In the beginning was the Word. And the Word was God and the Word was with God. Then a couple billion years (give or take) went by. The Earth cooled, the dinosaurs came and went, man shed his fur, discovered the plow, and civilization was built. Language, religion, and trade brought small groups together while driving these groups into fractured tribes fighting for power, wealth, land, and prestige. The nation-state emerged. As the empires of Europe decided that the borders of their own continent were too restrictive for their constant wars and persecutions, they searched the globe for new and interesting places to spread their unique brand of civilization. Among these places was the continent of North America. After several attempts at genocide on the indigenous population (some inadvertently, to be fair...), the continent was settled and broken into colonies. In the very recent past, when you're talking about billions of years anyway, thirteen of these colonies decided that they could do the whole "rape the land for economic benefit" thing just fine without the guidance of their cousins across the sea. In the former colony and now state of New York, the township of Geneseo was formed. In the very, very recent past (again, as billions go), a young man and a young woman met and fell in love.
Ann Northrup, a native of Erie in the state of Pennsylvania (another alumnus of the American Revolution), had recently graduated from SUNY Geneseo (SUNY being State University of New York, of which there are several). Her interest in municipal politics and overall lack of motivation to leave the town that she had grown so used to in her four years of drinking and awkward pre-marital sex mixed with occasional studying and class attendance led her to accept an internship with the town council. A minor car accident (oh yes, I forgot to mention that the internal combustion engine had also been invented somewhere between the Earth cooling and the present time. Sorry for any potential confusion this may have caused) resulted in joint pain. She went to the town's young doctor, Donald Cornfield, for treatment. As her pain diminished, her visits became more frequent (and rarely occurred within the confines of his office). Soon they were sharing an apartment together, even though she no longer felt any pain in her joints at all.
They married in a secular ceremony. The state now recognized them, for tax and census purposes, as a single entity. A unit. This bond, they thought to themselves, is infinitely better than being alone. Throughout history, many have felt the same way. And, as is the tradition, they decided to procreate. It was unspoken, of course. "I want to procreate with you," isn't normally thought of as a romantic thing to say (though I'm sure that somewhere some "imaginative" sci-fi writer has used those words as a form of romance in an alien civilization. And perhaps it is that way on other planets, but I have decided to confine myself to Earth and its immediate surroundings until further notice). Dr. Cornfield did say many traditional romantic things, though. Among them were "I love you," "The happiest part of my day is coming home and seeing you here," and "I find you more beautiful every day." He never said, "I'm so glad you got in that car accident, or else we would have never met," but he sometimes thought it. Ann, in turn, also said romantic things to him. The ubiquitous "I love you," "I've never felt this way about anyone before," and "I never want to be apart from you." They attempted to procreate many, many times. Finally, one of Dr. Cornfield's sperm found its way inside one of Ann Cornfield's (nee Northrup) eggs. An as yet unnamed zygote formed.
In January of 1986, this zygote fully matured, emerged from Ann's uterus, and forced its way through her stretched labia and into the doctor's (not Dr. Cornfield as he was not a trained obstetrician) waiting arms. He (the former-zygote had a Y Chromosome, after all) was named Donald Robert Cornfield Jr.; being the second consecutive generation with this name. Ann chose the name. Her rationale was that the person she loved most in the world was named Donald Robert Cornfield and thus the person that she would also love should share the same name. He went through several monikers during his early life. "Donald" never seemed to stick, nor did "Don" or "Donny." "Junior" was tried for about six months, but when he entered Kindergarten there was another child named Andrew Rodgers Jr. who had already obtained a stranglehold on that particular nickname. I consider this a slight injustice, however, because the "Junior" in Andrew Rodgers's name was acquired on account of his father's vanity and not his mother's love. Next were "Robert," "Bob," and "Rob." After a flirtation with "Robby" during his youth soccer days, they backtracked to "Rob" and the name tenuously stuck. His schoolmates often used his last name and variations thereof; "Cornfield," "Corny," and "CJ." The last, of course, standing for "Cornfield Junior."
It wasn't until he graduated from high school, matriculated to a university two short hours away (via the great American means of transportation, the internal combustion engine-powered automobile), and pledged the Alpha Tau Zeta fraternity that the nineteen year old former-zygote named Donald Robert Cornfield Jr. found his true name. He knelt down on the piss-soaked cement floor of the fraternity basement and looked up at the hooded figure in front of him (a senior with a light class load who now works in upper management at a spice company). From the figure's mouth came the words, "Your new name, forever and always, is 'Thumper.'" And so it was was. Donald Robert Cornfield Jr. became Thumper. Forever and always.
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