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.�

ith the rousing success of their recent surprise duet at the Super Bowl, entertainers Terry Bradshaw and Sir Paul McCartney have announced that they are going on tour together soon, and will play major stadium and arena dates in selected cities across America. McCartney, former front man for the band Wings and alleged ex-Beatle, was quoted as saying that he "very much enjoyed Terry's fresh approach to lyrics. He plays fast and loose with the words, and I like that."

The response to the pairing of Bradshaw and McCartney for an impromptu version of "A Hard Day's Night" during the Super Bowl halftime activities was nothing less than overwhelming. The phone lines at Fox were lit up for virtually the entire second half of the game with viewers asking where they might be able to purchase a copy of the song as sung by the two well known personalities. The ragged vocals and fractured lyrics caused many of those inquiring to ask about "that punk-rock song about the hard day's dog" the two had sung. Callers were told that, unfortunately, there was no recorded version available at that time. Spokesmen for both McCartney and Bradshaw hinted that they may spend some time in the studio together soon to rectify that situation, however.

"The other thing I like about this arrangement," said McCartney, "is that, ever since Linda died, I've been looking for someone to sing backup on 'Hey Jude' like she did. Up until now, I hadn't met anyone who had that kind of vocal range and musical intuitiveness that she had. But Terry's 'nah nah nah naaah's' have that certain je ne sais quois that I've been looking for."

Asked for further comment, Bradshaw responded excitedly in a language that was completely unintelligible, waving his arms and gesticulating wildly. His eyebrows shot up and down his tall forehead, his eyes bugged completely out and his tongue seemed to take on a life of its own as it rolled and flopped around in and out of his mouth. "Blah-dah boogah wah wah wah! Hibbidy dibbidy woogah! Manalanna frack!" Bradshaw apparently said.

Dear commune:

My name is Ronnie Boyd and I am 13 years old. I'm in the hospital right now and very sick.

I have a rare disease that I can't even pronounce. I need a genitals transplant or the doctors say I won't live very long at all. I probably won't get it, as the doctors say genitals transplanting is very rare and most doctors can't do it without laughing so it's a very risky procedure. My doctor says things look pretty bad and I might not live six months, even if I pay the bill.

I am writing because I am trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records before I die. Since I am sick and my genitals don't even work I can't do all that much, but the Guinness people said my best bet is to get as many "get well" cards as possible and maybe I can set the record for that. So if you could spread the word that the sick boy with the bad genitals needs cards maybe I can do it before I die.

Thank you very much. It means a lot to me.

Ronnie Boyd
Kingstown, DE


Dear Ronnie:

We were very moved by your story, at least some of us at the commune, and we would like to help you. We would like to, but due to recent events it's not going to happen. Read on:

---

Dear commune:

This is Patrick Molton and I'm 11. Just to cut to the chase, I have a rare bone disease that makes my bones pop out through the skin and it's really gross. I need a really obscure type of bone marrow to transplant or I'll die. I probably won't get it as I'm not very well liked and, well, that whole "waiting list" thing is just a popularity contest.

I'm trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records for the most "get well" cards sent to a dying sick kid and I'm doing pretty well, off to a nice start. I'd appreciate if you could let everybody know what I'm doing and where they can send cards and stuff.

Also, watch out for that asshole Ronnie Boyd. He's beat me to the New York Times and
Washington Post both, and the New York Times wouldn't even publish my letter afterwards, they said I wasn't cute enough and they had some kind of limit on the number of dying kid letters they could run. It's enough to really piss someone off. We even both promised, Ronnie Boyd and I, we wouldn't try overseas outlets and then that prick writes to BBC and he's all over the news and radio over there, it's a shitbag. British folks everywhere babbling on about Ronnie Boyd, Ronnie Boyd—do they give a fuck who Patrick Molton is? No. I might as well just be some nobody from Canada.

Ronnie Boyd is a complete asshole. Sure, he comes off a like a perfect bed-ridden sick kid, but it's just a big fat lie. He has this big awful dick-rotting-off disease but he never mentions he got it from sleeping with pigs. Makes a difference, doesn't it? Do you really want to send your "get well" cards to a pigfucker? Think carefully.

I'm the real deal, people. Real good kid, no false pretenses, certainly no animal fucking. I may be a little rough around the edges but that's just because I'm so damn straight with you, I ain't going to lie like some pigfuckers I could mention. So you search your souls or whatever you need to do and before you send out a "get well" card, just be sure if you want a pigfucker in the Guinness Book of World Records or a straight-shooting good American kid. Thanks.

Patrick Molton
Meelay, NJ


Dear Patrick, Ronnie:

As you can see, this has become a much stickier issue than we're prepared to get into. All we can say is good luck trying to get into the Guinness Book, but we're not getting involved.

Pigfucker.

the commune

---

Dear commune:

Why didn't you tell anyone the commune was going to be on 60 Minutes? Being both a regular 60 Minutes viewer and loyal commune reader, I was happily surprised to see Ed Bradley leading a camera team into the offices of the commune last Sunday. I'm not sure why they blurred Rok Finger's face and not everybody else, but it was very cool to see all the famous commune writers and columnists and personalities (Mazie the Chicken is a lot shorter in person) in moving pictures for the first time.

It's a shame they spent so much time on the unhealthy working conditions of the office and the questionable bookkeeping in the advertising department and didn't cover the great reporting and on-target editorials the commune has always presented. If you're going to be on television again, let me know so I can tape it.

Mitch Weaver
Mullasky, VA


Dear Cary:

Our lawyers suggest we answer your letter carefully and neither confirm nor deny the
60 Minutes piece you mentioned. We can safely say, however, that Rok Finger's face was not blurred by any technological means. It just takes some getting used to.

the commune

---

Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for however many seashells she sells by the sea shore when she sells seashells. That's one of our favorites. That and holding your tongue and telling everyone you were born on a pirate ship.

º Last Column: Volume 14
º more columns