Bring In The Clones

I don’t have enough time.

Or maybe I have enough time, but too much crap to do.

That must be it. I have enough time for one guy, and enough crap for a bunch of guys.

If my experience of the past forty-some-odd years is any indication, the amount of crap I have to do isn’t waning. I’ve got important crap to do, serious crap, professional crap. Critical crap. So what I need is more time. Two, maybe three times as much. Split up all the crap I have to do between two, three, four guys, and suddenly no one of us has too much to do.

So where do I get a few extra guys to shoulder the load of my all-too-busy and demanding life?

Who among us doesn’t want a personal assistant? Of course, what we want is a personal assistant who works for free, doesn’t want benefits, and doesn’t have aspirations of their own.

I was going to have a bunch more kids, and put them all to work. Then I thought about how they turn into teenagers, and realized I’d rather work too hard. Not that teenagers have aspirations of their own, quite the contrary, but because they’d never actually do any work. What I don’t need is a bunch of kids laying around the house eating Slim Jims, playing Hip Hop Mass Murderer II, The Quickening on the PlayStation, and whining about having to pick up their own socks. Besides, their Mom always gives them a pass, what with the spoiling them and whatnot. Makes it hard to keep them focused on their scrubbing and back-walking.

Slavery is, of course, out of the question, just on principal. Besides which it’s illegal. Although, for the record, I’ve been working 10 and 12 hours a day for weeks, and nobody’s been coming to my rescue on my behalf because I’ve been making myself work too much for too little. Apparently, enslaving myself is not against the law.

Where this all brings me is that I’m thinking this cloning thing is a pretty good idea.

Lots of people seem to have some moral or ethical or legal indignation around it, but I’m thinking that as a practical matter, it’s the answer to all my problems.

If all it takes is for me to hang onto a toenail clipping, which ought to be easy enough once I get around to clipping my toenails, or if I don’t get around to it there are probably thirty or forty in the carpet next to the bed, I’ve got the makings of a whole offensive line full of clones in my house. Stick a few of those clippings in an empty cigarette pack, hop a commuter flight to Canada for a meeting with that scary alien UFO lady with all the makeup and her face falling off the front of her head, and I’m on my way to leisure city.

The beauty of the clones is they make the whole slavery thing a non-issue, because as we have learned, you can work your own ass to the bone for as little as you’re willing to take and nobody gives a crap. In this economy, you’re just lucky to have a boney ass to work.

And there are no child labor issues here; because they aren’t your kids… they’re you. More so you than your own kids will ever be. And since they’re clones, there’s no other parent to get permission from, to file charges, to demand equal custody, to extract child support, or to insist on sending them to school and Boy Scouts and whatnot.

So the plan is to have an Offensive line of me’s up and running inside of a month. Until then, the next step is figuring out what we’re all gonna do with all our time. We’ll all have, maybe, even a little extra time on our hands. A little work, a little Nintendo, a couple of errands, a good nap. Not so bad, when you look at it that way.

One of me is going to watch a lot of television. There’s a lot of really good Wings episodes I haven’t seen for a while. He’ll be the one who does the housework, since he’ll be staying home to watch his stories. The bathroom will always be clean. Of course, they’ll be more of us using it, which is why it’ll take a full-timer to handle it.

One of me will be the eater, and eat everything they say is bad for you. Every time they decide that steak, or eggs, or cigarettes, or chocolate, or wine or any one of the things that are supposed to cause cancer or hemorrhoids or dandruff are actually good for you, you’ve wasted years avoiding them. Now, no problem. I’ll be ahead of the curve.

One of me is going to work out. All the time. He’ll be buff, and toned, and ripped, and indistinguishable from Vin Diesel, except that he won’t have made that stupid-ass Fast and the Furious movie. Or Triple X. He’ll be the one we send out on dates, too, since he’ll stand the best chance of getting a little action. Play to your strengths, I always say.

And one of me is just going to sleep. All day, all night. Much like I do now, but without having to pretend to be typing and thinking real hard.

So I put a few toenails in a petri dish with a little Miracle Gro, toss ‘em in the Microwave on “Defrost”, and I’m off to the races. If things go the way I think they will, I’m gonna have a hard time finding stuff for all these me’s to do. There’s only so much rich food, reality television, sex and sleep to go around. If I’m not careful, I’ll have to put some staff on that great American novel, a couple of those paintings, and a romantic relationship.

But one thing at a time. That little girl at the lunch counter on Wings is pretty cute.

That’s it. That’s all I got.

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