No! And I say that more stridently than an exclamation mark allows. And that no is for you coming to test my genetics, because sooner or later my quality of Highland
descent will be the flavour of the day. And only in America can this question be seen
as a topic of debate, as the national duality of the disUnited States makes its stupid presence felt. What television news are you watching? I thought this whole artificial life thing was the new hot topic for global comedians, joking about organ tourism or cross border illegal transportation of body parts. Sitting down for a few drinks with an American has taken on a whole new meaning for waking up in the morning with the scar. You don’t have to be hit with a weapon any more for resource theft, you can lose something more personal than that. If someone asked me to lick some test paper, I’d start running, no matter how much they wanted to rent my boat and get out on the lake. There is too much genetic engineering going on already, when that same money should be spent on hospitalization and health care for the public, like other sane nations have happening. How many untold billions are spent on the creation of artificial life, when actual orphans sit without adoptive parents? How many untold parents, too stressed to conceive themselves, pay for artificial birth activities? But then, we have Saintess Annjolena, adoptive earth mother for all Americans, rubbing her still bleeding tats against the neglected of Africa. Too bad those Africans are sitting on untold oil and diamond reserves. But then, there is the postitive side of genetics. If I’m ever roughed up real bad for winning a little too much in Vegas, those life giving, nurturing and DNA pursuing wonders of criminal justice will be able to identify my and my attackers. Of course, what comes into play in Vegas, supposedly stays there, so maybe some genetic replication would be good and better than leaving it all behind. And we all know what the little George junior would say to Barbara. I don’t give a whit, lock me away in my hyberbaric chamber, spritz me up with a little JFK DNA, and I’ll feel better in the morning. I might even start to fill out those suits I wear, and my waving to nobody for the press might look even more enthusiatic. Genetic engineering, no, unless you can invent a compassionate American who thinks enough of your country to make it right. And this is coming at you from a descendant of a Former President of The United States.
