Why Charles Darwin is a cunt.

If Charles Darwin had watched me getting ready for work in the morning, he could have saved years and not had to bother with the trip on the Beagle.

I’m a study in evolution. The bearded one would find a gooey mass of proto-life residing in my bed, forming a massive single-celled organism covered by a protective duvet shell as the alarm goes off.

Appearing to form a skeletal system, it reaches out a newly formed limb and smashed the phone on the headboard until it shuts the fuck up. Already it has learned to use tools!

A fuzzy, smelly creature crawls downstairs. As Charles follows, he is amazed to see bipedalism experimented with. After a shower (Mr Darwin listens at the door in case his study drowns and he’s able to dissect it) the creature stands fully upright and has moved into the kitchen, where it becomes a more accomplished tool-user, being able to create a cup of coffee after three or four attempts. He has even learnt to forage; after only ten minutes the ape-thing has found a mostly clean knife and rustled up a bowl of cereal.

Once in the living room, and after several attempts, the creature returns to the kitchen to find a spoon.

Halfway into its coffee, the being is almost recognisably human. It even manages some primitive language, mainly of the profane variety towards its' intrusive flatmate, who is telling Darwin’s study to keep the pissing noise down and to stop inviting dead naturalists into the house at 4.30am.

Darwin is amazed. Amazed and disappointed. Amazed at watching a billion years of evolution in just an hour, disappointed because he wasn’t offered a coffee.

On my way out the door, I’m tripped up by the semi-imaginary Charles Darwin and momentarily revert to walking on four limbs.

And that is why Charles Darwin would be a cunt if he was alive today.

Or something.