paul grin hopi
What will Earth be like in a million years’ time? Who will be Kings Of The Cowpat? Assuming Mankind hasn’t Scienced our World into a useless dry turd, one million years is more then enough time for another of the Planet’s Sentient Beings to catch up, overtake and cut us off, with appropriate Eat Me/Up Yours Evolutionary Road Rage gestures.
Charles Darwin and Alfred Russel Wallace are the dudes you want to share a beer with, if you really have nothing better to do with your time than wonder who will have Custody Of All The Marbles a million years from now. The nineteenth century Anthropologists produced theories of natural selection which showed why some species survive, some perish and some hang around street corners looking shifty.
Aptly enough, one of the best illustrations of Survival Theory was Darwin’s success in propagating his own fame. With Wallace about to publish similar work, CD gathered his papers, popped them into his hamsterlike cheek pouches and teararsed off to the Printers, just ahead of his rival. Hence Darwinism not Wallaceism. Pity: I think it would have been more fitting for them to engage in A Fight To The Death on the floor of the British Museum Reading Room.
If my Aircraft Hangar Mind has safely and correctly stored their Evolutionary Templates, the basic premise seems to be: A Monkey With An Inbuilt Hood is better equipped to survive Stinko Weather than A Monkey Made Of Sponge. Or Breakfast Cereal.
Any of the following could conceivably contend for the Lords Of Terra Crown currently worn by Homo Sapiens. You may well lean towards your own particular favourite. You may well lean towards a creature I fail to mention. Maybe you just can’t stop leaning. Seek professional help. I merely present the evidence, Your Honour.
Who will rule Our Wonky Blue Orb in One Million Years A.D.? These are The Contenduhs:
There is no reason to believe Mankind won’t still be Head Honchos in a million years’ time. No reason except Mankind. Even if we ignore our propensity for pooping our Ecological Pants and assume we will Science some solutions, it may be Science itself which relegates us to the Spartan League of History.
For as other species strictly adhere to Darwin’s Theories Of Evolution and allow only the Fittest, Strongest, Most Adaptable members to survive their Subbuteo World Cup Squad Selection Process, Homo Sappyens continues to weaken its’ Gene Pool by filling its’ team with ever more Wishy-Washy, One Legged Wingers.
I myself cannot differentiate between a Football and a Spectator’s Pie, until I have kicked one of them up in the air: Being as sharp-sighted as a bag of bottoms. This of course is a Physiological Defect, which in Pre-Technological Times would have made me a major contender for the International Floodlit Extinction Trophy.
A million years into the future, Human Beings are likely to be taller, less hairy, more pouty and have fewer paper cuts. We may even be born with extra ready-made holes for jewellery. But our very talent for propagating the imperfect by means of eye-glasses, lego-hearts and super-spongey inner-soles, is the very reason we will be overtaken by Rivals With No Artificial Additives.
At One Million Years A.D. Man will either be extinct or reduced to dishwashing in Ffffst Ffffwd Restaurants in Wales. So let’s hope Sharks With No Use For Vowels do not inherit the Earth. Not even the Meek ones. I am not sure they would make very good Restaurant Managers. I don’t think they could resist eating the staff.
Sharks appear to have reached The Heads-Down No Nonsense Apogee of their existence. It is Common Knowledge they have not changed in millions of years. This clearly classifies them as the Daily Mail readers of the Aquatic World. Sharks are such perfect survival machines they downed evolutionary tools, is one of those popular nuggets of information we all carry in our Noggin Knapsacks like: Man used to think the Earth was Fat.
But what about Sharkus Flopius? This new rubber genus introduced itself to the World in the Jaws film franchise of the ’70′s and ’80′s. However, this limp offshoot’s tendency to thrash about as fiercely as a Toddler having a Supermarket Tantrum does not make it a Favourite in the Survival Sweepstakes. Future Sharks will probably continue to be made of Shark.
If they were a rockband* they would be Status Quo: Same old riffs, but honed to unchanging perfection. As such, Sharks are unlikely to ascend to No.1 in the Pop Charts of One Million Years A.D.
A bit like Sharks. Except they read The New Yorker. Dolphins are credited with a rudimentary language of bleeps and squeaks. Not dissimilar to Grampa Bumtourette when he thinks the Sensory Systems of the rest of Humanity are On Pause.
We might be in for a surprise if we ever decipher the noises of these Underwater Raconteurs -Dolphins not Grampas. For I suspect the bleeps are not language in the way that My Pantry Is Infested With Goths or Oy! Get Off My Lawn! is language. Rather, the bleeps are the means by which Dolphins perpetuate their Trendy Village Vicar Image: Censoring the pornographic mudslide of cuss-words which befoul their vocabulary.
Dolphins are undoubtedly the smartest creatures in the Aquatic University. Although Light-Blue Scarfed Whales are nearly as clever. As are Swimming Belgians. Unfortunately, Family Delphinidae are Cursed with the same fatal flaws as Old Style Daleks: They are unable to climb stairs, wear fashionable shoes, or return overdue library books.
One million years might well be enough time for Dolphins to evolve into A Species Of Linedancers. But I feel their quest for World Champeen status will be hamstrung by Local Authorities demanding repayment of one million years’ worth of library book fines.
Not to confused with Cock-Er-Nees. It is said only two things can survive the blast of an Atomic Bomb: Storage Silos containing The Joan Rivers Cosmetics Mountain and Cock-A-Roaches.
Cock-A-Roaches shun the limelight. Remember how they were often mentioned but never seen in the Arthropod Gangster Movie Scurryface. This shady behaviour characterises creatures who happily share package holidays with the discarded toe-nails of disgraced politicians.
The Working Day of The Typical Cock-A-Roach consists of nefarious impersonation of Retired Pork Scratchings and skulking under refrigerators: All done in a sly manner matched only by the Sneakiest Species of Smelly Cheese and Car Keys.
As such, these fellows are more unpopular than Relentlessly Chirpy Cock-Er-Nees. And like them, have yet to score a single point in Eurovision or any other international song contest. Although, in defence of both, it should be noted they rarely finish the first lines of their entries, as other contestants feel compelled to crush them underfoot.
To be real contenders for World Domination, Cock-A-Roaches may need to evolve in terms of size and speed. The VW Beetle for instance. Though I doubt their brain capacity will ever increase enough for them to master a vocabulary of anything more than “Cakes!” and “Beer!”
Just kidding. I don’t really think Moocows have any more chance of One Million Years A.D. supremacy than any other mainstay of Best-Selling Cookbooks. Which coincidentally, is why none of the planet’s Leading Herbs are likely to rise to positions of power in the World Order. Not even the ones that taste like shit.
I only mention Moocows because they are a Cause Celebre in How Not To Get A Column In Soldier Of Fortune Magazine. As an Evolutionary Survival Ploy, Tasting Like Burgers is as useful as being able to Burp The Hits Of Pink Floyd.
Mad Cow Disease may be Mother Nature’s way of saying Hey! Eaters! Leave Those Cows Alone! But it is less effective than preventing bullies from poking you in the eye by cutting your own head off.
By way of contrast, Kangaroos Taste Terrible. Apparently. I have no idea. My experience of Kangaroos has thus far been limited to Skippy and late-night Telephone Chat Lines.
Conspiracy Theorists believe the Kangaroos Taste Like Greasy Iron Filings Myth is a direct result of Rotten Reviews published by Restaurant Critics who just happen to be Kangaroos. If true, this Survival Tactic is at least as cunning as Male Homo Sapiens feigning The Dexterity Of Potatoes, in order to avoid cooking, ironing and all tasks related to Cirque du Bebe Refuse Collection.
Of course, if you have no sense of smell, Kangaroos taste just fine. Then again, if you have no sense of smell, you can’t tell the difference between lots of things. An onion or an apple, for example. Or a chive and an apple computer. Try it yourselves Foolish Earthlings! Pinch your nose and bite a Filthy Old Tramp: They taste like chicken!
Man’s senses are already dulling. Just look at the Popular Phonograph Hit Parade. And with increasing levels of Methane being pumped into the atmosphere by TV Reality Shows, the situation is not likely to improve. Kangaroos are therefore not going to be safe from Pie Manufacturers for too much longer.
Apart from Man, the greatest threat to the Kangaroo population has always come from the subtle hunting tactics of Public Telephone Boxes. Many a Kanga has been lured through the doors of these bewitching Sirens, with promises of Emergency Services and Recorded Betting Tips. Only to knock themselves out as they bounced against the deadly low ceilings.
In time to come, Kangaroos will only escape the predatory menace of Public Telephone Boxes, if they can somehow develop Zip pouches for Mobile Phones.
Despite all this, I still think Kangaroos have a reasonable shot at being the Head Bouncers -ho ho- of Future Earth. Simply because they are pretty enough to stay ahead of Slugs, Prop-Forwards and Morris Dancers, on any list of Protected Species.
The Avian Entry in One Million Years A.D. are masters of survival in Antarctic Conditions, Underwater, and Inside Silver Paper.
Penguins are Accomplished Huddlers. And whilst this keeps them warm in cold weather, it is impossible to tell where one Barbershop Quartet ends and another begins.
If Global Warming continues at its’ present rate, Penguin Suits could well evolve into Trendy Skateboard Gear. This would grant Penguins license to expand their habitat into Shopping Centres and utilise the area immediately above their saggy-arsed jeans for Pencil Storage.
As the World’s Leading Fish Scented Charlie Chaplin Impersonators, Penguins occupy an Evolutionary Niche which should see them survive at least as long as Neighbours and The Cheltenham Ladies College Baboon-Arsed Choir.
I do believe, however, that Jealousy will prevent Penguins from ruling the Global Roost. It is one thing to be one of an elite handful of creatures able to contest Game Shows on land and sea. It is quite another to incite the rest of the Animal Kingdom to violence, by Clapping Yourself All The Time.
The final candidates for the role of Keepers Of The Whole Ball Of Wool are Felis Silvestris Catus. In order to validate their suitability, I refer you to Cato.
Cato is a small, slinky, black and white who looks like Felix on the food tins and is currently employed as an Executive Mouser in my own household. Although she tends to conduct these duties like a Greeter in a Las Vegas Casino. And by the way, if you think Cato is an odd name for a Cat, watch the Pink Panther films…… Now you get it.
Cato is a Polydactyl Cat. I hope I do not disappoint too much when I clarify: Polydactyl does not mean she is a six foot Feline Dinosaur who terrorises neighbourhood Pizza Deliverers and earns a second income as a Monster Movie Extra. No Compadres. Polydactyl means Cato has more than the usual five toes on each front paw. Six in fact.
Nothing remarkable about that, you might think. But it furnishes her with the rare Catability to catch with the dexterity of a Baseball Short Stop, and grip a pen as comfortably as J.K. Rowling. By which I mean: Cato easily grasps writing implements. Not: Cato easily grasps J.K. Rowling.
I hope that clears that one up, because it indicates Cats are capable of developing Opposable Thumbs. It was this Evolutionary Improvement which started Early Man on his journey of technological advancement to the Computer Age, where he is now able to create Interplanetary Garbage, Microscopic Nouvelle Cuisine Portions and Musical Bobble Hats, at will.
In conclusion, if Planet Earth still has enough puff left to blow out the candles on its’ One Millionth Birthday Cake, I rather suspect the icing will be Comprehensively Licked by A Race Of Supercats.
The place of Mankind in this Planet Of The Cats will be almost exclusively limited to positions in the Service Industry. Other roles being reserved for Professional Tummy Ticklers, Human Cat Toys and Newspaper Readers For Jumping On.
Any current Cat Owner -or better put- any current Proprietor Of A Luxury Hotel For Cats, will tell you the inexorable progression towards this Benign Dictatorship has already begun.
One Million Years A.D. ……Miaow-Miaow! Miaow-Miaow-Miaow!
Thanks for listening. paul grin hopi is a Freelance Professional Nuisance you really ought to google if you noticed if they were a rockband* sounded clumsy but knew he couldn’t have said if sharks were a rockband because they were and contained one of the greatest guitarists of all time chris spedding.