"I lay down and snuggled my way back underneath the afghan, munching on my chubby ape doll’s leafy bittersweet ears. I slept; I dreamt no more. But I never regained the bazaars or resumed the sand chase, and I never embarked on the one-year trip befitting my noble blood. For that night, while I dozed, great Uruk, my home, was invaded by giant slugs."
Exiled, ousted, put out by those oozing outsized interlopers, denied his true inheritance, his due kingly crown—so begins this epicene narrator's epichorial wanderings (part epicrisis, part epicedium) in this largely silly, slightly filthy, pun-laden Epicurean retelling of the ages-old Epic of Gilgamesh.
