Per the official tenets of Game, I’m meant to dump Jennifer and find someone younger and hotter. I should probably do this before she turns forty in about six months to protect my street cred or something. So let’s play the relationship math game and see how things play out.
I’m about to turn forty-two, so let’s say I schedule a large trash pickup and kick Jennifer to the curb. In this fantasy experience Jennifer doesn’t fight back and turn into a jilted demon bitch like Miss Piggy with a Ph.D in Women’s Studies, but simply wilts away into the background weeping and pining for the loss of me. Also in my dream Van Halen never lost David Lee Roth as lead singer, fat free bacon tastes just like real bacon and I have chocolate flavored semen.
Then thanks to a remarkably convenient and poorly explained combination of time travel, teleportation and cloning, when I was fifteen I had started growing a clone of Jennifer in an abandoned warehouse just two blocks from the house I live in now. When I hatch her when I’m forty-two, the clone Jennifer, henceforth called Jennifer is twenty-seven. I realize calling the clone Jennifer… Jennifer is potentially confusing, but that’s intentional. I figure I’m going to yell out the wrong Jennifer’s name at some orgasmic point, but if I do no one will notice I messed up.
So anyway, Jennifer is great. She’s hotter than Jennifer, but I guess a little less useful around the house. Also she needs a bit more in the conversational skills department, but then with chocolate flavored semen that’s really only a passing annoyance. We have a couple kids together and apart from occasionally messing up and talking to Jennifer about something I did with Jennifer, everything goes really great.
Well really great for about fourteen years. See when I’m fifty-four and Jennifer is thirty-nine, the cloning process seems to fall apart and apparently there’s some sort of mental instability in the Jennifer version of Jennifer. Even worse, it turns out thanks to a remarkably suspicious crossing over from an alternate reality, Jennifer had already started a cloning process creating some a-hole called Athol some two years before I had started the cloning process to create Jennifer.
For those of you getting lost, or simply sexually aroused by a recap of science fiction… Athol would be fifty-four, Jennifer would be thirty-nine and Athol would be forty-two. The kicker being that when Athol was originally cloned, alternate reality Jennifer brought $5000 of Microsoft stock and it’s done extremely well over forty or so years and Athol is loaded like a geek’s cumshot. I try vainly to out game Athol, but it’s just no use. He’s everything I am and everything I’m not.
Pretty soon Jennifer starts telling me she’s just feeling confused about things, never really been sure that she’s loved me. She wants some space to sort out her feelings… and you guys know the tune. All those years of cloning just thrown back in my face like I’m some kind of mad scientist devoid of feelings and logic. So at the age of fifty-four, I suddenly find myself wheeled to the side of the road to get collected in a large trash pickup.
I do of course still remember Jennifer, and look her up on Facebook. We exchange some texts and phone calls about old times and we get together for lunch. I try for a f-close but apparently she has telepathic cats and she’s all “This has been nice, but I need to buy tuna right now.” and that’s about as close as I get.
Maybe I’ll just stick with Jennifer. She’s got conversational skills and doesn’t care that my semen doesn’t taste like chocolate. Plus as a season ending cliff-hanger… apparently we’re both cylons.
Jennifer: That’s right dear, stick with the original model. She’ll still love you when you’re 54, or 64, or…you get the idea. And she’ll still want to do you too…