On the seventh day, God did, as is so often said, rest. But not without a little help.
The Lord, dragging a bit from the drudgery of inflating all of eternity, stepped on a bunch of ripening grapes, and the godly fungus of ethereal toes did yield the yeast of ages. And there, suddenly, was wine, oh, wine, oh sweet uh-oh. And it was good, in the manner of things being good, so sayeth the word, yon word that is the law, divine law that is thine breath, sweet breath that is the fulfillment, the hoo-hah, hooh-hah, hallelujah.
And God partaketh he, as one might, and in his soon-set drunkenness, thought: I shall punch that fucking Adam in the throat. Nay, I shall breaketh he of his remaining ribs, and send his dull ass back to a lump of clay, and maybe even have a quick go with the curvy other one blushing there behind her fig leaves.
But He of All Things, alas, was a bit snoozy from the foot-jam fruit-sauce, the fermented nectar of his own bounty. And there, children, was his mistake.
Rest, oh Lordy, why didja have to rest? You obviously weren’t done yet. I mean, look at us, cowering and hemming and hewing and hawing, the sum total of gross imperfections. And you there, asleep at the wheel. A template for human laziness, sez I, when so very, very much still needed doing.
<Post likes lost from original blogsite>
