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♫ I’m a little teapot

short and stout

Here is my handle

here is my spout.

When I get all steamed up

hear me shout.

Just tip me over  

and pour me out ♫

Stuy-Rem, not only singing the childish lyrics but acting them out with gestures learned in preschool, admires his rendition: the lithesome crook of his elbow, the elegant bend of his wrist, the agile hinge of his waist, the balletic precision with which each movement is conducted—balanced, poised, poetic—a shame to go unobserved, hence unappreciated, thus tragically unacknowledged, for he has practiced, rehearsed long and hard to polish his performance, to iron out wrinkles, to purge unwholesome flaws all-too-human but no less unacceptable, striving to perfect the innately imperfect, to edit glitch and blotch so that the upshot represents a better Being by being better, enhanced, genetically engineered; therein lay the answer to Mankind’s lack of progress, its Good and Evil dichotomy undermining upgrades, its contradictory two-step negating all advances. Wean the Race of reactionary nonsense and nourish a chance for improvements that could get passed on, built in, engineered decisively, transforming procreation from a process of chance to one of intentionality, thereby overturning the status quo of chronic misbehavior that likewise dooms all other living species to more, more, more of the same, same, same slow extinction. Sure we cooked up Custom-Maids for a client who paid a fortune, funded years of vital research in our quest to cure the beast i.e. design an irreversible antidote to free will’s Mister Hyde. Indeed we succeeded, found the culprit, cracked the code, unwound the serpentine coil that spells the very sequence predestining Man to Fall; so plain, so pure, so artistic is the formula for ending Mortal enmity... alas so burned to a crisp that hope is all but nulified, every make and model, by clumsy tampering, fried!

 

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