All the advances being made in science and technology leave this girl shaking in her proverbial boots. And I assure you I’m talking about more of a cowardly quiver than a strutting, Tina Turner-like temblor.
I mean, come on, genetic selection even sounds a bit Arian to this Germanic looking blonde. And cloning is just plain creepy. But I assure you that my biggest fear is that what comes next might be even scarier than a cloned set of George W. quintuplets.
Imagine, if you will, what would happen if a research scientist spent his weekend watching Star Trek re-runs, and decided that we humans would be better off as mind-reading Empaths.
The very thought of it makes me a contender for a starring role in the next sequel of Scream.
If Star Trek and its creatures are alien to you, please count each one of your lucky marital stars- and all neighboring constellations- for you have never been held hostage by a program that annoys you to your innermost core. Yet if your marriage is like mine, it’s the price you pay for losing a round of remote control Ro-Sham-Bo.
Enduring an episode gives me the feeling I have at a Halloween party when I overhear a conversation about something as serious as the upcoming election ballot. To watch the likes of Michael Jackson, complete with a stuffed white-gloved hand affixed to his crotch, debate an equally stuffed and bleached woman “dressed” as Pamela Anderson, leaves me with an overwhelming sense of “What the…?!”
But in addition to wondering how Star Trek’s humans spend millennium after millennium chatting around the water cooler with monster-headed Borgs and Klingons, without running to cower under their Star Fleet sheets, I am even more disturbed by the Empaths.
No, they may not look like The Elephant Man meets Quasimoto, but their ability to read your mind like the bar code scanner that sums up your store-bought Starbucks leaves me with a chill not even a Frapuccino could rival.
Heck. It’s not that I’d mind having the power to read minds myself. Perhaps I’d benefit from knowing just how annoying I am post-latte to someone who totes only herbal tea and aspires to surrounding themselves with all things Zen-- when, instead, they’re stuck with me, the clucking hen.
But the idea that someone else could know what I’m really thinking would make me feel like a Milli Vanilli of a fraud. I mean, does the world really want to know that beneath a woman’s soft and sweet marshmallow exterior lies enough stale caramel and nougat to rip all your teeth out?
If my husband had the powers, I’m sure he would give up chocolate bars forever when this little nougat…er, nugget, crossed his CPU…
Though I say out loud, with nary a sound of irritation: “Could you please take out the garbage?” he’d now be able to compute that I really think… Must be nice to have a job that actually ends. Those folks you’re watching on Six Feet Under re-runs look like they have it rough, but you’ll wish for their fate if you don’t volunteer to take the dog for a walk, get the kids to bed, or help finish these damn dishes.
And the kids would spend decades in orthodontics (and therapy!) after deciphering that Mom’s channeling of Rodney King with, “Can’t we all just get along?” is beyond euphemistic for: You rioting brats have just pillaged my sanity. My only hope to re-build will come when you’re back at school tomorrow, looting your teachers’ sense of well-being.
My fellow citizens, too, would be shell-shocked and toothless to discover that Volunteer Extraordinaire’s uttering of: “Sorry. I don’t make the rules. I’m just a volunteer, trying to help out,” had a more direct translation. Something along the lines of: Yeah, buddy. I paid the six bucks, too, and for my money I get the privilege of sitting here selling tickets and being reamed by the likes of you. Cough up the cash or suffer the wrath.
So, you see? While celebrities focus on “keeping it real,” it’s probably better that many of us average citizens keep it real-ly fake. And as long as those scientists are kept busy studying the gestation cycle of gnats, they’ll be too busy to interfere with a feisty girl’s true feelings.
Spock Man, that’s about the only way girls like me can “live long and prosper.”
Causes Shana Moore Supports