Author‘s Note: This parody of the creation story was inspired by an article about what Eden looks like today, in war-ravaged IRAQ on the fertile crescent between the Tigris and the Euphrates, due to global warming, pollution, and upstream water hoarding, and also inspired by a book entitled “The Wine Bible“ while sipping much better than what can be found in a carton.
The Book of Reclamation
God said, “Let there be wine.” And there was wine, but it was boxed, lukewarm, and tasted faintly of chlorine. Sweaty and overworked, He took a skeptical sip, frowned, and muttered, “It’ll do.”
The sun burned hot over Eden — a place not of lush gardens but of cracked earth, salt flats, thorny shrubs, and cacti. The Tigris and Euphrates trickled like old men with bladder problems. Death traps of black oil fit only for pavement bubbled deep from the pits of hell. The air shimmered with heat; the wind smelled of methane.
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Adam, sunburned and naked in the dust, cursed his luck. “This must be a test,” he muttered, shielding his eyes from a sun that felt like it was burning into his brain.
Eve appeared beside him, pulling a cactus needle out of her finger. “A test of what? Life as a pincushion?”
They looked around. Their garden was a mirage of brittle acacias, prickly pears, and half-buried plastic bottles. Two vultures circled lazily above, waiting for an easy meal.
The Commandments of Maintenance
And God came walking through the dry wind in the cool of the evening — though evening wasn’t much cooler than day. A brittle, dried bush spontaneously erupted into fire. God snuffed it out with a puff of breath.
He said unto them, “Be fruitful, and multiply.”
Eve looked at the fullness of Adam. “We’re not even dating.
Adam looked at the needle-strewn and oil-laden ground for potential mating spots. “The only thing I want scratching my ass is my own fingers.”
Eve added, “I’m feeling pretty vulnerable out here, too. Can you jump ahead a bit and invent the mall?”
The idea of commandments came to His mind, but He thought they should come later, when there were more people to command. He offered, “Then till the land.”
Adam scratched his scorched scalp. “Till it with what? A shovel made of sand?”
God scowled, the sand swirled and stung their naked bodies like the belt of an angry father.
Eve added, “We could use a little irrigation, Lord. Maybe a breeze that doesn’t sting?”
Glancing skyward, God sighed. “I’ve been working on upgrades, but the paperwork’s a nightmare. The angels are behind on maintenance requests, and Lucifer’s still suing over the zoning rights.”
Desperate for water, Eve lapped at the river on all fours like a dog. She gagged on the filthy water that tasted of sulfur. “Maybe fix the water first?” Eve suggested gently. “It smells… hellish.”
But God was already gone, mumbling about the sin of insolence and budget cuts in Heaven’s Department of Creation.
The Tree of Knowledge and Utility Complaints
In the center of Eden stood the Prickly Pear of Knowledge — a gangly cactus with long spines and one lopsided fruit: a ripe prickly pear, glowing red against the tan of despair.
“Don’t eat that,” said Adam.
“Why not?”
“Because He said not to.”
“And what’s He going to do? Evict us?”
Eve plucked the fruit carefully, pricking her thumb. She peeled off the leathery skin, and the juice bled crimson. She took a bite, winced at the sourness, and glowed with understanding.
“Jesus Christ!” Eve shouted. “Do you know how many code violations there are in this place? He’s too cheap to outsource any of the work to the consultants.”
Jesus Christ would not be available for comment for another two millennia.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the brochure on paradise doesn’t come close to the reality.”
Adam took a bite too. “Would taste a whole lot better fermented.”
“Adam,” she whispered, “You should try the wine. It’s really not that bad.”
The Eviction Notice
And lo, the sky cracked with thunder. God descended in a whirlwind of hot dust.
“I told you not to eat from that cactus!” He bellowed.
Eve crossed her arms. “We were hungry.”
Adam nodded. “We tried the river, but the fish are supposed to die after you catch them, not before.”
God frowned. “You think it’s easy running an ecosystem? The angels keep unionizing, the Seraphim are demanding cloud subsidies, and don’t get me started on the serpent’s legal fees.”
Eve said, “Try turning down the heat a little bit. By the time I’m nine hundred years old, I will look like a completely dehydrated watermelon. At least give us something to wear.”
Adam, still considering the possibility of mating, added, “And maybe some soft sand.”
God sighed. “You’ll have to leave Eden. I’m converting this property into condos for the Archangels.”
They packed what little they had — a dried fig, a cracked jug, prickly pear seeds, and a box of divine carton wine — and walked eastward, into the shimmer of exile.
Epilogue: The Second Creation
In the distance, they found a stretch of desert where the soil was soft enough to till. Eve pressed the prickly pear seeds into the ground. Adam placed the crate of box wines under the shade of a rock.
“Maybe paradise isn’t in a brochure,” she said, “but where we find a place to call our own.”
Eve downed another glass of wine in less time than it takes to say Chardonnay. She stumbled into Adam’s arms.
Adam smiled weakly. “And maybe wine was the first miracle for a reason.”
They raised their wine boxes to their lips, and found a nice soft patch of sand to lay down on. The sun set behind them, staining the horizon blood-red.
God, watching from a nearby cloud, muttered, “Good riddance and good luck finding another rent-free place.“ He turned away. ”Next time, I’m not going to try flipping a place. I‘m going to start from scratch.”
Featured image and parody assistance from ChatGPT.