Abandoning the typical weeklong alcohol/Gatorade cycle set against a backdrop of sandy shorelines (or, less frequently, powder-laden slopes), I sipped not on ‘tron, but water, and did so in the confines of my own backyard. Had I adopted a new sense of responsibility for my health? Was it a case of middle school-reminiscent yardwork mandated by my parents, or was it perhaps HGTV-triggered gardening mania? Don’t be ridiculous — I’ve got two words for you: dinosaur cage.
Emerging from Home Depot, trailer loaded with enough pipe to make Eric Massa catch snorkel fever once again, I spent several days welding together a velociraptor cage Michael Crichton would have been proud of. Now, I realize the terms “crazy,” “insane,” and “65 million years too late” are thrown around a lot these days, but am I really any of these things? I think not.
Last week it was announced that Australian researchers had extracted DNA from the fossilized eggshells of extinct birds varying in size from that of a duck to an ostrich-dwarfing moa, the oldest sample of which being some 20,000 years old. The scientists were only able to sequence a portion of the birds’ genomes, but they stressed that’s just the first step in being able to artificially replicate the entire thing. Some have suggested this may lead to the artificially manufactured re-emergence of recently extinct birds such as the dodo or passenger pigeon.
As for dinosaurs, the difference between samples tens of thousands of years old and samples tens of millions of years old is, well, three orders of magnitude (but I’m sure those are just minor details). Furthermore, the team stressed the as-of-late scientifically hypothetical proposition of reanimating long-dead megafauna. Sure, “hypothetical” sounds disheartening, but that’s just code for “we’re already picking out names for our pet T-Rex.” Well, I’m not fooled that easily, so that’s why I’m getting the early jump on this new breakthrough.
So, when Democrats ram the health care bill through Congress like a runaway Prius through a crowded San Diego freeway, I’ll be riding Rush Limbaugh’s coattails down to Costa Rica, dinosaur cage in tow. Naturally, I’ll have to figure out a way to hijack his OxyContin stash and then attempt to extort enough money out of him to purchase an island on which to construct and maintain a dinosaur park. Now if I could only figure out what to name it ...
If all goes as planned (what could possibly go wrong?), by the time the DNA-extraction technology gets up to snuff, construction on my dinosaur island should be nearing completion, and the atmosphere should be so warm and saturated in carbon dioxide that the dinosaurs won’t even realize they’re in the wrong epoch.
Some questions might be raised concerning my profiting off of “playing God,” or perhaps concerning my decision to include “carnivorous dinosaurs” in the petting zoo area, but either way, isn’t ruthless exploitation the best part about technology? Sure, the significance of a possible biological mulligan is enticing and even redeeming in and of itself, but as the saying goes, awesomeness is forged in the fires of torpedo-damning.
I suppose forgoing better judgment is not all I’ll have to contend with, as there’s always the possibility of fictional history repeating itself (and the last thing I need is to be in Central America while I’m being eviscerated by one of my own products). Actually, now that I’m looking at these incredibly sobering fares and bag-check fees for flights down to Costa Rica, I’m starting to think I’ve gotten a little ahead of myself — it’s been a long Spring Break.
Ryan Spencer is a psychology senior. His column appears on Mondays.
