Greg is taking a short sabbatical. Enjoy this column from 2001.

While it is outlawed in America, cloning is just around the corner. There’s a company in the Bahamas named Valiant Venture, Ltd. which will clone you for as low as $200K as soon as they get their laboratory set up in a place where cloning is legal (Transylvania?). As soon as I get that kind of cash, look out world—because here comes G2.

I like the idea of having a copy of me running around at my side, but there are an awful lot of people who think otherwise. Some think that a clone won’t have a soul because it’s not a product of God, technically speaking. I’m not trying to side with anyone here, but if this is the case, G2 is going to have his work cut out for him. I imagine a slack-jawed, gentle savage with a goofy grin, who frequently gets lost chasing butterflies—sort of like Lenny from “Of Mice and Men.” While this behavior may make us hard to tell apart, I’ve crafted a simple letter to assist my eccentric buddy.

Dear G2,

Tuck this note in your pocket and refer to it frequently to remind yourself of what your soulful counterpart has to say on the things you are about to live through.

First: don’t touch anything until you’re 22. Out of all the trouble I have found in my existence to date, 90% of the time it was because I touched something I shouldn’t have. Keep your hands in your pockets at all times.

Also, it’s going to be fairly obvious to everyone around that you’re not “right.” A soul-less creature is likely to have no more personality that a zombie straight out of George Romero’s classic (and my all-time favorite zombie flick), Dawn of the Dead. Steer clear of the shopping malls, chief, ‘cuz when those hippies and biker gangs flock to the malls, it’s no-holds-barred, and in your catatonic state, you’re facing certain pain. Do all your shopping on-line.

Tattoo this on your right palm: “Wipe drool.” Nothing will bring attention to your different state than that “sniper’s stare” that you will undoubtedly exhibit, except for the accompanying drool—so make sure you are on it constantly.

Answer every question asked of you with, “What?” This valuable trick was learned in my formative teen years and it affords you twice as long to think of an answer to any question, as the deliverer repeats their query.

For your 18th birthday, I’m going to give you a new car! Inside the glove box you’ll find the title, so go ahead and sign that. You’ll also find an “Organ Swapping Contract between G1 & G2.” Sign that too.

On your 21st birthday, do not—repeat: DO NOT—drink 21 shots of “La Cucaracha” down at a Club Med in Mexico. La Cucaracha translates to cockroach in Spanish, amigo, and that’s exactly what you’ll feel like when you wake up the next day, I assure you. Your liver is of no use to either of us once you funnel that much alcohol into it.

I’m going to be out and about a lot after you sign that contract on your 18th birthday, but don’t stray far. I might need to exercise some of my “options” in the near future and you should be ready for harvesting.

Don’t touch anything while I’m gone.