According to what is known as the “drunken monkey hypothesis,” a digestive enzyme mutation 10 million years ago allowed gorillas, chimpanzees, and humans to metabolize alcohol 40 times more efficiently than other primates, resulting in behavior that anthropologists call “scrumping,” which resembles a night out at a pub.
Blame Our Love of Booze on Primate Ancestors, The Wall Street Journal
It’s Friday, and all I can say is Thank-Whatever-Scary-Force-Brings-Thunder-and-Lightning-Up-In-Sky for that. I’ve been gathering all week, and my buddy Nutz–who’s not the sharpest flint in the cave, if you know what I mean–has been hunting like it’s going out of style. Which it will, as soon as we discover farming.
“Whadda ya say we call it a week,” I say to Nutz.
“What a week?” Nutz replies, and I am forced–as I frequently am with my slightly-less-developed buddy–to explain something that strikes me as self-evident.
“A week is,” I begin, then struggle to find words of one syllable to convey my meaning. “We’ve been at it for five days, so don’t you think we deserve a thing.”
“Like what?”
He’s got me there. “I don’t know. Rest. Food. Woman.”
“You guys ought to try ‘scrumping.’” That’s our wise-ass friend Ug, who’s been lying on the grass, propped up on one elbow, a stalk of grass in his mouth. He loves work–he could watch it for hours.
“What ‘scrumping’?” Ug asks. I’m impressed that he’s learned to use quotation marks inside another set of quotation marks. Maybe there’s hope for humanity, or in his case, sub-humanity.
Nutz emits an exhalation of exasperation, then begins. “You guys are working way too hard. Stop beavering away and look around you.”
We do as we’re told, but neither of us notices anything. “What are we supposed to see?” I ask.
“Instead of lifting up thine eyes to the hills, look down–see?” He points to fruit on the ground. “It’s even better than low-hanging fruit–you don’t even have to reach up for it.”
Ug’s face is clouded by a scowl. “Ug want MEAT!”
“Sure you do, Uggie-Boy,” Nutz says with derision. “But man–and in your case I use the term loosely–does not live by meat alone.”
“Me no like fruit!” Ug grumbles.
“You will when you metabolize one of these bad boys!” Nutz says, and hands him an over-ripe monkey orange–that’s a Strychnos spinosa for those keeping score at home.
Ug gives it a sniff and wrinkles up his nose. “Ug no like.”
“It’s an acquired taste,” Nutz says, as he quickly gobbles two of the ripe fruit. “Try one,” he says to me.
I bite into it and I have to say, all of a sudden the brittle carapace that I carry around on my back every day seems to . . . soften a bit. “This is–good!”
“You bet it’s good. It makes all that work that I don’t do all week seem worth it.”
Ug sees the looks of conviviality we have on our faces and decides to join the party. “Ug want happy-fruit!”
“Here you go, pal,” Nutz says. “Knock yourself out.”
Suddenly all the cares that had been burdening me–survival, passing my DNA on to future generations, and so on–seem to dissipate, and I’m feeling . . . loose. Relaxed. Magnanimous.
“You guys want another?” I say, and I almost can’t believe the next words that come out of my mouth. “I’m buying.”
Available in Kindle format on amazon.com as part of the collection “Let’s Get Primitive.”