Back when the first news of successful human cloning was announced, humanity split into two irreconcilable camps: those who said, "How demonic!" and those, like myself--beloved and durable film star Corey Holiday--who said, "Hey! Where do I send my money?" In those glorious late-1990s days of film screenings, PETA rallies and fragrance launches, guests at events invariably divided into the anticloners, with their earnest discussions of ethics, inbreeding and hillbilly'ed gene pools, and those like myself, so eager and so thrilled to be able to bring humanity the gift of such tried-and-true looks, talent, industry savvy and high T.V.Q.
It was a heady era. Overnight it felt as though so many aspects of life were changing: cremation became a thing of the past as franchised DNA storage-facility stocks became the afterworld darlings of NASDAQ; the cost of most medicines fell to the price of a Mars candy bar; and meat became much tastier. Lawyers experienced what can only be described as a renaissance as all dimensions of law--particularly entertainment, copyright, conveyance, deeds and titles--underwent profound rethinking.
Of course, as the years wore on, the hubbub died. And it was at this time that my poor sweet face, while not becoming fully haggard, was definitely looking somewhat...puffy. Even worse, it was showing on film. The dailies can be cruel.
Makeup calls got earlier and earlier. One box-office flop and--boom!--I'd enter the never-to-return ghetto of geriatric buddy comedies. Yikes.
Yet as time ravaged my looks, I predicted to anyone who might listen that entrepreneurs in retail human cloning would emerge quickly enough. And so they did. First in abandoned Indian Ocean oil rigs and Antarctica--and then slowly and discreetly in more traversed parts of the world.
It was at this point that I, Corey Holiday--magnificent, admired, talented and feted the world over--after countless years of enthusiastic compliance with the rigors of beauty and the surgeon's scalpel, decided at age 50 it was time to obey Mother Nature's gentle call.
I quietly checked into an exclusive (naturally) cow-based Saskatchewan cloning spa--a spa combining the best of Saskatchewan's cattle country with Canada's lax cloning laws. My p.r. staff told folks I was up in the fresh air of Lake Tahoe battling chronic-fatigue syndrome triggered by silicone migration--a plausible alibi if ever there was one.
The spa's rates were steep, but its results were guaranteed. Only superior cattle with modified immune systems were used--cows being the cross-species surrogate of choice. (No cow will ever phone the National Enquirer with juicy palimony exclusives.) Clonees were allowed up to five babies per surrogate mom (no womb sharing). Those wishing more than five received generous volume-discount rates.
Myself? I chose five. A single clone might take a dislike to me--and then what? Besides, if I wanted just one kid, why not go out and have one the normal way? The whole point of this procedure was to have lots of exact genetic copies of me--to create a flock of worshipful children who would love me as much as I'd enjoy watching them worship me.