Anyone who knows the first thing about cloning knows that it doesn’t work like a photocopier: you can’t just stick big Ken! into a machine and get another big Ken! out. God knows I’ve tried but all that’s come of it are black and white copies of my ass. (Which, by the way, are available for sale in the lobby as limited edition autographed prints.) Modern cloning requires that a baby be birthed. Modern law requires that said baby be cared for. Being the law-abiding citizen that I am, I take my turns caring for lil Ken! 2.0 like any proud manager of a scientific project would– with latex gloves on. While the gloves cover my hands they don’t protect the rest of me from the daily exposure to Ken! 2.0’s not-so-little golden showers. Mind you, I haven’t been pissed on in many a years now and when you pay for it you know when it’s coming. When the clone-child pees there’s no warning, no dirty talk, no nothing. All of a sudden there’s this strangely warm jet o’ pee shooting everywhichway but in none of the ways one wish it would. At first it’s a little unsettling but I’ve come to terms with it this way: I figure that if I’m going to be peed upon, better by a little baby than a fifty-year-old vagrant off the street. I mean, you’ve got to keep these things in perspective after all. Ken!
{ 2006 08 25 }