The Clone That Cried [Jan 13, 2003]

I realize that I was gone for a long time during the holidays, an absence that may have cost me hundreds of book sales and thousands of readers, but I don't regret one minute of my hiatus, because now I am a dad.

What? You say. Why, that's impossible!

Let me explain. I spent the past three weeks in France. This particular visit was unlike my last French sojourn, which ended when Jean-Marie LePen discovered I was Jewish and dismissed me from my chief speechwriter position. No. This time, my beleaguered manservant Roger and I boarded our pets, Hercules and Mr. Hitchens, and traveled overseas together, I in business class and he in steerage. We were met at the airport by a representative of the fine French company, Clonaid.

She took us to her secret headquarters, high in the French Alps, near the Swiss border. Roger and I each drank a glass of wine. We grew dizzy, then passed out. When we awoke, we were on a beach in the French Riveria. We drank another glass of wine. Again, we fell unconscious, and awoke again in the Alps.

"Please stop knocking us out," I said.

"Sorry," our host said. "But I really am attempting to keep this location secret."

She pressed a button and a panel opened in the steel wall. We beheld a nursery full of babies. Roger and I began walking the aisles. All the babies were completely identical!

"Welcome to Clonaid," said our host. "As seen in our classified brochure."

"You mean to tell me," I said, "that all these babies are genetically programmed to combat anti-Americanism in the Western left?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "They fully support the War On Terror, which is a just war for the future of civilization."

"And they're predisposed to infiltrate and destroy pro-Palestinian groups on college campuses?"

"It's in their genetic makeup," she said.

"I'll take one!" I said.

"That will be two million dollars," she said.

"Roger," said I. "Write this woman a check."

Now Roger and I have a charming little baby girl, who we've named Peggy. She's blond and beautiful and coos whenever I show her a picture of Ronald Reagan. Her little lips trill whenever I say the words "dividend tax cut" to her, and she blows the cutest bubbles when O'Reilly is on.

It's strange to share a house with a genetically-enhanced metahuman, but I think I'll enjoy watching her grow up at twice the speed of a normal girl. My heart is warmed by the thought that throughout the world, she has thousands of identical brothers and sisters who will grow up strong and pure and eventually team up to wipe the darker races from the face of the earth!

But I'm getting slightly ahead of myself. Honestly, I haven't seen Peggy in three days. I'm often on deadline, and Roger handles most of her care. Still, as the years pass on this blog, Peggy will become a regular character in my life, and yours. This will be a fatherhood journal of sorts. Peggy, my clone baby, my sweet daughter, flower of my heart, I dedicate this space to you.