Our First Parents

I asked my drinking companion to give me his version of the story of our “First Parents.”

I was having drinks with God in a Manhattan bar when a twenty something woman wearing a mini-skirt approached him and announced, “I want to have your child, O Mighty Jehovah!”

First Parents. Genesis, Adam and Eve.
Our First Parents enjoyed the Garden of Eden while they could.

“Sorry,” God replied, “I’ve already had one kid, and that was enough.”

This interchange made me think of our First Parents, so-called, and I asked my drinking companion to give me his version of their story.

“There were so many glitches, I almost gave up,” he told me.

Then he began telling me about the initial glitch. He tripped a man, and out popped a rib. The man tossed the rib for his Jack Russell and said, “Fetch, boy.” The dog brought the rib back to him, and he tossed it again.

“Stop throwing that rib!” God exclaimed. “It’s your wife!”

“What the blazes is a wife?” the man asked.

At this point God was getting ready to smite some sense into the fellow (after all, the future of an entire species was at stake) when he happened to ask him his name. It turned out to be Aaron, not Adam.

“My bad!” declared God. He looked around until he found a man named Adam, then tripped the man, and out popped one of Adam’s ribs.

With no fetch-happy dog to interfere with its metamorphosis, the rib quickly turned into a pretty young woman. But the rib’s former owner didn’t seem eager to make the woman’s acquaintance.

“What’s wrong?” God asked him. “Isn’t she your type?”

“That’s exactly the problem,” the man said. “She is much type, too much so, since she used to be my rib. She and I share the same DNA, so if we consummated our union, we’d be guilty of incest.”

God was getting pretty frustrated by now. On a whim, he asked the man his name.

“Alan,” the fellow said.

Henceforth God decided to listen a little more closely to a guy’s name before inaugurating the First Parenthood process. Thus he spoke with a Dmitri,

a Bruce, a Sean, an Emilio, a Pedro, a Jarvis, a Heinrich, a Jonathan, an Axel, and an Antoine before he found a 7th grade dropout named Adam.

“You’re Adam, right?” God said, then repeated the name slowly.

“Sure am,” the man said.

Whereupon God tripped the guy, and out came one of his ribs. Soon an engaging young woman was standing next to Adam. “Greetings, my friend,” she said. “The name’s Penelope. Might a bit of coitus be on your menu? Coitus interruptus won’t do, as it doesn’t have much production value.”

“That’s a quite intelligent rib,” I remarked to God.

“The wrong rib came out,” he told me, then went on: “I tripped Adam again. Out came another rib, which changed into (you’re not going to believe this!) a platypus.”

“Any easier way you could have created a woman?” I asked. “Perhaps gathered some protoplasm and molded it into an hourglass shape…”

“Ribs are the only way” was God’s quick answer.

He then tripped Adam a third time, and out came still another rib. A few more times, I thought, and the poor guy will be ribless.

“Hi, I’m Eve,” the new rib announced, and it turned into a sexy young gal who gazed brazenly at Adam and then uttered these celebrated words: “Wanna have some fun, big boy?”

“Sure do,” Adam said.

“The rest is history,” my drinking companion told me, finishing his story.

Upon hearing that I was descended from these two highly sexed, but not particularly bright individuals, I called over the bartender and asked him to fix me an extremely alcoholic drink.


Part of a series detailing Lawrence Millman’s experiences with his drinking buddy God. Soon to be gathered together, assuming a publisher is interested, as a mini-memoir entitled “Drinks With God.”

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