Ah genetics. There was a time — quite recently in fact — when I thought that the study of the infinite dimensions, which compose our universe, was my ultimate calling. However, my obsession over the very large was a lonely and ultimately hollow pursuit, which blinded me to what I really needed to feel whole: a companion.
My efforts to turn Edna into an equal terrified you live-birthing ground-apes to the point that she was killed by, um, mysterious circumstances. Now, without the possibility of finding an intellectual kindred spirit on this insignificant speck of a planet, I have been forced to turn to cloning, a science which has, comically, eluded even your cleverest science types.
Several years ago members of your species paraded around a cloned sheep, declaring that you had successfully unlocked the secrets of the genetic code.
Unfortunately for your gargantuan egos, Dolly, the sheep you cruelly dragged into this world, lived for only a scant few years before keeling over and yielding to your genetic quackery. Experts postulated and pontificated on the reason for her early demise, eventually settling on the explanation that Dolly might have been born with a physical age equal to the chronological age of the sheep who donated the original genetic material.
Foolish humans, always meddling with things you can’t possibly understand . . .
Not satisfied with ineptly resurrecting one animal and damning it to an unnaturally short life, your scientific butchers attempted to bring an extinct mountain goat back from the dead, only to have it put out to the great pasture in the sky almost immediately after it was born.
What was the explanation given by the scienticians for the death of the goat? None was really offered, only a slight acknowledgement that something might have been wrong with the DNA used for the cloning.
Really, the word “something” should hint to your species that, perhaps, you lack the genetic gifts to truly master the delicate art of cloning, and maybe, just maybe, you should leave it to your evolutionary superiors.
I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge that you bumbling baboons are not completely clueless in the field of cloning. You have had lots of success with simple creatures, such as bacteria and rodents. However, from where I sit, you are about as close to cloning a human — let alone an owl — as your pathetic Nobel Committee is to recognizing my genius.
But, as I did with the complexities of the perpendicular dimensions, I will try to simplify the process of cloning as much as I can, and who knows. Maybe you’ll eventually stumble upon the ability to replicate yourselves. And hoo hoo, won’t that be fun, having more of you around?
But I grow weary of talking to you obscene looking things. External ears? Honestly, who thought that was a good idea? Next week, if I can stomach it, we can talk a little about the process of extracting, purifying and amplifying DNA. Until then, I will have to meditate to rid my brain of your terrifyingly blank stares.
