Once again we meet, you with the black tulip on your lapel, and me with a bunch of bananas dangling suggestively from my nose. But enough about my fruity adornments - it seems biologists at the University of Skid Mark, Arizona have finally cracked the life cycle of archaeologists. By comparing frogspawn with bellybutton fluff donated from academic dirt riddlers (I donated some of my fluff - I was glad to get rid of it, I had bags of the stuff in the attic) they have managed to describe the great merry go round on which us mud-on-toast merchants all rotate. So without further ado I give you . . . (curtains open, polite ripple of applause.)
LARVA: Impeccable, unimpaired and practically pregnant with possibility.
TADPOLE: Despite several beatings from parents, keeps returning from neighbours bin with pieces of crap saying: 'Look what I found!' Has an unsettling love for pirate maps (and bows and arrows.)
FROGLET: Archaeology degree in hand and clueless. Has also distilled thesis into a short article published in Woman's Weekly, illustrated with someone else's map (covered in confused looking arrows.)
FROG: Digging for a living. Complains about EVERYTHING particularly abysmal legislation in archaeology and crummy way in which state enforces it.
TOAD: Thanks to siding with a vote hungry politician on a contentious rescue dig ends up with a permanent job remunerated by tax payer. Now does a volte-face (that makes the u-bend in a toilet look straighter than a ramrod,) and decides the legislation, works fine thank-you-very-much and as for enforcement . . . shrugs. When required to give lectures just rehashes the map (with the arrows.)
DINOSAUR: Retired, on pneumatic pension, gracefully fading into wallpaper. Passes time using pink crayon to colour in that lovely map (with the arrows.) Has a beaker pot on desk to vomit into when archaeology is mentioned.
FOSSIL: Laid to rest with overflowing beaker pot. As a final mark of respect colleagues drive a stake through deceased's heart. Eventually, after millennia, grave is marked on a map (with an arrow.)
And then the Great Mother Asherah turns the reincarnation handle, churning our protagonist back to the larval stage. - This proves one of two things - either (a) Her forgiveness is infinite, or else (b) She has the hots for two-faced hoors.
Now, I hope you didn't find that too chafing.
It seems today (01/02/12) is World Diggers Day (a charity organisation involved in deprogramming children who run away and become archaeologists.) And since the theme of this day is 'Indiana Jones' I would like to depart with a Spielbergian cartoon I fashioned myself from chicken feet, pearls and sweat.
You spend too long on BAJR methinks - but brilliant
ReplyDeleteToo long in archaeology probably . . .
ReplyDeleteBut thank you for your appreciation. The comments box is usually full of dust - so nice to open it and see a comment flutter out.
ReplyDeleteAbsolutely tremendous - thank God you can draw; This is great work - someone has to do it.
ReplyDelete[ . . .and perhaps now I can stop trying to satirising archaeology with badly drawn cartoons].
Thank you Mr. Carter. Your own site is very impressive! I noticed you have a posting there on Hadrian's wall. The first work I ever did in archaeology was there in 1988. Oh it was heavenly, sleeping on a wooden floor, £38 a week, half starved (I didn't know how to cook,) except when the chip van called in on site - that chip van did pizza in batter - come to think of it the mushy peas were in batter too . . .
ReplyDeleteThat is terrible Connor; luckily, I started in Urban archaeology [Canterbury 1978 - concrete floor with cat shit], so we always ready access to beer to wash the chips down.
ReplyDeleteSorry 'Conor' that is unforgivable - in my defense I am dyslexic and too stupid to be allowed to write without supervision!
ReplyDeleteThe double 'n' in the name Conor/Connor has a long and proud historic tradition, no need to apologise.
ReplyDelete