Failed Experiment Produces Hideous Miniature Clone

enetic science took a step backward last week when the creation of a bald, chubby failed clone was revealed by members of the Raelian sect.

"They have attempted to play god, and they have failed," said someone in our newsroom.

The cloning was carried out by Clonaid, a terribly on-the-nose named company founded by members of the Raelian sect, who believe human beings were created by alien scientists years ago. In case you're wondering, yes, they are being completely sincere when they say that. Members of the socially unapproved religion announced their disappointment when the experiment yielded a clone one-eighth the size of the original, hairless, fatty, and with inhibited intelligence and language skills.

"Imagine our dismay when our optimistic attempts resulted in a hideous, miniature version of the DNA donor," said Clonaid spokesperson Brigitte Boisselier. "Perhaps we have exceeded the limits of human capability, but our intentions were good. And we are not giving up yet. The next clones we are producing are due for next week, and we are waiting to see if they are successful."

Though Clonaid revealed little of its methodology, they did speculate the process of incubating the clone in the DNA donor's body for nine months may have been a misstep in the procedure. According to outside calculations, simple physics dictate an exact duplicate could not be produced within the original since the amount of space needed to house a duplicate of equal size would have to be bigger than the original.

Clonaid scientists considered the possibility of the clone outgrowing the host and bursting right through the body, like that scene in Alien or Pras in that "Ghetto Supastar" video, and the scientists considered it had begun to happen, but instead the failed experiment escaped through an existing orifice after hours of laborious effort. It was then they realized the experiment had failed, producing a smallish, demonesque humanoid of sub-human intelligence.

"We have not given up hope that the creature may offer us some insight as to what went wrong, and we have continued attempts to communicate with it," said Boisselier at a press conference. "So far the monstrosity only emits ear-piercing screaming and claws at any who approach it. Our scientists are working to decode its screams and construct a common language, but the sounds are animalistic and will likely be a dead avenue. It is probably just crying out in pain, begging to be put out of its misery."

When asked if there were a chance the creature was unrelated to the clone experiment, Boisselier said the possibility was considered and rejected.

"It is quite clearly a clone of some form, though definitely not what we intended. We brought in the DNA donor for identification, and the creature definitely has the donor's eyes, as well as her cute little nose and dimples. We were going to risk contact between the donor and the creature, but then the small one made a boom boom."

The experiment may have other results as well, pushing lawmakers to create legislation in response to the first human clone, besides possible Tom Cruise clone Peter Facinelli, and evoking edicts from the world's religious leaders.

"Life is sacred, and it is not man's place to play God," said the Pope, mumbling in Latin. "I'm not one to say I told you so, but…"

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Exciting news on the homefront here, people. If you recall my past musings in this column have been concerned with trying to help our boys overseas in the war effort. Those have all met with failing, as I glumly typed. Not anymore! Rok Finger is back in the morale business.

My good friends at Tapps Trading Cards came to me with a high-concept idea to raise money for the troops, and who else but Rok Finger was on their list? I'm not sure since I haven't seen said list, but I'm happy to help. Of course, the Tapps company is basically just my old neighbor Merle working out of his basement, cutting out cereal box squares and pasting pictures over them. But everyone has to start small, and Merle is starting smaller than ever.

Merle's genius idea was for a series of Rok Finger trading cards. Before you think you know where this is going, no, this is not another card-counting scam to bust the Atlantic City casinos. These are the types of trading cards only reserved for major athletic stars and serial killers. Or in some cases, pornographic actors of considerable achievement. That's right. Rok Finger is available in small cereal box squares for you to take wherever you like. Do whatever you want with them. Just don't tell me about it.

It was quite a photo shoot, just me and Merle and his wife Betty, who makes tea beautifully. Exhausting? Indeed. We went through five disposable cameras, but we got a series of shots that were simply incredible. Marilyn Monroe would have JFK put me on his enemies list, she'd be so jealous, if she were not a dusty skeleton by now.

Now, I don't consider myself a pretty boy, and I seem to side with the popular vote in that. But I am patriotic. And that's what I attempt to do, to bring a little bit of patriotism in these dire times to everybody, one and all. Each shot is a special injection of red, white and blue (though other colors are used amply). Costumes galore! Salutes, flags, the glory of America pasted to the back cereal box cardboard. With inspirational sayings like "Never trust a communist"; "America can survive a nuclear winter"; and "Only sissies talk during torture."

Even better for yours truly, I can paste a tiny resume on the back of each one and use it for auditions. Which is nice since I have yet to hear anything more about that small film I did a while back with that liar Piglet. But my first focus is helping, not personal gain. That's gravy.

Where will you be able to buy these exclusive one-of-a-kind Rok Finger trading cards? That's a little difficult to say, which is I can speak perfectly, but I'm not clear on the answer. Merle will be selling them out of his home at first, but hopes to step up production and get them into stores quickly. The manufacturing process has slowed considerably now that Merle is working nights at the lamination plant. But as part of my contract, which is to say the oral agreement we discussed over cigarettes and scotch, for every pack we sell we'll send one to a wounded trooper over in the war territory, as soon as we get a feasible address to work with.

Watch out, enemies of America! Rok Finger is coming for you all. And you'll be able to hear me easily with the loud popping of bicycle spokes that sound like a motorcycle. That's Rok Finger making that noise now.

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I know, it comes as a complete shock to me as well. It's probably in our American nature to assume that everybody feels the same as you do, that everyone shares the same values and the person you're talking to is not some sort of weirdo with a goofy opinion they're just waiting to drop on you. I feel the same way. I was so sure everyone around me believed in the same things as good ol' Rok Finger that I seldom allowed anyone to get a word in edge-wise. Imagine my surprise when I had a mouthful of peanut butter and Camembert used that moment to express outrageous dissent.

Of course the only thing that's been on the news lately is the War on Iraq. And I understand there are those who oppose the war, I have the news in my apartment. I can watch the footage and see the signs to know that some people disagree with our right to do whatever we want over there. But to know one of those weirdoes is sharing a roof with you, that was more than I could bear.

So we're watching this news broadcast and see all these nutjobs hanging out in New York City or some other exceptionally liberal city area with signs saying "War sucks." What kind of hootenanny philosophy are we teaching our young generations? But that's another diatribe for another column, probably a previous one. I'm watching all this and remark to Camembert, "What kind of hootenanny philosophy are we teaching our young generations? And in New York, alas, where the Iraqis bombed the Statue of Liberty."

"I think you're wrong, Rok," Camembert said to me. Do you believe the brass balls on that handi-capable prick? At first I thought it might be some kind of outright ploy for leadership of the apartment, then I realized his ilk probably doesn't believe in leadership. They just set up a council and everybody's on it and nobody ever gets told what to do. They have a name for that kind of government, you know. I just can't remember it.

Knowing all this doesn't help much. In fact, I was happier a few weeks ago when I was ignorant of Camembert's radical political views. To be fair, I haven't been really happy since before my wife tried to assassinate me.

Making it all the harder is the fact I haven't seen Lee since those Arab guys invited him to fight for freedom with them, he just packed up and ran off. He's always been pro-freedom, so that's no surprise. But even if I'm happy for Lee and his righteous group of new friends, that still just leaves me and Camembert alone in the place together. The three of us, including my cat Makeshift, but Makeshift is decidedly apolitical. She really only has an opinion on Friskies and tongue bathing, either way she's not going to get into this hot political debate between me and Chairman Camembert.

I suppose I've been reluctant to admit it, but it's high time I found my own place. I've thought about it before, sure, like when Camembert and Lee locked me out and told me to find somewhere else to live. But once I broke in again the idea slipped my mind. It's time to open that case up again, I'd say. I'll live with all sorts of people, no matter how different, as long as they're just like me. Accepting such a vastly different political idealist and his beliefs is just plain nuts to me.

It would be a good idea to get out soon, too. I'm getting tired of continuously talking to avoid him infecting me with his weirdo propaganda. Even Rok Finger has his diatribe limits.

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