Ragnar Lodbrok and the Mysterious Bottleneck of Humanity: A Tale of Horns, Hindsight, and Hilarious Hypocrisy

So you've come to hear the tale of how I, Ragnar Lodbrok, a warrior of unmatched courage, a scourge of kingdoms, and a fashion icon of fur and iron, came to care about a scrap of history that’s older than Odin’s beard trimmings. Yes, indeed, it’s true—I, the famed Viking, found myself in the perplexing, occasionally ridiculous position of explaining why humanity almost called it quits some 900,000 years ago. No swords, no plundering, no mead-fueled saga around a roaring fire—just me, some surprising revelations, and one terribly confusing YouTube interface.

It all began on a misty morning when my loyal (if slightly dim-witted) crew stumbled upon a peculiar artifact during one of our raids. Now, we’ve looted gold, jewels, and the occasional uncooperative goat, but never before had we encountered a glowing slab of glass that whispered to us in garbled tones. Naturally, Floki, ever the mad tinkerer, declared it “a portal to the gods” and spent the better part of a fortnight poking it with a stick. I, being of sharper mind, realized this was not divine but something far more dangerous: a window into the future.

Through trial, error, and a frustrating bout of accidental face-planting, we learned to summon strange images and sounds from this object. A man with shiny teeth spoke of “Wi-Fi,” while another, disturbingly calm, warned of something called "climate change.” Floki dismissed him as a weakling—“Real Vikings welcome a fiery apocalypse!”—but I, Ragnar, was curious. These voices seemed to speak truths cloaked in riddles, much like the seers of old. Could it be that these odd future-folk knew things we didn’t?

One night, as I fiddled with the glowing slab (which I had named Scrying Square because that sounded sufficiently dramatic), I stumbled upon a video that changed everything. A soft-spoken narrator described a time when humanity almost vanished, a so-called "bottleneck event" where only a few thousand souls survived.

“Only a few thousand?” I muttered, the weight of those words sinking in like a poorly aimed axe. Even by Viking standards, that’s a depressingly small raid.

The narrator went on about genetics and mitochondrial Eve—some sort of mother of all humans, which, frankly, seemed a bit melodramatic. Still, I was riveted. Imagine it: humans teetering on the brink of extinction, scrabbling for survival. For a moment, I saw them as my own kin—hardened fighters against impossible odds, clinging to life while the world conspired to end them.

I, Ragnar Lodbrok, am no stranger to survival. The gods know how many times I’ve cheated death, crawled from the jaws of defeat, and marched back into the fray just to spite those who doubted me. But this… this tale of ancient resilience struck a chord deeper than Thor’s booming laugh after a drunken wager.

“Why didn’t they just raid their neighbors?” Bjorn, my eldest son, asked when I relayed the story.

“Because there were no neighbors left, you cabbage-headed clod!” I bellowed. “Do you not grasp the magnitude of this? Humanity was nearly snuffed out like a cheap tallow candle!”

Bjorn shrugged. “Sounds like a weak excuse to me. We’d have figured something out.”

This, of course, set me into a lecture so impassioned that even my shield-maidens pretended to listen. “This is not merely a story of survival,” I proclaimed, standing atop a barrel for dramatic effect. “It’s a lesson for all time! It’s proof that even the fiercest warriors cannot prevail without unity, without cunning, without—”

“Without Wi-Fi?” Floki interrupted, snickering.

I threw a half-eaten chicken leg at his head.

Still, I couldn’t shake the nagging thought: what would have become of us—of humanity itself—if that ancient bottleneck had gone the other way? What if we hadn’t survived to build longships, wage wars, or, apparently, invent glowing slabs that show cat videos? Would the gods have mourned our loss, or simply moved on to another experiment?

And here’s where things took a bizarre turn. You see, I decided that people—future people, mind you—needed reminding of this near-catastrophe. The more I fiddled with the Scrying Square, the more I realized how casually these modern folk dismissed the fragility of their existence. They squabbled over petty nonsense, complained about inconveniences, and seemed wholly unaware of how close they’d come to not existing at all. They’d invented miraculous contraptions, yet still argued about which brand of bean water tasted better.

So, I hatched a plan. I would use the Scrying Square to deliver a message. Not a declaration of war or a call to arms (though those are my usual favorites), but a reminder: your ancestors faced down oblivion and clawed their way back. The least you could do is stop bickering about pineapple on pizza.

Now, convincing my crew to help was no small feat. Floki insisted we needed “better production values,” whatever that means, while Lagertha grumbled that she wasn’t about to play a “supporting role” in one of my “harebrained schemes.” After much cajoling (and a few threats of exile), we set to work.

We filmed reenactments of ancient survival scenarios—hunting mammoths, huddling in caves, dodging saber-toothed cats. Floki insisted on adding “artistic flourishes,” which mostly involved him pretending to be a woolly rhino. Bjorn, meanwhile, grumbled about the lack of actual fighting.

“It’s educational, you dolt!” I snapped. “Not every problem can be solved by smashing things with an axe!”

“That’s quitter talk,” Bjorn replied, sulking.

Finally, after much chaos and a suspicious amount of mead consumption, the video was complete. It was equal parts informative and absurd—exactly as I’d intended. As the narrator’s voice (mine, naturally) explained humanity’s ancient bottleneck, the visuals alternated between serious illustrations and our laughably amateur dramatizations. At one point, Floki chased Bjorn with a stick while shouting, “Behold, evolution!” It was a masterpiece.

Uploading the video, however, proved a Herculean task. Floki insisted on using something called “a VPN,” which I can only assume stands for “Very Perplexing Nonsense.” After much swearing and several accidental livestreams, we succeeded.

And now, here we are. The video is out in the world, a beacon of humor, history, and humility. Will it change the future? Who knows? But if it convinces even one modern soul to stop whining about slow internet and appreciate the sheer miracle of existence, then my work is done.

In truth, I’ve grown rather fond of this peculiar role as an educator. There’s a strange satisfaction in sharing wisdom, even if it’s wrapped in absurdity. Perhaps the gods intended this all along—to show me that the mightiest battles are not fought with swords, but with ideas.

And if the comments section of my video is any indication, modern folk have much to learn. One viewer asked if the bottleneck survivors had Wi-Fi, while another suggested the whole thing was a conspiracy by ancient aliens.

“Idiots,” I muttered, though secretly, I was delighted. Even in their ignorance, they proved my point: humanity is a species worth preserving, if only for the entertainment value.

So go forth, future folk. Watch my video. Learn from the past. And for Odin’s sake, stop arguing about pineapple.