is well with this world, then is when those stories can be told.