None of my clones got me anything for Mother’s Day

What a bunch of ungrateful little bastards. You bring a bunch of lives into the world, spend day after day after day busting your ass to make sure they’re properly prepared to face the ups and downs of modern life, and what do you get in return? Forgotten on Mother’s Day. Didn’t even get a card or a text message. I wish I’d never pulled those degenerates out of their nutrient tanks.

Clone One, I figured, would’ve remembered. He was always such a sweet boy. Then he fell in with the wrong crowd. I never should’ve let him hang out with those juggalos up the street. God damn millennials and their dark carnivals.

Sure, Clone Two-A and Two-B are conjoined at the respective crowns of their skull and they live in the attic, surviving off rats and insects and the rain water dripping in from that leak in the corner, but that’s no excuse not to crab walk their asses down to the god damn CVS to get me one of them singing cards. Have I ever forgotten to toss a squirrel up there every weekend so they can have a nice Sunday dinner? No. Not once. And this is the thanks I get.

Clone Three’s probably sitting on his couch, tickling that third testicle that dropped when he was seven. Dude’s a hedge fund manager. I don’t know why people are paying him so much for some boring ass bushes, but he lives like a king. And he never fucking calls.

Clone Four’s busy wrapping up the Republican presidential nomination. I don’t know what the hell went wrong with that one. Actually, maybe I do. I ran out of DNA when I was mixing him up so I substituted in some mayonnaise. Any geneticist worth his telomerase knows that’s a perfectly suitable replacement, but I didn’t realize until a few weeks later that mayo was expired. My bad. Sorry about that, America.

But seriously. You think one of those scumbag clones of mine could’ve bothered to call? Ha, right. Take it from yours truly: if you’re thinking of cloning yourself, don’t do it. This shit just ain’t worth it.