A twig. There’s a Greek word, klon, which means twig. That’s the origin of the word clone. Hmm. What if I was twig? Often wondered that. Along with other such oddities like, What if I was fencepost? I have no idea how twig came to mean a duplicate, but in a world where I have somehow just been duplicated, I don’t think that would be the main thing on my mind. What would be on my mind would be endless screaming followed by mime screaming since my voice would’ve gone because of all the screaming.
Let’s presume the clone is identical to me. People would often get their clones to do their dirty work. Wash the dishes. Talk to call centres in Liechtenstein. Wash my undies. Which is slang for male underwear in the UK, I’d like to point out. I’m not wearing frilly knickers. Yet. A clone is seen at one’s own butler or maid. But why? They are a human being. They are not your slave. Why, they could do the very same things to you. And would you want to be polishing his boots?
Of course, you could remove all his clothing and that would leave nothing worth polishing. I hope. I’d have to work out the logistics. Get a name sorted. I’d call him Juan. And get his hair cut. He looks stupid. Get him some decent clothes, too. Then it’s onto tricky things like figuring out if I get any tax benefits. Then onto sleeping arrangements. And boundaries. We’d need to lead two separate lives.
Of course, a world with two of me could get a little complicated. Thoughts may even turn cynical. Many people would kill their clone. Is that murder or suicide? In fact, one could even fake one’s death. Push him off a cliff, people will think I’m dead, whilst I live a happy life in New Caledonia. But I wouldn’t do that. Knowing my luck, my clone will turn on me and clone himself several more times to overpower me and, before long, we wouldn’t know which one of use was real. Oh, and of course, murder is highly naughty. That’s the other reason I wouldn’t do it.
I’d like to think of Juan as my friend. With a bit of tweaking and major surgical reconstruction, I can’t see the problem. If I were cloned, I’d be cool with that. Until, of course, he starts to pretend to be me and starts stealing all my stuff and getting me into a lot of trouble. Then I may have no choice but to start house hunting in New Caledonia.
Whilst all the while the world will live on in blissful ignorance to the fact that I am really Juan. Mwa, ha, ha, ha…
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Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:
The Indelible Life of Me
Hark Around The Words