Begun, This Clone War Has

I trust everyone has seen the first couple Alien movies. They're certified classics of cinema––hell, even the atrocious third movie has gained something of a cult status. But then there's that fourth film in the franchise, Alien Resurrection. That hackneyed, forgotten bastard child of the series. It's the one where Winona Ryder plays an awkward robot, only it's on purpose this time.

If you don't remember the fourth film, or didn't even realize there was a fourth film, you probably aren't alone, so let me bring you up to speed. Having committed suicide at the end of Alien 3, Ellen Ripley is brought back to life in the fourth movie as a clone using a combination of human and alien DNA, effectively setting up the premise for one of the worst movies of the 1990's. There are lots of bloody deaths and loads of stilted dialogue, but the best part of the movie comes midway through when Ripley stumbles upon a room filled with more clones. Looking around, she realizes that she was not the first clone, merely the first successful clone. She finds herself surrounded with test tubes containing failed, malformed Ellen Ripley clones.

Then Ripley sees the clone that was obviously crafted right before her. It's nearly human, though hideously deformed. It speaks to her, and Ripley goes apeshit.

This final failed clone seems to be the only one who realizes what a shitty movie Alien Resurrection is, and understandably requests death as a means of escape.

Ripley proceeds to destroy the room with a flame thrower.

There's quite a bit more movie after that, but I can't remember what happens because I never make it more than halfway through without falling asleep or deciding porn would be more interesting.

There is a point to this little tangent, and it's this: the idea of having a doppelganger is a concept that's always stuck with me. When I was a child, I had a malicious babysitter who convinced me everyone had an evil twin, and if you ever met your twin, he would try to murder you. Then in middle school, one of my classmates claimed there was a mysterious third Olsen twin, but she was so dreadfully disfigured that they never allowed her to be seen in public. Being naive and gullible, I believed him.

Mostly, I've always hoped that somewhere out there, a clan of failed Adam clones were waiting for me to find them. I want to find them. I feel like hanging out with a bunch of ugly, misshapen versions of myself at all times would make me seem that much more desirable to others. Unfortunately, recent events have led me to believe there maybe be no such clone family waiting for me.

Several weeks ago, I attended a house party across the river. I was having a fine time until a noticed a fellow who looked strikingly like me, only better. Much better. Girls were hanging off this dude and fawning over him like he was a Jonas Brother, and not even the one fat one.

At that point it dawned on me. Maybe I was the failed clone of someone else. It all made so much sense. I wracked my brain, pondering whose doppelganger I might be. It could be anyone. People often tell me I look like a handful of famous people, but always with a bit of added insult thrown into the mix.

The more I think about it, the more likely it seems. Maybe I was genetically engineered in a test tube. Perhaps I escaped from the Zachary Quinto Beard Farm.

I know one thing, though: if I ever come face to face with a clone of mine, I doubt it will be a genial interaction. I figure one of two things will probably happen. Either I will murder him and feast on his heart in hopes of gaining extra strength and intelligence, or I will be seduced into having carnal relations with my clone. And come on, don't even act like you've never thought about boning your clone. We all have. It would be the perfect opportunity to find out what it's like to make love to yourself, and possibly address your sexual shortcomings. IT'S RESEARCH, PEOPLE. Nothing more than that.