July 28, 2006

Meet the Flintstones
Humorous New Yorker column that begins by describing one of the more iconic images of our generation:
A screeching comes across the sky.

Stately, plump Fred Flintstone stood upon the ’saur’s head, bearing a boulder of granite, on which a bird perched, its eyes crossed. An orange dressing gown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild Mesozoic air.

He held his shell aloft and intoned:

Yabba dabba doo!

Afoot and lighthearted, he took to the open road, healthy, free, the world before him, the long brown path before him leading back to Bedrock.

Fred repeating to himself, as he ran, the words of an old song:

Flintstones, meet the Flintstones.
It was the best of times, it was the first of times, it was the age of ice, it was the age of lava, it was the epoch of large sloping foreheads, it was the epoch of dictabirds and monkey traffic signals and woolly-mammoth shower massages. All the modern inconveniences.

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