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This one comes to you from Marcie Clemensdale of Oat Grove, NM...
I spin out clones on a daily basis and I'm grateful for it. But there are less fortunate people out there that can't get their clones out as quickly as people like me and my ilk. We call these people "morons", and I'm no exception. I hate them. I've only met one of them (not intentionally), and this story is about our clandestine exchange. It was October 1984 and I was doing what I don't normally do : walking around outside at night by myself. I had a large entourage of fresh clones at my heels (many of them crawling, due to the Feet Censures of the era), so I felt well protected and suitably nourished emotionally. One of them, a version identical to me in all ways except an inability to furrow the brow, asked me pleasant questions about the day's events, which I proudly answered. I was distracted and therefore didn't notice the figure of a little boy creeping up the sidewalk towards me. I didn't see him reach a small pincer into my chest and squeeze. The intimate action had a paralyzing effect on me and I froze. My clones, on the other hand, could still utilize their motility; they silently raised their arms (those that had them anyway) in unison. The child shrieked and coughed. It looked weak. In my dazzled state, I concentrated on memorizing the boy's hat signature, knowing full well that urchins were coded and organized strictly within the federal child-bins before release. With the right input sig., this boy could be put right back where he came from immediately. I hasten to add at this point that I fully admit to being a "product of my age". I was 19 at the time and fully living out my socio-cultural role-reputation of a "prejudiced twenty-minus-one".
You can imagine my youthful surprise when I noticed the boy was not wearing a hat! Furthermore, it wasn't a boy at all, but an unusually large insect. The size of the bug confused me until I realized with great surprise that it was not in fact large at all, but actually quite small and traditionally scaled. Further study of the boy allowed me to conclude that it wasn't even there at all, and that I was simply imagining it. Once I had calmed down and could look around me with my senses intact, I could finally detect that there was in fact a boy there in my immediate environs, wearing a hat and squeezing my chest with his outstretched claw-like fingers.
My clones, now with arms akimbo, formed the Barrel. For those not in the know, the Barrel Posture is a defensive measure used temporarily for hunger. One clone can form a Barrel, and more than two can; but not two. Two clones cannot form a Barrel. I was lucky on this October night for I did not have two clones with me: I had a dozen and a half. Three of them, I'll grant you, were my friend Bill, but I count Bill as a clone because of the loose scriptments set forth in the '81 mandates, and also, because I was a young person living alone in China and these sorts of things happen to the likes of me all the time and with no recourse. At any rate, my clones were Barreling and making music. I stood back to let them satiate for the boy. Without warning, the boy spoke:
"Please, marm. Please. Can you spare a clone?"
I reeled back in horror. This boy was not a clone? The thought coursed shots of revulsion through my veins. So this was on of those "morons" that the men liked to joke about at the local bar, I mused. How did he come to meet me here, and why? Perhaps I misheard him. Or was this farce? I tested him:
"Go straight home. Your mother calls you."
He stared at me blankly, looked around him. His face betrayed his confusion.
"No, marm. For I have no mother. I am only twice."
So it was true, I thought, true that a "moron" was talking to me. I did what any sensible person would do, I announced my hatred:
"I hate you. Leave this place."
He did. And I laughed at him as he went. The clones, still Barreling, were appropriately sad. I kicked one of them in the shins and laughed harder. One of the Bills gave me a disapproving look. Later, I reported him to Bill, threatening to call Flat Caves if he didn't get the problem fixed. A clone of me, outfitted with a surger's mask, gave me a high-five and attempted a smile. It pleased me. The other clones would learn from this one. When we returned to my house, I stepped into the parlor, closed the door, and leaned against the wall. I was content. No one would know of my run-in with the moron twice-boy. And yet, what an experience it was.
Years later, I would tell the story to anyone who would hear it. I sewed words from it into my nation's flags and inserted references to it into my poetry and local breakfasts. I am more proud now, as a result. The pride produced no swelling, I am more than happy to report.
****
Marcie Clemensdale is an old lady for the Parmesha Transfer.
I have a snippet from one source today:
'Clones Make Good Sense', a treatise on Normatives in Creative Production
-----
by Ed Cris
When the Our Lady (Paula Undergreg) wrote "I don't think I need to tell you, clones make good sense" in the Summer of our Seventh Year, the congregations of aware producers throughout the world realized after much deliberation that she was right -- she did not need to tell us; we knew it already. And it is in the knowing that so many of our practitioners succeed before trying. Thus the Pre-Try movement was born. We [they] immortalize those moments found before making attempts in the fashion agreed upon by scholarly authorities. Like cultures of bygone days, we make divine our smaller mysteries. A clone is more than an extension of one's self. It is a whole self. The idea of the Whole in iterative reality is not new to scholarly authorities or general producers. But even the Our Lady (Paula Undergreg) would be bemused by its use today. She saw clones as benevolent catalysts of sense magic. And intrinsic in her terms were aspects of extension and piece-oriented architecture. Wholeness would seem to negate the moment. Today we are less bloodless in our interaction. We [not they] compromise, seeking to coalesce the piece with the whole and in-so-doing, honor the Our Lady (Paula Undergreg) and perhaps amuse her a little. We hope the corners of her mouth are turned upward just-so, revealing depressed dimples, that her eyes betray feelings of some mirth, and that her teeth become unbridled and bared - their even whiteness an anathema.
I'm pretty sure I mentioned the Clone Liver last night. Here's a story a friend of mine told me about its origin. It's more of a folk-tale; I really doubt its validity:
In the early 16th Century, scientists in Europe pretending to be soldiers managed to get within 30 feet of Queen Ilsbette of Nosc. This was, here-to-fore, an impossibility. In the past, clones of the scientists had been erected and planted up to three feet from the Queen's footfalls, but said clones were prone to motivation by repulsion. Additionally, clones of the soldiers they were impersonating turned out to be frauds and were usually discharged by commanding officers. By not using clones, the scientists discovered that proximity could be reached if one were to dress in military garb. This was not without its difficulties. The climate at the time was adamantly opposed to the use of non-clones as non-soldiers. Angry onlookers would insist with brass basins, gesturing threateningly, but ambiguously, towards them. Many of the scientists became afraid and, fearing the mysterious brass basin's purposes, would fling themselves upon them and lie in them... speculating that, in order to conquer their fears, they must first fling themselves upon them and lie in them. They were proven correct. But their boldness nullified their participation in the proximity study. "Only the meek shall inherit the earth", it was widely believed... and a bold person is automatically setting themselves up for failure in all walks of life. The shy and meek have the best chance at any form of success (as there exists an eventuality that at least some of them will one day rule the world).
Anyway, these scientists (those that were meek enough not to jump in brass basins) were being bold, however, in not using their clones. Their attempts at monarchical proximity were doomed from the start. It was the meek actions of Peretto Giselba that saved the day (as the meek are prone to do). Fearing the wrath of the Queen and not wanting to do anything about it, he fashioned a stick of Cinisal Water from the back of the neck. Using the clamps, he noticed that when DNA gets smoother, it gets, what cloners would later call, "murderous". This inertness, Giselba realized, could be soothed and maintained in a full sack. He did so, and tucked it behind his ear before putting on the ridiculous soldier costume. And thus, the first Clone Liver was born. Its nurturing and subsequent independence would happen much later. A couple weeks, tops.
Say hello to the clones of our forefathers.... a dialogue (recorded 11/01/02 within awarehouse)
~~~
CLONE: Hi! My name is Arthur Redgrave, or it would be, if I was not a clone of him.
YOU: Greetings and salutations! You are the splitting image of our ancestor.
CLONE: I cannot help it.
YOU: I don't expect you to take responsibility. I only point it out as a matter for you to consider. I want you to be aware of your own power to reproduce visually the likeness of the real Arthur Redgrave, dead these many years now. No one alive today ever laid eyes upon your face-sake. We are seeing what so many of your original's contemporaries saw during his lifetime.
CLONE: I am a mere shadow of my original. The light hit him and where it was blocked by him, there on the wall behind him, so shall I remain.
YOU: Do shadows walk amongst their master's descendants in the guise of their masters?
CLONE: Apparently.
YOU: Do shadows lie dormant in the dark? Are they then awakened in future times and made to resemble their masters?
CLONE: Everything about me is a copy of Arthur Redgrave.
YOU: You are a reproduction.
CLONE: I am a forgery.
YOU: Yet your artifice is on display. I believe, if I am not wrong, that the original Arthur Redgrave spoke no English? And here you are, fluent in English for you were raised by English.
CLONE: My tongue is not authentic?
***************
From the home notes of Stink :
~~~
Mr. Carrington does not use traditional cloning techniques. He incorporates a mixture of Northern-influenced mischangism and self-doubling. I will now let the criminal explain his crime, further absolving the jury of unnecessary feelings of guilt:
"I wear the rings, but don't need them. The center of my face is made blurred and unctuous from correct hygiene. My hand can pass through. There is a way to test-tweak the strands inside. It takes some training. My initial doubles lacked shape. Over time, I could get them more defined. Now I've reached a crispness that offends eyes. It is possible to sharpen visuals until they injure. Neophytes beware : keep on the blur. When I pull out my hand (there is no need to grasp - the double will follow), I cast it aside and to the right. So as you know, if left-handed - throw still to right. Then I crown king the double."
There can be no mistaking the urgency of the crime. If it had been less rushed, perhaps we could have guilt. But as it stands in the testimony, speed of crime adversely affects necessity of guilt-of-jury.
Parenthetically, my father would often talk fondly of the "gilt o' jurri" he and his own father cultivated and removed during the Irish plane phase of this nation's child diversions. Both he and his father were roughly the same age at the time and equally underdeveloped so it was no surprise they would escape tasks by raising guilt. Back then, actual juries were not invented, as they are today. They were made of wood and smeared generously with whatever food was served at dinner.
There is a vital importance to Mr. Carrington's deed and its influence on youth today. It is rare that followers write individualized manifestos for their leaders. What a great man he is. Here is my manifesto for him:
"We will not tolerate gum-wire. It is a drug; a poison and she is ugly. Her blanket is not patterned to our liking. Revenge is ours."
Hope he likes it.
Subject A was half-human, half-human clone, and half-chimpanzee. They made him 1.5 times the quantity of a single normal human. Some people think the clone side of him was really the funniest, but the team always intended him to get his laughs from the regular human side. Otherwise, they argue, they would have just made him straight-up equal parts of clone and chimp. But humor was always their intention. No matter your opinion about what makes him so hilarious, his career owes everything to his extra half. Dr. Johnsonian tells the tale:
"Me and my stupid friends were into watching television [in the 1970's]. We thought there was some funny things they showed on it. I used to find humor in trivial dialogue spoken obnoxiously by smarmy twenty-somethings. I still do, of course, but back then my interest bordered on the fanatical. My stupid friends and I would try to find some way to express our appreciation. Concrete poured over the t.v. quickly led to molten lead, and then finally, molten gold. Maria used to dress up as a baby and we'd all coo at her. I vowed solemnly to never vomit again. But it wasn't enough. The grotesques on television were so funny that we couldn't "laugh" hard enough. I wanted to laugh so hard that I was willing to try anything, and my stupid friends agreed. So we decided to make a funny person. Someone who would be funny and also, at the same time, be outside the television. At my insistence, we made a couple of solemn vows - never to pour concrete over our comedian, never to introduce him to friends or relatives, and never to bathe each other or ourselves ever again. Some friends of mine broke their promises and we made them leave our group. The ones that stayed were rewarded ten-fold. We birthed a funny man who made us more than laugh and we launched him into a successful career (after waiting the necessary 20+ years). Others found him amusing and wrote articles about him. I think his human side shows through when he cracks a joke."
Subject A wasn't as well-received as Dr. Johnsonian implies. Sharpy Pesterson,a member of the doctor's elite team of "stupid friends" explains:
"That threefold freak wasn't as funny to most people as I had originally expected. Audiences would hear his jokes and just think "that's a joke" and dismiss it. We actually had to start social campaigns among the populace to teach that jokes have purposes. So many used to automatically reject a comedian's dialogue as a joke without ever really knowing what the word meant. We got a lot of help and support in this campaign from other comedians who wanted their audiences to be more accepting. That's one of the things I'm really proud of. I got the chance to really look at some of these people up-close and see their faces, many of which were so funny in their obscenity. I laughed a mile a minute, and I was very happy as a result. There's something very fulfilling about selfishness, and how it relates to humor."
In his autobiography, Subject A recalls with fondness his successful career:
"There is so little in this world to lie about. If you tell the truth, you will be under suspicion anyway. Make as little of their noise as you can."
I don't pretend to be a rich man. But a number of people have approached me with offers to take my money for some purpose. I'm not sure why this is, and frankly, it concerns me very little. Let them, I say. And furthermore, do pretend not to give them even a passing notice. Do.
Thought about your problem. Found this:
What to do if your clone has too big a head:
Scholars of this century conclude that an over-sized brain is detrimental to the whole health of a clone body. Masses are disproportionate to the parts they are conjoined to. Gravity is deemed ally, and the tester finds a thorn hidden on the rose. As gravity is indicative of larger forces at work in the Heavens, it is no surprise to hear that many try to work around it, what Deshke calls "whisking past God". One must understand that an emphasis on the procedure of promoting a cavity towards growth will often result in an expansion of the surrounding tissues. This is Common Law. Adversely, if one were to emphasize deflation, the name would be heralded in empyreal scripts. It is for this reason that science testers defer to higher ranked individuals. It is also for this reason that this author has the hobbies of tennis, pottery, and hiking/walking. But with children on the rise in the states, each of them flirting with gravity, and parents at a loss for how to hurt effectively, the heads of clones continue to turn out grotesquely huge. The trend is understandable and for many, laudable. I've heard of banquet halls filled to near capacity in cities of Georgia where the people raise their glasses and cheer for the big headed clones in their midst. Many, I've also heard rumored, forget their bravado for a moment, and wonder aloud where the wine for their glasses has gotten off to (Georgia takes away the wine during moments of toast). Still, countless thousands of child-parents realize their mistakes and regret their emphasis on cavity promotion,. These wanton artists-all want to rescind their scholarly attempts and reduce the spectacle. It is for this reason that I created the 5 steps one can take to deal with a top-heavy scenario:
1. Aim fires. Syringes of fire can help, but the most effective method involves a more projectile approach. The further distance the tester is away from the head, the better the results. Heads scale to varying degrees depending on distance.
2. General loafing-about. Disuse can aid and abet. Time and time again, cases of heads left in rooms with heavy apathy absorb natural entropic functions..
3. Naming. This is difficult, but those with pro-handling skills should try this first as its effects are less temporary. Under the right name, a clone head diminishes with self-doubt.
4. Elimination through Looking. Not-to-be-confused with 'Looking that brings Dissolve'. This step will do very little in the way of making one feel at ease or "more-at-home". Try a school for that. Instead, use ETL for lascerations necessary for Step 5...
5. Stress privilege. Clones can accept cosmic reminders of their status. Using a positively enforced strand of one such DNA loop that has been properly lascerated (see Step 4), the unit top carriage will re-scale, transferring mass and seeking proportion. Quickly a tap on the shoulder becomes a pat on the back.
When I want a dog sent into space, I don't want to send my own dog. I don't want to send a dog that is regular-sized either. I don't even want to send a dog that doesn't have glowing red eyes and flames rising from its back. This is why I clone my space dogs. Through the use of simple DNA manipulations and molecular engineering, it's easy to make my cosmic canines exactly how I want them, without all that mess.
Years ago, I wanted a dog sent into space so that it could die. With cloning, I could properly ensure it would not have the necessary biological make-up to survive the vacuum of outer space. Another time more recently, I wanted a dog that could shoot out its own teeth at satellite targets. It was a piece of cake with cloning! And boy was it fun to watch those teeth fly! I know a lot of people say that you should send your own dog and mutate it first with radioactive rays. I just think that's cruel. Sure, there is that element of developed kinship and personal bond when you use your own dog, but who really needs that when you just want them to bark fire or have the head of a human being thousands and thousands of miles above the earth's surface? Also, I'm sorry, but radioactive mutation rays are not fool-proof. You're more likely to get the desired result with cloning than with the ray. My friend told me one time that a ray made his boston terrier walk upright on two legs, spray out nitrogen gas from its four-foot ears, and develop a compulsion to lick electrical outlets, not-to-mention get bloated and irritable. When I heard that I said "great!". But my friend apparently wanted hydrogen gas, not nitrogen. I'm pretty sure that, with cloning, he would have gotten that H.
Here's a few things I've done with space dogs and cloning, two things that go great together!
I made a dog expand to the size of a small city once it reached outer space. There it still remains, in orbit like a baby moon. Other dogs I've sent up there live on it like fleas. But they have to watch out for the flames! I always got to have the flames. ;)
Another dog could speak German. I'm not exactly sure what dialect. It's currently living on the big moon dog, and is having trouble speaking to the other dogs. Cracks me up.
I took two dogs and merged them into one. Those ones died because one was cloned to want to eat the other one. Later, I cloned five (5) dogs to be merged together into one giant monster. I call it Egg -- I hope that it somehow finds a way to reproduce because I think that would be neat. Currently its tethered in space to a big dog who is made of solid steel and can't move.
Fluff is a poodle with a really long thin body. She's practically a length of rope. I've thought of using her to tie to other dogs but that just sounds cruel. So instead I launched her further and farther than the other dogs and I'm pretty sure she's slowly moving away from everything outward into the void forever and ever and ever.
I made one dog whose eyes were replaced with two smaller dogs (glowing red, of course). And the eyes of those same smaller dogs were two even smaller dogs! That's about as far as I could go, but I'd like to at least get down a few more levels. I didn't send that space dog into space because my mom liked it too much. I'm hoping I can make a better one (with smaller and smaller dogs as eyes) so at least one of these can experience the cold dark vastness of eternity.
There was one dog that was really big with glowing red eyes, fire-fur, stilt-like legs, insect wings, marsupial pouch (with an uncloned baby kangaroo in there for kicks), tongue-of-mud, pirate fetish, zip-lock stomach, and horns. I called him Canadian Woman's Finest and he won a couple of awards at space dog conventions. On my birthday, I sent him into space and he disappeared forever. I'd like to think he's still out there somewhere, melting or boiling or getting chopped up.
Well, I hope this has been an informative entertaining look at what can be accomplished when one clones one's space dogs. Maybe readers will think twice before aiming that ray on their little pooch.
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