The Last Ice Age

Much has been said about global warming, both pro and con and by that I don't mean if favor of or against, but rather is it real or isn't it real. But, there is a tale to be told about the last Ice Age and how my friend Mustang and I were saved from dying in a cold, cold blizzard one summer's night. It was just north of Kiik-Koba what is now the Crimea, and the winds across the steppes was cold, oh so very cold. How cold was it? Why, it was so cold that if you had to take a leak, you'd freeze your ... (well, I won't say because their may be children in the room)...

Mustang and I had been traveling for weeks, taking a travois and a five or six dogs to keep us warm at night (you didn't think I was dumb enough to cuddle with Mustang just to keep warm did you? I'd rather snuggle up to an enraged triceratops - which Mustang did once, but that is another story). A brief 6 months earlier we had lived in warmer climes, but Mustang couldn't keep his hands off the chieftan's daughter and so we fled that tribe in fear of our lives. Actually, I just went along with Mustang for the adventure, the Chieftan's daughter was in love with me and wouldn't have reported me for anything, not even the Pterosaur claw that Mustang promised her and swore that he tore off of a living Pterosaur (not that I believed him anyway, Mustang was known to stretch things sometimes, not that I'd ever tell a tall tale mind you. At any rate, we fled the Democratia-liberalis tribe and pledged to each other never to return.

But, I digress. As we wandered north Mustang noted that it was getting colder and colder and I told him that he should have brought his LLBean Parka and hiking boots. Of course Mustang claimed that he couldn't because they wouldn't have been invented for another 35,000 years or so, but hey, that's never stopped him before. At any rate, the farther north we go, the colder we got and the more difficult it became to find grubs and berrys and nuts to eat, let alone giant elk to hunt or even an occasional wooly mammoth. We had eaten the last of the dogs and were in fear of freezing to death or starving; one or the other for sure. In fact, Mustang was looking at me like you might look at a thanksgiving turkey, but I assured him that if he tried anything at all, I'd call out the Marines. Mustang said he wasn't worried, for two reasons, one, that the U.S. Marines hadn't been invented yet and when they were invented, he would be one of the first to join up (and he was too) and secondly, in the wind as it was, a smoke signal would be useless. I could also mention that there were damn few cell phone towers in that neighborhood.

Again, I digress. Mustang and I were in dire straits and were about to succumb to both cold and starvation when all of a sudden, a tribe of almost extinct Neanderthals came across us and took us to their campsite. Now, as most of you who read this blog regularly know, Neanderthals eventually did not become extinct, but grew into republicans. The chief, some really dimwitted fellow by the name of Trenta Lotta (really, that was his name) brought us some hot soup after we had been sitting by the fire in the igloo type dwelling and told us that we would have to elect one of us to undertake a task, join the tribe or both of us would be staked out in the middle of the glacier to die a cold and lonely death. Mustang immediately jumped up and said that since he was the oldest and the most experienced, accomplished, accustomed, adept, been around*, been there*, broken in*, capable, competent, dynamite, expert, familiar, fireball, instructed, knowing (OK, OK!! OLDEST... there, satisfied?) that he would assay the task what ever it may be.

The chief clapped Mustang on the back and handed him a small stone knife and a thin piece of something he called a "sheath" I don't know what that was, but it was marked "Trojan." At any rate, the chief and all the other tribal members danced a while and then turned to mustang and said that he would have to use the knife to skin a sabre-tooth and the sheath to make love to the chief's daughter... and man, was she ugly. (How ugly was she? Well, look here and you get a fair approximation.) Well, they got old Mustang quite drunk on their version of Chevis Regal (I thought it tasted just plain old pretty nasty, but Mustang swore that it was so bad, it tasted like Tyrannosaurous P.... Humph, I guess he would know). When he was drunk enough, out into the cold he went.

While mustang was gone, the tribe made me quite comfortable and insisted on doing everything for my comfort except sleep with one of their womenfolk, for which I am eternally greatful. Months went by and no word or sign from Mustang. Finally, one early afternoon Mustang came staggering into the camp. Man, was Mustang really messed up. Most of his hair was gone, there was a long gash on his chest and one arm looked broken. He was missing a couple of teeth and limping quite badly. He had scratches all over him and a wild look in his eye. Mustang walked to the middle of the camp, stood in front of the chief with that crazed/dazed almost psychotic look on his face and said "Now, where is your daughter that I have to skin?"

And that is the truth. You do believe me don't you?

Filed under: Mustang 'N Me! and Humor

UPDATE: Mustang has responded. Somehow, his memories are a little different.