Candy Four Breakfast

We awoke that morning the same as we always did: one at this hour in the afternoon, the others rising slowly there after in one order or another. Yawning, scratching, itching this nook and that cranny, we all slowly poured into the living room to debate about what kind of cereal or instant oatmeal we'd be having that day. The TV was on in the background, serving more as white noise to our static minds then anything else. Good day time television was hard to come by in those days.

Outside it was bitter cold. There was frost on top of the previous days frost that lay hardened on top of a few feet of snow. When the wind blew even the trees seemed to shiver more then usual. We had all slept in too long to enjoy much sun light. Not that there was much to be had that day.

Grunts and gestures served as primary forms of communication, like an early scene from A Space Odyssey. One member of the household was perhaps more ape-like then the rest. He rarely wore clothing, save for a loin cloth and a rag around his shoulders. There was also that wool hat that never left the crown of his head; and of course, his wire-framed glasses.

We other primates weren't much more evolved, although they liked to think so. One's arms were so long that his knuckles dragged across the floor, and he poised himself accordingly. Another could hardly feed himself, and when he did, he fed mostly on a Freudian substitute for mother's milk. And the last one carried himself with the air of the village idiot who thinks he's actually mayor.

Every household has its members, and those members all have their morning routines. This was ours--and that morning was no different then any other. It was simply four devolved humanoids bantering in grunts and whistles, sipping breast milk, and watching the snow on the TV and the static through the window.