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Somewhere West of Eden
Auugh!
I roll over out of a dream of scratching in the hard, dry earth with a blunt,
brittle stick to choke off the insistent yelping of my alarm clock, Judas. Yes,
my alarm clock has a name. I have named everything here. I’ve been naming ever
since I was appointed to the role of Adam on this plantation. Naming is an
Adamic task -- one of many, I’m coming to learn. I give all things biblical
tags, as is most fit and right. Nobody wants to be jerked out of a sound sleep
by a clock named Brad. Just as no one wants to wipe his ass with tissue ripped
from a roll named Kristen or Kayla. So I am currently flushing bemerded Leah
into septic tank Laban. Sending old cow-eyes home to daddy. Only problem is,
there ain’t no Eve. My helpmeet has decamped for New York City -- or Jezebel Junction, as I’m
calling it -- leaving me here to struggle with the damned serpents all on my
lonely. Sometimes I pray to the local deity, Yalkumbaknah, to spit in the dirt,
stir up a hunk of mud, and sculpt me another. Sometimes I fuckin’ count my
blessings. Yo, Lord! Wanna build me a woman? I gotcha bone rye cheer! It ain’t
no rib, though--it’s King David, proudly erect on his pelted throne, with his
chubby little sons, Absalom and Solly, rolling around at his feet. [Now enter
slinky Lilith of the Five Fingers, stage left, to get a grip on the situation.]
Oh, yeah. Just call me Onan and pass me a wad of Rachel. End of chapter, end of
verse. Word.
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