SMOKE: Email To My Clone

Originally published: 10 March 2004

In my ideal world we would have human cloning, although to be honest I wouldn't really want to meet myself.

But it would certainly be useful to have a spare version of yourself for tricky situations, like when you get caught with the neighbour's wife ("I'm not me - I'm my clone!"), or for when you really don't want to go somewhere - you can send your clone along in your place.

Considering the fact that I wouldn't want to meet my clone, I'd have to text him. Or send him an email. Which is precisely what I did.

Dear Clone

Boo! Hah - yup - it's me! The oke you were modelled on. Sorry about the ingrown toenail - the last podiatrist to hack it out swore blue murder it wouldn't return, but it has. Be happy in the knowledge that I'm suffering as much as you.

I also want to apologise for the size of your member - I know it's really big, and that the girlies claw and spit at each other in an effort to own it, but what can one man and his clone do? You'll just have to live with it.

Anyway - I wanted to offer you some advice on being me, and let you know what I expect of you. I was here first - you are essentially my backup copy, so I want you to pay close attention.

For starters - the remote is yours, and yours alone. You will not give up the remote under any circumstances. The reason you will not give up the remote is because anyone else who touches it will bollocks up your viewing like nobody's business, and to be in control of your entertainment is vital to your peace of mind.

Next - under no circumstances are you to impersonate me in bed. You bloody clones all think you're so original with your "But how will she ever know?" argument, but what concerns me is not whether she knows or not - I know.

And the thought of myself defiling my wife in all manner of filthy ways while pretending to be me is frightening at best. I don't want me to be anywhere near my wife - christ knows what I'll do to her.

I hope you're keeping up with me here - no slacking off now.

When driving, be sure to start with your foot flat on the pedal and do not take it off until you have reached your destination. This may mean a high incidence of road rage and dead pedestrians, but trust me when I tell you that They are all out to beat you in Their fancy cars - they shall not pass.

Be sure to pull faces and moan when asked if you would like to go to the beach, or for a walk in the forest, or on a shopping expedition to any large mall - to nod happily and agree to any of those terms will blow your cover instantly.

Do not be kind to children - they don't expect me to be.

Always favour meat in any given restaurant - I hardly ever get it at home which means when I go out I am fully prepared to go to the back of the kitchen and set to work on an uncooked, fresh carcass, providing someone's got All Gold tomato sauce.

Farting is a problem for the both of us, so be sure to get your lies in order. Always blame the dog first as she can't argue her case, but in those extreme moments when your stomach swells up to bursting with suppressed gas and letting go is the only option - do so without shame.

It's a perfectly natural thing - happens to all blokes in general, and you and me in particular. Never happens to chicks.

You may be required to undertake covert operations, particularly around festive occasions like Christmas and Easter. Those two days in particular are right up there with my worst days of the year, so when you go to the family gathering for me be careful of what you say.

You are a Michael Schumacher and Ferrari supporter, although you tolerate the other drivers and teams in a fond, almost empathetic way. You worship Gary Kirsten, to the extent that if he were to pop over and demand that you offer yourself to him, you will acquiesce gladly and willingly, paying extra attention to his nipples.

You prefer tea over coffee, winter over summer, dogs over cats and Britney over Christina. Your milk must be full-cream and cold, your sugar refined and white, your women in g-strings and your sport all-consuming. You will avoid the telephone whenever possible and if forced into answering will speak in monosyllables until the caller gets the message.

And - need I remind you - when purchasing underwear, be sure to ask for the biggest they've got. It will never be big enough, but do what you can to contain that monstrosity.

And that's about it. If in doubt at any stage - simply find a dark corner and sit sullenly in it. Either they'll leave you alone, or some pretty girl will come sit on your knee and try to get you to explain your feelings, giving you a fantastic opportunity for some hem-lifting and innocent thigh-play.

Try to keep out of sight until you're needed, and we'll all get along just fine. Mess up just once and ... well ... you know what they do to naughty, disobedient clones in that white room with the silver chairs, don't you? If not, allow me to assure you that they don't read you kiddie stories.

Oh - and if you've got a spare blue sock be sure to pop it in my postbox - it eloped with an old pair of underwear and its whereabouts are unknown. I'd sure like it back.

See you in the mirror.


PS - if a swarthy bloke with a Russian accent knocks on your door, don't open it. Whatever you do, man - don't open it. Believe me when I tell you that you'll wish you hadn't. If he manages to get in just say "da" as many times as possible while edging towards the window sill and when you get to the window do not be tardy in plunging to your death. You'll thank me when they bring out your upgrade.


I sent the email to my clone last night, and in the morning I found one back - a carbon copy of this one. Which begs the question - which of us is the real person? I believe it's me, he believes it's him, and for all I know it's neither of us.

Which is about all I can take on a Wednesday.

All Smoked Out,
Luke Tagg
Spending time online does bad things to a person, but I'm OK.

Look at me now - all the way from Uitenhage to the bright lights of the big internet.

Find out more using the handy links provided.

Copyright © Luke Tagg. All rights reserved. A few lefts as well.

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