Vox Clamantis in Deserto.
The stately swing of the Milky way: imperceptible to all the billions of life forms on this earth, invisible, unseen; yet, turn it does.
Thus can great changes occur in small degrees, unnoticed by those they affect. Only the broad lens of hindsight can compress the measureless into perception.
It's going to happen. Soon. The downfall of our species. Right here. And I'm going to tell you how it will begin:
Depilatory cream.
Maybe Nair(tm) maybe some other brand. Who knows what their preference will be. Perhaps they won't even have a preference, although I think they might. The Enemy, the implacable unflinching foe of all mankind, has shown far too much cold calculating method to let random chance dictate matters at this late stage. So then. Let us say Nair brand depilatory cream. Fix your minds upon it, for it is the weather vane of our life, the storm crow that flies before the darkness of oblivion for Homo Sapiens Sapiens.
I want you to start watching stock levels of depilatory cream in your local supermarket. Informal research suggests that it will be the larger stores where we'll see what I now refer to as the 'clean body effect' being most evident. Nothing overt, mind you. Just shortages. Inexplicable shortages. Razor-blades too. Not electric razors though. They don't have ready access to electricity, so they will rely, in the early days, on cream and safety razors. They don't have money yet either, or not enough for all their needs, so the most likely avenue for them to acquire these essentials is through petty theft.
Oh, that their crimes would always be so insignificant.
I know what you're thinking. "But how will that help them? Won't they freeze?" Perhaps. But perhaps you'll also see flea-markets and used clothing stores victimized by apparently random and, yet again, inexplicable crime waves. Short pants will be stolen at an alarming rate, whereas more normal sized clothing racks will be left untouched. Long coats? No. Ski jackets? Gone.
They might use stilts, I suppose, too, so long pants could also become targets, but only in those areas where lumberyards are most readily found. Make a note. If you live near a lumberyard, start checking on the number and sizes of pants in your local stores. Keep tabs. Watch for shortages in the earth tone selection. Browns. Blacks. No blues. They hate blue. Makes them think of dolphins, and you know how much they hate the dolphins. Of course, of course, you know that or you wouldn't be checking the pants, would you? Yes, fellow pilgrim, the only thing they hate more than dolphins, is us. You and me. Especially me.
They'll shave and coat themselves in cream and leave behind only piles of rich, shaggy fur. You'll see it, soon enough. Underpasses, bus shelters, dumpsters, the sunken area where mechanics change your oil. They'll start filling with brown and orange fur. Oh, won't the papers have a time with that? Where does it all come from? A mystery, they'll say.
Then they'll start to show themselves in public. A low profile, always a low profile. The man who collects tickets at the movie theatre. The help-desk personnel at certain banks. Pre-selected for their diversity goals, obviously. Tiny, elderly men, with bad teeth and long, dexterous fingers. Oh, piteous fate, that we should live to see it pass.
Before long they'll begin the slow climb up the social ladder, the only ladder left for them to climb, you see.
Senior administration jobs, especially in the airline industry. Oh, and pretzels are OUT. OUT. OUT. GOODBYE PRETZELS. Peanuts are back in again on every flight. DON'T LIKE PEANUTS? Ahhahahaha. They'll make you eat them, pilgrim.
Bananas too.
Soon, the pilots will all be short, irascible types with curling lips and flat feet. Watch their feet. You know that, I know, but it pays to remember the obvious. How many of you are going to start carrying a small ball? Carry one. Throw it, suddenly, towards anyone you suspect. Did their feet fly from the floor, even though their hands were free? Watch them.
Once they have the top jobs nailed, and they will, because they work twenty-hour shifts and never ask for a bathroom break (diapers, you know,) they'll begin changing the rules. And once the set the rules, it's all over.
Good night.
They hate us, because we won the race, you see. Top of the tree. Oh yes, they hate us, and they've been waiting for the right time. We thought we'd won the evolutionary war. But wars are only won when the other side stops fighting. Oh, that we had learned that lesson long ago.
They hate us, and the end is near.
The monkeys are coming.