Agony Ant: Neanderthal Poetry [Repost]

Prompt: Save

Dear Agony Ant,

My boyfriend is a Neanderthal.

He keeps himself relatively clean, but has the worst teeth, as in some are missing, some are loose, and some are sharp. This means that our love-making is perilous and often painful and bloody, though is quite spectacular in other regards.

Yes, he should see a dentist, but is deathly afraid of them. He is also afraid of small spaces, lightning, automobiles, cats, plastic, and electricity.

He is also not much of a conversationalist, choosing to “do” rather than “say”. I can’t claim he doesn’t communicate well, but I am a bit of romantic, and love poetry. I really wish he would one day say in words how he feels about me. He has never told me he loves me, but I suspect he does.

We are trying to decide whether to live together. I am a bit of a neat freak, and he is quite the opposite. He rabidly sticks to his paleo diet, while I am vegetarian.

I am no spring chicken, and he might be my one shot at true happiness, commitment, and baby Neanderthals.

How can I tell if we should move in together?

Yours truly,
Sentimental Lover

---

 

Dear Sentimental Lover,

That’s quite a catch you have there. I am kidding. The heart has reasons, and all that.

If you are willing to overlook the little quirks, like his lack of speech and fear of plastic, because you love each other, then all the power to you. I’m sure he overlooks your flaws, like your use of electric lights and toothpaste.

But, he owes you some proof of his true affection and romantic feelings. Demand that he write you a love poem. If he can overcome his shyness about communicating his feelings, then I believe you can be a brilliant match, despite your differences in diet.

Peace and love,

---

 

Dear Agony Ant,

He did it! He wrote me a love poem. It made me cry. Do you think it proves his sincerity?

I am hunter
You are womb
You are beautiful like skinned moose
Pink
Juicy
Fill belly.

Yours truly,
Sentimental Lover

---

 

Dear Sentimental Lover,

It made me cry too. Anyway, the sincerity is definitely there.

Good luck as you start your romantic adventure cohabiting, and possibly, marriage, children, and growing old together.

May I suggest you relocate to a city with legalized marijuana?

Peace and love,

---

—

• Original Prompt: False, July 8, 2016

When Iggie Met Sally

Prompt: Astral

Aggie had her baby on July 17, and it was immediately apparent that Iggie was not the father. The child had very long, straight brown hair and its tiny baby features were snugly concentrated in the centre of her face, which reminded everyone of someone else… but who?

We had them over for dinner again to admire the new addition to the family, and it was Celia, torn away from her iPhone long enough to examine the wee thing with a critical eye, reached over her, smoothed her soft hair into a part, then snatched Uncle Fred’s glasses from his face and posed them over the little face.

All eyes turned to Uncle Fred, who turned an alarming shade of magenta, then to Aggie, who immediately took the baby up to nurse, and finally to Iggie, who was idly clipping his chest hair with my mother’s favourite sewing scissors.

He looked up, unalarmed. He was used to people staring at him and had given up trying to figure out why. He smiled and waved, then set the scissors on the coffee table. He picked up a magazine, and proceeded to rip out the pages, one by one, leaving them in a neat stack on the cushion beside him. He looked up once, to glance meaningfully in the direction of the kitchen, indicating he was ready to fill his belly.

My mother, who had turned pink in the face too, gratefully hustled into the kitchen where the Crock Pot roast needed no attention at all. In fact, we all threaded our way around the furniture in a long, windy, single line like a regiment of ants, into the kitchen to join her. All except Iggie, Aggie, Uncle Fred, and my father.

We could hear my father’s low baritone, humming soothingly, and Uncle Fred’s less sedate squeaks, coughs, and something that sounded like Gregorian chanting. My mother told me to get away from the door and mash the potatoes, which was usually Uncle Fred’s job, though the consensus was he mashed them too much, making them gluey. I was determined to have fluffy mash, and dedicated my full attention to it.

Julia poured herself another glass of white wine. “Who else would have him?” she said, and my mother told her to hush, even though, if you thought about it, it was true.

Uncle Fred had meticulously parted and gelled brown hair, hardened into a helmet, and he wore an abundance of Old Spice cologne because, we suspected, he had an aversion to bathing. He was very white and prone to sunburn even in the winter. He didn’t like animals and we had to lock Charlie in the basement whenever he visited, because he pretended to have an allergy. He had a lot of alleged allergies, including aversions to poppies, asters, rayon, acid-free paper, dish soap, chain link, and Chapstick. Almost everyone had caught him watching porn on my father’s laptop, because he was afraid to access it at home in case “they” could trace it back to him. He wore white sport socks with leather loafers. Uncle Fred’s political leanings shifted regularly to the opposite of what everyone else thought. He believed he was a good debater, but he had no true beliefs.

Well, nobody’s perfect.

Iggie was surprisingly and profoundly disinterested in the fact that Aggie and the baby would now move in with Uncle Fred. If you looked back, you could see their relationship had been troubled for a while. Iggie had stopped taking Aggie’s hand and putting it in his lap a long time ago. Aggie had stopped licking his face when she felt amorous. Perhaps it was inevitable that they would drift apart. The stresses of moving to a new town and to an era far different from the Pleistocene Epoch could strain any relationship.

The landlord of the apartment that Iggie and Aggie had called home wanted to torch the interior, and possibly the entire building, but my father convinced him the place could be salvaged, and called on his friend Ernie McMurphy to come and do the drywalling and carpet installation at no cost to the landlord, since the damage deposit had barely begun to cover the necessary renovations.

So Iggie needed to find a new place, a bachelor pad, and my father called on one of his ex-students, now a real estate agent, Sally Bonaparte, to help Iggie find an unfurnished studio apartment on the ground floor with room for a fire pit outside.

It was love at first sight.

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner [Repost]

Prompt: Assay

At least Iggie and Aggie were dressed for dinner. By that I mean they had some clothes on. Iggie wore a pair of my father’s swim trunks, which looked uncomfortably tight and inflexible, and Aggie wore a pair of Julie’s terry cloth work shorts. They each had a kind of shawl, made of deerskin, which they wore fur side in, and which actually didn’t smell that bad. When ever my mother passed Aggie, sitting awkwardly in her dining chair, she wrapped the shawl a little tighter at the front, to avoid the exposure of Aggie’s nipples.

Breasts were OK at the dinner table, just not nipples. Julie wore a very low scoop-necked white sweater, which so showed off her pillowy breasts that Iggie reached across the table to touch them. His wrist was caught in a swift move by my father, who slapped a turkey drumstick into Iggie’s palm, and this seemed to diffuse the situation.

Iggie and Aggie glared at Uncle Fred, because Uncle Fred made no allowances for their sneezing and wore a healthy dollop of Old Spice anyway. Uncle Fred never made allowances, so Iggie and Aggie should not have taken this personally. Uncle Fred also resisted allowing them to touch his carefully gelled and parted hair, or poke their pinkie fingers into his ear.

We never had our devices with us at the dinner table; it was a rule. Except for Celia, who at eight years old pretty much did whatever she wanted. My mother made her put a napkin over her iPhone, and surprisingly, she complied. But she peeked at it every so often, and whatever she found there made her laugh. Iggie and Aggie looked at her with pity. They had never seen an Apple, though they seemed quite fond of apples, which they ate whole, spitting out only the stems, which still lay on the hallway floor.

When Celia realized that neither of our guests could speak or understand English, nor any language, really, she very cheerfully made child judgements of their appearance and smell. “Iggie smells like Charlie’s breath, that time he ate that dead fish that washed up on the beach,” she said.

“That,” said my father, “is very disrespectful.”

Iggie picked up the fork at the side of his plate, which he hadn’t used yet, and started to scratch his groin with it. Aggie watched him with disdain, then snatched the fork out of his hand and threw it across the room. This seemed to be some kind of personal issue, so we stayed out of it.

When it was time to go, we all stood up. Mother gave them a tupperware container of homemade chocolate chip cookies which they put in the Batman pillow case that Celia had provided. Aggie took the turkey carcass from its platter and put it in the pillow slip along with the cookies. Iggie crossed the room and picked up the fork Aggie had thrown and put it in the bag, too. Then he bit Julie in the ass. Aggie, startled by his attentions to another woman, bit Uncle Fred in the ass. They started to laugh, and we all joined in.

We must have inherited their sense of humour.

—

---

Original Prompt: Modern Families, January 10, 2016
If one of your late ancestors were to come back from the dead and join you for dinner, what things about your family would this person find the most shocking?

Overthinking

Prompt: Roots

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Wednesday! Here you are again.

It is spring, and here at home we are cleaning up last year’s weeds and debris, including those insidious roots that run under the grass and sand. We human beings think we are so smart, but roots are smarter. They come back no matter what we do to prevent them, so I have to give roots a lot of credit. We should devote more study to roots and other persistent indestructibles, like cockroaches.

Moving on from nightmare insects, another kind of root is our ancestry… we all have roots in the same primitive family that may have had the very conversation as the first of a group of my favourite cartoons:

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The other cartoons have no connection to the prompt “roots”, but it’s Wednesday, and they are about cats and dogs.

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Happy Wednesday!

~~FP

Agony Ant: Neanderthal Poetry

Prompt: False

Dear Agony Ant,

My boyfriend is a Neanderthal.

He keeps himself relatively clean, but has the worst teeth, as in some are missing, some are loose, and some are sharp. This means that our love-making is perilous and often painful and bloody, though is quite spectacular in other regards.

Yes, he should see a dentist, but is deathly afraid of them. He is also afraid of small spaces, lightning, automobiles, cats, plastic, and electricity.

He is also not much of a conversationalist, choosing to “do” rather than “say”. I can’t claim he doesn’t communicate well, but I am a bit of romantic, and love poetry. I really wish he would one day say in words how he feels about me. He has never told me he loves me, but I suspect he does.

We are trying to decide whether to live together. I am a bit of a neat freak, and he is quite the opposite. He rabidly sticks to his paleo diet, while I am vegetarian.

I am no spring chicken, and he might be my one shot at true happiness, commitment, and baby Neanderthals.

How can I tell if we should move in together?

Yours truly,
Sentimental Lover

---

 

Dear Sentimental Lover,

That’s quite a catch you have there. I am kidding. The heart has reasons, and all that.

If you are willing to overlook the little quirks, like his lack of speech and fear of plastic, because you love each other, then all the power to you. I’m sure he overlooks your flaws, like your use of electric lights and toothpaste.

But, he owes you some proof of his true affection and romantic feelings. Demand that he write you a love poem. If he can overcome his shyness about communicating his feelings, then I believe you can be a brilliant match, despite your differences in diet.

Peace and love,

---

 

Dear Agony Ant,

He did it! He wrote me a love poem. It made me cry. Do you think it proves his sincerity?

I am hunter
You are womb
You are beautiful like skinned moose
Pink
Juicy
Fill belly.

Yours truly,
Sentimental Lover

---

 

Dear Sentimental Lover,

It made me cry too. Anyway, the sincerity is definitely there.

Good luck as you start your romantic adventure cohabiting, and possibly, marriage, children, and growing old together.

May I suggest you relocate to a city with legalized marijuana?

Peace and love,

Bonus

Prompt: Hope

Of course Iggie was Neanderthal. Literally. But at least he was honest. What you see was what you got with Iggie, always. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but always listened intently when Julie spoke, as if he was trying intently to pluck some sense out of her words. Which he was, actually, doing.

Iggie was fit, uncomplicated, and brought an interesting personality to the table. And bison. He had no pretensions, did not look upon her as inferior; in fact he looked upon her with lust. That was refreshing, as Julie had passed the half-century mark. Sure, she was still sexy, all her friends told her, and she was still actively dating, but the guys she met were so… selfish, predictable, lazy, and dishonest. They felt she should be grateful for their attentions. Grateful!

Iggie was grateful for her company. He brought her thoughtful gifts: small birds, pretty, smooth stones, dead rabbits. He was remarkably well-endowed, which had never been a deal-breaker for Julie, but was kind of a nice, unexpected bonus, all the same.

With regular bathing, and perhaps a bit of dental work, and maybe normal clothing, Iggie had potential. Julie saw it, if no one else did.

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner

• Prompt: Modern Families
  If one of your late ancestors were to come back from the dead and join you for dinner, what things about your family would this person find the most shocking?

At least Iggie and Aggie were dressed for dinner. By that I mean they had some clothes on. Iggie wore a pair of my father’s swim trunks, which looked uncomfortably tight and inflexible, and Aggie wore a pair of Julie’s terry cloth work shorts. They each had a kind of shawl, made of deerskin, which they wore fur side in, and which actually didn’t smell that bad. When ever my mother passed Aggie, sitting awkwardly in her dining chair, she wrapped the shawl a little tighter at the front, to avoid the exposure of Aggie’s nipples.

Breasts were OK at the dinner table, just not nipples. Julie wore a very low scoop-necked white sweater, which so showed off her pillowy breasts that Iggie reached across the table to touch them. His wrist was caught in a swift move by my father, who slapped a turkey drumstick into Iggie’s palm, and this seemed to diffuse the situation.

Iggie and Aggie glared at Uncle Fred, because Uncle Fred made no allowances for their sneezing and wore a healthy dollop of Old Spice anyway. Uncle Fred never made allowances, so Iggie and Aggie should not have taken this personally. Uncle Fred also resisted allowing them to touch his carefully gelled and parted hair, or poke their pinkie fingers into his ear.

We never had our devices with us at the dinner table; it was a rule. Except for Celia, who at eight years old pretty much did whatever she wanted. My mother made her put a napkin over her iPhone, and surprisingly, she complied. But she peeked at it every so often, and whatever she found there made her laugh. Iggie and Aggie looked at her with pity. They had never seen an Apple, though they seemed quite fond of apples, which they ate whole, spitting out only the stems, which still lay on the hallway floor.

When Celia realized that neither of our guests could speak or understand English, nor any language, really, she very cheerfully made child judgements of their appearance and smell. “Iggie smells like Charlie’s breath, that time he ate that dead fish that washed up on the beach,” she said.

“That,” said my father, “is very disrespectful.”

Iggie picked up the fork at the side of his plate, which he hadn’t used yet, and started to scratch his groin with it. Aggie watched him with disdain, then snatched the fork out of his hand and threw it across the room. This seemed to be some kind of personal issue, so we stayed out of it.

When it was time to go, we all stood up. Mother gave them a tupperware container of homemade chocolate chip cookies which they put in the Batman pillow slip that Celia had provided. Aggie took the turkey carcass from its platter and put it in the pillow slip along with the cookies. Iggie crossed the room and picked up the fork Aggie had thrown and put it in the bag, too. Then he bit Julie in the ass. Aggie, startled by his attentions to another woman, bit Uncle Fred in the ass. They started to laugh, and we all joined in.

We must have inherited their sense of humour.