A couple days ago, the First Family of Rancor increased its furious numbers by one when a diligent and surprisingly flexible Mrs. Angry skillfully brought Angry The Third into the world. Of course, I fell in love with the wrinkly little Muppet right away, even though he gave me the very same look Angry Junior gave to me almost four years previously – the look that said, “You are useless. Bring me to your finest breasts immediately.”
Later, in the elevator, while en route on a coffee run, a man turned to me and my brother (we’ll call him “Kim”) and asked, “Hey. Are you twins?”
Like secret agents, Kim and I immediately fell into character. “No,” I lied. “He’s actually a year older than me.
Kim nodded, “Yeah. We get the twin thing all the time.”
“Which is too bad,” I ad libbed. “Because I’m clearly better looking.” Good-natured laughter ensued, even though Mister Question clearly wasn’t convinced. In fact, nobody in the crowded elevator believed a word, so here’s the question: Why go through this? Wouldn’t it just be easier to grumble a “yes” and then soldier on with the rest of the day? Why not just admit that I’m a twin?
Because it’s none of your goddamned fucking business, that’s why.
I don’t approach funny-looking strangers at Arby’s and ask, “Hey! Are you retarded?” Nor do I confront people bearing a slightly dark complexion and say, “Are you mixed?” I don’t even accost women with short haircuts and ask, “Are you a man?” Why? There’s an excellent reason why.
It’s none of my goddamned fucking business.
Somehow, society dictates that it’s an egregious faux pas to inquire about a man’s religion or salary, but it’s perfectly acceptable to interrupt two brother’s enjoying a private lunch with a moronic query to an ancient zygotic episode.
That’s because singlets (or people who never had the opportunity to sublet a womb) view twins as circus apes bred to entertain on command. Look at the funny twins! Dance, twins, dance! We’re not even real people. We’re one person split into two facsimiles.
Growing up, Kim and I did our best to earn our bones as distinctly different entities. But let’s face it, when you share a womb with somebody, the similarities are going to stick. I liked baseball, he liked baseball. He admired the Dukes of Hazzard. Me too! Kim and I are identical twins, which makes it even more difficult. I constantly answered to my brother’s name without bothering to correct the singlet who made the error. Why bother? Singlets are stupid.
By stupid, of course, I mean dumb. At least in the area of twinology. For example, singlets believe that if Kim stubs his toe in Memphis, I feel it 180 miles away in Little Rock. Does that make any sense? It’s like singlets have never picked up a science book! In addition, singlets think that if I wear Kim’s cargo pants and play Bad Company cassette tapes in my car, then I could convince everybody who knows Kim that I’m Kim.
Hey! Hey! You should dress up like Kim and go to his office and see if anybody notices!
Good idea. How about I just fuck your wife instead? What? You don’t think that’s funny? I do.
On TV, or in bad Stephen King books, twins are rarely seen enjoying the fruits of gainful employment or excelling in math and spelling. Rather, twins are better put to use exchanging telepathic messages and following them up with wordless but meaningful glances. On All My Children, the powerful Adam has a simpleton twin brother who is routinely called upon to dupe girlfriends or the police. In Knight Rider, Michael’s evil twin brother wore a goatee, carried a cane, and drove a semi-truck equipped with missiles. I wish Kim had something like that.
Singlets believe twins are human Woody Woodpeckers who have nothing better to do than to go around deceiving and hijinxing. It’s like I’m faced with two tremendous decisions every day: Make my oppressive deadlines at the office…or put on Kim’s old Black Crow’s t-shirt and watch the tomfoolery unfold!
It doesn’t help my crusade when goddamned DoubleMint pays big bucks to twins willing to whore like grinning clowns for bubble gum. Or that Hollywood employs the latest special effects wizards to duplicate Lindsey Lohan for a remake of the most dastardly of singlet anti-twin propaganda, The Parent Trap. I might as well kick myself in the nuts. Except, I already do every time I see some dopey made-for-TV movie featuring an Evil Twin (you can tell which one is evil by who’s wearing the goatee). And speaking of Evil Twin…
Hey, which one of you is the evil one?
Gee. So often, evil is a matter of perspective, Ace. I guess for you, the evil twin would be the one who fucked your wife.