Every so often a cosmic joke is played on quasi-sentient mammals that bamboozles them into performing tasks so mind-numbingly mundane that said mammals seriously begin to contemplate the possibility of their own de-evolution.
Opposable capabilities gone.
These capricious events seem to occur without warning, leaving one dumbfounded as to their origins. However, they happen often enough as to be endemic in regular daily life, often masquerading as ostensibly productive activities of a strangely compelling and lucrative nature.
10% of brain mass, power up and begin computations.
A sheep raises its head above the herd, but only just as the dragon swoops in from above to rend and devour, the acrid smell of charred flesh and burnt hair as the rest scatter to shelter, rife with the rank odor of fear and submission.
Communication occurs through grunts, snarls and fervent gesticulations. Rudimentary tools are fashioned beside smouldering fires amidst the stink of dung and the curling vapors of unknown meats roasting crudely in the flames. Dirt-caked visages glower and shift in the palpable murk of flickering shadow.
No joke. Just a mortifying tendency towards strange, idiosyncratic and energy-intensive peripheral activities that make a poor mock-up of grounded existence, a religion of charade so foul as to turn against the very core of its being.
The directionless miasma, so stifling in its completeness, mocks the compass of humanity.
A trifle, really, this self-inflicted boondoggle.
Merely a trifle.
Thumbs gone. Mumumumumumumumummum.