Og, The Original Forgotten Man

Perhaps it went something like this…

Og, Bog, and Grog were out hunting mammoth one day somewhere in the mountains of Prehistoric Europe. Grog’s job was to select the most succulent, Grade A Prime Mammuthus primigenius available in the Mesolithic grocer’s aisle and herd it towards his spear-bearing buddies who were hidden in the brush. Grog made his choice and, using his trusty, flaming torch, chased the big woolly one brush-ward. Unfortunately, in the midst of all the excitement, Grog forgot the cardinal rule of torch-bearing hunters everywhere: always stay at least ten stone lengths away from the back end of a mammoth after it’s eaten a fir tree for lunch.

Over Grog’s ashes, Og ponders the lesson of his friend’s untimely incineration and thinks: “I’m gonna recommend the Chief hold a hunter’s refresher course and change it to twenty stone lengths.” Meanwhile, Bog, though he has access to the same information, processes it differently. He ends up dismissing the whole episode as a fluke and decides that, even if the conditions were similar, the same result could never happen to him. As Og is busy absorbing the cause and effect of Grog’s sudden demise, Bog thinks: “Let’s see, I had half a bison for breakfast, eighteen crow eggs, hand full of pine cones, pig fat smoothie with a scoop of roe deer hoof powder…which means, if I jog back to the cave reallyreally fast I can eat that entire pit of flame-broiled grubs.”

While Og clearly observed and assimilated the dangers of getting on the wrong side of a mammoth, Bog apparently chose to ignore the historic event. Og burned a groove in his brain and made damned sure his children burned the same groove in theirs, passing his factual knowledge down for posterity. Bog, on the other hand, kept revising the story and, several oral drafts around the campfire later, actually managed to convince himself that the whole debacle wasn’t Grog’s fault, it wasn’t the mammoth’s fault, it wasn’t even the fir tree’s fault. Rather, it was all somehow Og’s fault.

The story of Og and Bog would have no place in hypothetical history were it not for the fact that, apparently, Og went on to father Homo sapiens (“knowing human”) while Bog went on to father an entire subspecies known as Homo sibi destruens (“man destroying himself“). Though they appear physically identical and share a majority of cognitive abilities, Homo sibi destruens (“HSD”) is decidedly different from Homo sapiens in one critical area: they are unable to absorb the lessons of history.

Standouts of this subspecies can easily be spotted governing countries, running the 111th Congress, starring in films, chairing U.N. committees, controlling the White House and keeping the flames of socialism and communism flickering the world over. During particularly critical times in history, HSD often emerges en masse to make sure we all end up ignoring the lessons of the past so we can collectively suffer maximum damage in the present and future.

To HSD, communism is not a failed philosophy. It’s just never been done right. European socialism — a floundering system of government Americans have never actually endured — is somehow superior to the pseudo-capitalist system we are rapidly losing. The government, though they have mangled our public schools for decades, frittered away our Social Security, worsened our financial crisis and grossly mismanaged everything from Fannie and Freddie to the U.S. Postal Service, is now somehow best qualified to handle our banking, mortgages and healthcare. Should HSD cross paths with anyone who has actually suffered under communism or experienced the stagnation, lack of choice, and rationing of repressive socialism, they simply dismiss their warnings.

I recently asked “Ron,” a Rhodes Scholar friend from Taiwan, what he thought of a college student I knew who kept a poster of Mao Zedong on his wall. Ron is married to a woman whose highly-educated father, during the so-called “cultural revolution,” was arrested, tortured and ordered to publicly burn his books. Ron’s wife, a skilled physician, was nearly forced to marry a pig farmer before a patient who was a high-ranking party official interceded. Ron thought carefully about how to define a young man who admired a mass murderer of millions. After a moment, Ron pronounced in his heavy Taiwanese accent: “muddy thinker.”

If the current trends in Washington and Hollywood are any indication, HSD’s muddy thinkers are all the rage.

Several years ago, I came across perhaps the best visual fix on muddy thinking I’ve ever encountered. I was visiting a friend who lived in an isolated, mountain region. Record rainfall that year had caused a series of mudslides throughout the area. Driving up the narrow, one lane road to her house, I rounded a hairpin curve and encountered an amazing site. Pulling over, I got out of my car and stood gaping on the side of the road. There, before me, were two houses I had passed many times over the years. One house, however, had apparently slid down the side of the hill and was now lying in ruins at the bottom of a gully. The other, identical home, located a few yards away from its decimated twin and looking decidedly wobbly, was still inhabited. And there, in that home, in clear view through a dining room window, were the descendants of Bog. Gathered around the dinner table, a family of Homo sibi destruens were eating, chatting, and watching MSNBC as if nothing unusual had happened. I had to fight the urge not to bang on their front door and scream: “Are you crazy? GET OUT!”

Shortly after, the house of Bog’s muddy thinking descendants did, in fact, join its clone in demolished repose at the base of the ravine. I wonder how long it took the family to finally accept reality and acknowledge their dwelling’s fate. I wonder how long it will take Bog’s descendants in America to acknowledge what they are doing to this country?

Walking out of a Hollywood coffee house just after the so-called “Stimulus” was passed, I followed two prime HSD specimens down the street. As they entered their fully loaded Prius complete with scary, propagandic, Obama bumper sticker circa Leninist Russia, I overhead one, young rail-thin blonde talking with another. Instead of pondering how more than doubling our nation’s debt, nationalizing private industry and an unprecedented expansion of government will hobble their bright, shiny futures, I heard: “Let’s see, I had a non-fat, soy latte for breakfast, Acai Berry smoothie with a scoop of protein powder for lunch, hand full of unsalted almonds, which means, if I work reallyreally hard in Pilates…”