Si(gh)lliness: Send In The Clones

"When one creates a song, one should remember to get one's song copyrighted" he mused, "-wait! Is 'copyrighted' a word? And does one damage oneself's credibility when one uses 'one' too often?"

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**Sigh** sighed the sighing songwriter. Alas and alack, after aimless attempts to avoid alliteration, he sat despondent. Writing words and music - pouring out the emotions of his aching heart like clotted clabbered one month old milk pouring out of the carton - and not one of those plastic environmentally unfriendly cartons, but a cardboard carton, which breaks down to helpful mulch in a few short decades - yechh, I hate the thought of sour milk - but I like sour cream, isn't that odd - he reminded himself to avoid run on sentences and tangential thought processes.

He had just received depressing news from his wife who just happened to be a brilliant genetics researcher. Well actually, her being a BGR (that's brilliant genetics researcher for short, so I won't have to keep typing out 'brilliant genetics researcher') didn't just happen; she earned that position after years of hard work, bribes and industrial espionage. But I digress, tigress.

"Honeybunch," said BGR, "I've got depressing news". She went on to remind him of his stated desire to transition into womanhood. Why did he desire this? Because that's the kind of story that gets posted here, that's why. Anyway, she had tried to clone, from his stem cells, that she scraped off his stem, ouch, -she had tried to clone him a uterus and ovaries and mammaries. So he could have eventually fully implantable and functional female parts funkily planted in his funny places. So that he could have a full, complete transition to womanhood, with pregnancy, delivery, breast feeding, diaper changing, daycare, balancing motherhood and a career, being driven crazy by teenagers, and raising her own grandchildren while her offspring served their 20 year sentences for selling crack.

I implore you, gentle reader, to stop changing the subject and let me get on with the story. "Honeybunch," she said to remind us all that it's still BGR speaking, "I am able to clone almost any organ from your cells - but since your chromy stones are XY and not Dos Equis, alack and alas" (this made him look around the room for Alec and a lass) "I cannot yet make a cloned uterus and ovaries or breasts for you. Nor can I make a penis for me yet, and I'll have to have that because you aren't gonna leave me high and dry after you get a vagina. I apologize for this snugglelumps, as I apologize for the sentence just prior because it adds little to the plot. But I have strong hopes that next year, I can successfully do this. At least the penis for me. So please be patient, gummypumps."

With these dire tidings, the songwriter did what songwriters are wont to do, (which appears to the uncultured mind like I'm misspelling either "want" or "won't", but wont is a word used in refined writing, look it up) that is, to convert his anguish and emotion into art. Or song. Which is a type of art. He then wrote this classic: Send In The Clones. The lyrics are as follows: (actually 'as follows' is NOT in the lyrics):

Isn't it rich?
I want a pair
Not pointing down to the ground
But up in the air
Where are the clones?

Wouldn't it be bliss?
Wouldn't you approve?
You banging me o'er and o'er
Till I can't move?
Where are the clones?
Send in the clones.

Just when I had - my therapist implores -
Finally figured out the organs I wanted were yours,
Making your entrance in my vagina fair
When I feel my groin
My twig is still there

Don't you love farce?
It's my fault, I fear
You know that I want what you've got
Sorry, my dear!
And where are the clones
Send in the clones
I want them - right here.

Wish we were rich.
I am not queer.
This would be such a big boost
To your career
So where are the clones?
There ought to be clones.
Well maybe... next year.
Before the songwriter could get this song under ASCAP or BMI he was sued for libel and plagiarism by Stephen Strongheim with an assist from Judy Callins.

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The lyrics should be sung or lipsynched to the tune of the song "Send In The Clowns". This story is the copyright of Sigh and reproduction permission must be obtained from her. This was also a product of frustrated flights of fancy as I slowly attempt to do more serious writing in the future. Really, I'm not kidding.