Texas Scientist Regrets Cloning Cat

cientists at Texas A&M University received international attention last month when it was announced that they had successfully cloned a domestic cat, the first successful cloning of its kind. The cloned animal was a beloved lab cat named “Mr. Fluffers,� who had met an untimely end in an acid-bath accident weeks earlier.

The research program, known as CopyCat, is rumored to be centered on the possible replication of household pets and the lucrative market this breakthrough could create. However, head researcher Mark Fuerbarker insisted that this first cloning was purely personal.

“Sure, it’s truly a great day for science and for Texas A&M. But personally, I think we’re all just glad to have Mr. Fluffers back,� stated Fuerbarker.

Well, maybe not all of them. One scientist in the lab has gone on record stating that he thinks that they may have made a mistake, and perhaps not for the expected ethical reasons. According to Marty Lomas, who refers to the original cat as “Mr. Fucker,� the cat “was an obnoxious kitty primadonna who they never should have strained out of the acid bath for purposes of DNA collection. That cat was an asshole.�

Lomas admits that his viewpoint is a controversial one in the Texas A&M labs, but scientists from around the world share his concerns. “I’ve seen pictures of that cat they cloned,� confided Norwegian geneticist Olaf Sproutzel. “And it looks an awful lot like this hellspawn lab cat I had once, Blitzen. I swear, that thing could crap its body weight in a day and it always got into my lunch. I hated that cat.�

Lomas expressed equal sorrow at the cloning that didn’t happen.

“They had a $20 million dollar grant to spend on cloning research. They could have tried to bring back any kind of amazing asset to humanity, like Lincoln or MLK, or even Marilyn Monroe, so what do they do? They clone this douchebag cat that likes to leave hairs all over my keyboard and thinks it has the run of the research lab, getting all pissy when we invade its ‘territory’. Fuckin’ knobs. Alright Mr. Fluffers, if you want to talk about territory, we’ll settle this nature’s way with a little ‘survival of the fittest.’ I’ll be right back, I’ve got a claw hammer in my car.�

Lomas chuckled bitterly at the irony of the situation, his grief-stricken coworkers breaking new ground in cloning research in an effort to bring the cat back. He hints that the original cat “didn’t exactly meet a natural end, if you know what I mean. Where were these guys when Gandhi was shot? That might have been worth artificially inseminating some eggs over. But this vain, worthless puffball of a cat? Give me a break. How many times am I going to have to kill this damn cat, anyway? Maybe if I force-feed it enough asbestos these guys will cure cancer.�

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Dear commune:

Who pooped on the commune’s parade lately? Talk about a bunch of sad sacks and down-about-the-facers! What this gang needs is some crisp, refreshing lemonade! What could be better than liquid refreshment on a hot summer day? Nothing! So why not buy some lemonade today? Only five cents a glass, while supplies last!

Sincerely,

Bobby Turner
The sidewalk outside the commune offices



Dear Bobby:

Listen kid, if we wanted any of your fucking lemonade we would have bought some already instead of sending Ivana Folger-Balzac downstairs to kick your pitcher over and break your sign in half. Can’t you take a goddamned hint? It was bad enough you had to ruin our mornings for weeks straight, sitting outside the commune offices with your puppy dog eyes and pathetically large quantities of unsold lemonade, riddling our already-riddled hearts with guilt. Can’t you understand that the commune staff members work hard for their money, and five cents (though it may not seem like a lot to you with your freewheeling, ass-deep-in-lemons lifestyle) is actually a week’s pay for some of these people? Apparently not. So you’ve seen fit to torture our hearts further with your sorrowful refrains of "Doesn’t anybody want any lemonade?" sung to the tune of "Bohemian Rhapsody" all day and night. And now, with the letters and voice mails!

Knock it off kid, our answering service is on the lite plan and only counts up to five: you’ve already maxed us out for the month. You’re milking a dry tit, kid, and you won’t have any better luck with our downstairs neighbors at Crochet! magazine either, they’ve been drinking nothing but sealed bottled water ever since Omar Bricks spiked the building’s water supply with mescaline last Halloween.

You just don’t get it, do you kid? Apparently all the potted plants (thanks, Crochet!) Ted Ted has been dropping at you from our windows like some third-rate Atari game have failed to crack your thick skull in more ways than one. All right kid, we get the message. You want to play with the big boys? This means war.

the commune

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Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for any unintended casualties in our ongoing holy war with lemonade vendor Bobby Turner. If you don’t want a metal plate holding your skull together, stay off the sidewalk.

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Greetings, communistas. First and foremost, I must apologize for my absence and the hellish disrepair this site has fallen into in said absence. I had an unfortunate run-in with a Taco Bell Volcano Box and have spent the past few months in the loving care of the Shanesly/Rupert Valley Regional Memorial Hospital. Some might argue that four months is a longer than necessary stay for a common case of food poisoning, but just like the anti-drowning safety labels on all the bottled water sold in town say, we like to be careful here in Shanesly. And really there was no harm done, as I’m sure my birthday party magician’s guild insurance will more than cover the expenses.

The story of how all of this happened is far too graphic for young and impressionable readers, but suffice it to say that Volcano box lived up to its name and turned my box into a veritable volcano, overflowing with flaming human effluvia, if by box you understand I mean my asshole. I realize the term is usually reserved for a woman’s vaginal area, but I imagine gay guys or somebody somewhere calls a man’s ass a box as well, so there you go. Here at the commune headquarters, the inmates were left to run the asylum while I was gone, and I suppose it comes as no great shock that the inmates did a real half-assed job of asylum running. It doesn’t look like we’ve published much, but the staff somewhat made up for that by adding a wet, rotting Nerf refrigerator to my back yard, which apparently has a pack of ferrets living inside of it. I’m afraid to ask where that thing came from, or why Nerf ever made flexible, spongy refrigerators. Whatever the reason, now it’s a collapsed floppy mess in the back yard that squeaks menacingly whenever you walk near it.

On the bright side, several more commune regulars wandered blindly back into the fray during my absence. Vernon Hooper accosted Raoul Dunkin at a local Denny’s, mistaking him inexplicably for Rick Santorum. Freelance freeballers Ella Dipthong and Chals Woodland both sent in columns via the teletype system for deaf people that Mitch Kroeger stole from the old folks’ home he had been pretending to be old to live in, rent-free, for the last few years. In other words, we’ve got all your old non-favorites. When it comes to re-configuring the commune, corralling the old staff has proved to be much easier than expected, since they all seem to be drawn to no pay and ill repute like fat, juicy moths to a house-sized bug zapper. Getting them to do their goddamned moth jobs once they’re incapacitated and twitching on the ground is another story entirely. But at least they’re fumbling their way through the door, even when I’m not here to explain that the doggie door is for dogs only and that Mountain Dew Code Red in the fridge is most certainly not for the dog, as evidenced by the jittery red sprays of dog urine everywhere.

I even received a telegram from Red Bagel the other day, which simply read "HE’S COMING." That’s literally what it said, apparently Red still believes in the power of referring to himself in the third person. The telegram was most impressive for the fact that no telegraph services exist any more in modern times, apparently Bagel had to email the message to some local chunkhead, who then typed it out on some telegraph paper he bought at a garage sale.

The excitement around here would be even more palpable if I wasn’t the only one who remembers who Red Bagel is.

Anyway, it’s great to be back. I’d love to say this will never happen again, but Taco Bell has recently added a Dorito-shell taco to their menu, and we both know it’s only a matter of time before that thing is making babies in my stomach. Until then, we here at the commune will endeavor to provide the high degree of timely journalism you are in no way accustomed to from the commune. Set your eyeballs to "stunned"!

Zincerely,
Emil Zender

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