I think about cavemen a lot. When I say a lot, I mean there was a time in my life when I pretty much didn’t think about anything else.
Any time my life gets difficult, I think about cavemen running away from saber-toothed tigers and killing mammoths with sticks and icicles, and I realize that I’m a giant pansy and that I need to step it up a level. Usually, instead of inspiring me to do just that, thinking about my caveman ancestors pushes me into a funk that I can’t get out of, and I go home to hide under my covers and try not to think about how those very same ancestors would probably use my tender, weak muscles in a stew. (Assuming cavemen had stew, of course.) It’s enough to make one consider creationism, just to avoid facing the cold, hard truth.