Protagonist’s mother first kiss… and make out session with jim croce


Protagonist’s mother first kiss…

I will twist today’s daily prompt a bit, to make it more interesting. I will write it from my protagonist’s point of view.

A.’s mother was a woman of a great beauty and charm. Just for arguments sake, lets’ call her, “A.” The boys are: “Eteocles” and, no, “Polynices, or both.” Well, it doesn’t really matter; just semantics, right? No, I suppose it matters a lot since that is pretty much how they got into that mess in the first place. I wouldn’t say that I am much of a Greek dramatist or anything like that, but when it comes to diddling with oracles and binding babies so they don’t procreate I don’t think that it takes much of a brain surgeon.  I would guess that there is something fishy going on, and not in Denmark. Well, perhaps there is something fishy going on over there too, but again, that is neither here, nor there. Granted, all of this probably took place over the course of several centuries, but nobody can argue with DNA. After all, “If the glove fits, you must acquit.” So, whether the “monster of Thebes” was just an O.J. impersonator or the real guy, we got a case on our hands. It also seems that Merope was going through some pretty tough times of her own and on her way to do the dirty (and I don’t mean linens) with the next guy in line: Oedipus. Oedipus Rex was the next guy in line and he didn’t quite cotton to this guy: “Polybus.” I guess he was just giving him a little too much flack and Oedipus simply said, fuck you in no uncertain terms and killed the guy. Not cool. I mean, you just don’t go ‘round whacking people without somebody coming by to slice your third leg clean off, getting blown to bits by some radical. Sometimes you just have to turn the other cheek. Apparently, these fellows and ladies didn’t mind a little of that cheek turning. Those were the days when the phrase “incest is best” came about and follow your gut was a close second. It seemed that Freud was everywhere, be it mind, body or sole. Usually, he was hanging out in the Ego, Super Ego and Id and Bar along with that humongous Trojan horse syndrome that was pretty much borne out of necessity as warriors had to roll out the lures as peace offerings and a prize, sort of like . So, before Hezbollah came zipping out, running, around and pointing fingers,  packing some serious mother f’—^% –‘n heat and weaponry befitting a Queen Jocasta to defuse the whole damn mess. Only Freud and Oedipus and that Trojan fellow, and, of course, George Bush, had the power to squelch the evils of the world. One really had to be packing some serious ammo to mess with Sigmund Freud and crew, the Oedipus complex, Mr. Ego and his closest pals Mr. Super Ego, and, Mr. Id.  No matter what the case, it was a giant mess from start to finish. It would probably be as bad as tugging on Superman’s cape or pee (or is it spit?)  in the wind, two things that Jim Croce strictly warned us mortals against.   

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