More Seen at the Gym

So I'm now opposed to all forms of human cloning, and I'll tell you why in two words: Carter Oosterhouse.

Saturday morning TV at the gym is HGTV day, which might be cool because lots of those remodeling programs feature power tools. But then I watch a couple episodes of Carter Can, in which Mr. Oosterhouse helps some homeowners remodel some real trouble spots in their homes. Now, although I'm not married, it might yet work out that I will be someday. And I'll probably want to stay married, too, and there is no way that will ever happen if scientists figure out how to clone human beings and wives across America figure out they can clone Carter Oosterhouse.

You think it won't happen, eh? Well, I hope you're right, Mr. Balding Pasta-belly McSquinty-glasses, but I think you're hiding your head in the sand. You sign up for the show. You get ready. And here comes Carter. He's taller than you. He has a jawline. He was born with the five-o'clock shadow you don't get until 11 PM Sunday night. Watch him stand when he talks to you about your pathetic attempts to redesign rooms in your own home. His feet are farther apart than your puny arms can reach and he's all but marking your house as his territory. Sure, he's being pleasant, but it's the same way you're pleasant to your dog when he tries to figure out the packaging on a rawhide chew toy. You know the dog can't get to it but he's so funny when he tries! He never has to wear Dockers.

Then comes the actual building and construction. Watch Carter use the power tools and finish half the job in the time it would take you to turn them on. Watch Carter explain tools he's using that you used to hear the old men talk about but have never seen in real life. And now watch Carter show your wife how to use those tools. You can almost hear her mentally rehearse the words "irreconcilable differences" right now. You wonder if "accidentally" amputating your finger might give you a good excuse to get out of the show so you don't look even worse but you can't figure out where to plug in the saw. Carter takes the pencil that actually stays behind his ear and with it draws a line so straight rulers get jealous. He asks you to do the next one and you map the Congo River. And all the time, your wife is watching.

So what, you think? So he's manly and he can use power tools? He's got some wussy college degree, right? Yeah, nutrition and communications. Which he earned on a rugby scholarship.

Doesn't matter, you say. I'm the one who listens to her, I'm the father of her children, I'm the one who promised to take her in sickness and in health. Then you watch the footage. Carter sits down with your wife after they install part of the remodeled room fittings. She talks with him; he understands her. He plays with your kids. Your son now knows how to use a circular saw better than you do. Your daughters will learn to spell "Oosterhouse" before they can spell your name because they'll be writing it inside little hearts all over their diaries.

Mark my words, men. If scientists perfect the ability to grow complete human beings from just a few cells, then there will be divorce lawyers on the phone, fifty million Carter Oosterhouses in the cloning vats and husbands everywhere headed back home to live with Mom. No Dad, just Mom. Because she wants a Carter-clone too.