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HOME SWEET GENOME
By Daria Morgendorffer
The growing use of DNA analysis in the courtroom signals a powerful new tool in the pursuit of truth. This revolutionary technology has led to unjust convictions being reversed, alibis discounted, seemingly dead-end cases cracked. And what's more, it gives us an excuse to dig up dead presidents. Bring on the entertaining exhumations!
Too bad this exciting methodology is expensive and time consuming, out of reach of the average Joe (if that's his real name) - until now. That's right: in the interest of domestic justice and forensic fun for the whole family, I am proposing universal access to DNA fingerprinting.
Just think of the dinner table misunderstandings which could be cleared up with a simple Southern Blot Analysis. Household crimes would be solved beyond a reasonable doubt (not that there is anything reasonable about most households) since every person's DNA is unique, except for identical twins and my army of Daria clones hidden in the attic.
In addition, genetic testing would answer more fundamental questions of identity. I recently requested that Mom and Dad submit to maternity and paternity tests, hoping to give credence to the theory that I sprang spontaneously from the head of Zeus, but they refused. I decided it was best to drop the whole subject after Mom threatened to show me a home movie of my birth. Ew.
The Morgendorffer clan has a number of unsolved mysteries that DNA evidence is sure to unravel. I am currently collecting samples in anticipation of the day when construction of a high tech forensic lab in the attic is complete. (The clone army has been temporarily relocated to the basement.)
Sources of genetic material are plentiful and within easy reach: Dad's midlife hair loss provides a wealth of samples; Quinn jealously guards her nail clippings (something to do with anti-Sandi voodoo rituals) yet freely disposes of saliva-permeated gum wads; and as long as Mom keeps chewing through pencils, I will have an endless stream of exhibit A's.
As for myself, I will gladly provide DNA-rich material for testing purposes by shedding my outer skin like a snake. Ah, that feels better.
The following case files currently remain open, awaiting lab results and hard-hitting testimony from Barry Scheck:
1. The Mysterious Missing Lasagna Layer: A four-layer lasagna was reduced to three by nefarious mean. Collection of DNA material would have been a cinch, except that someone gobbled up the evidence. Or was it a cover-up?
2. The Case of the Broken Knick Knack: The culprit in question was injured trying to stuff telltale remnants into the trash. In order to solve this one, I volunteer to draw blood from Quinn. (I'm O-positive, by the way. How ironic.)
3. The Enigma of the Encrusted Dish: What twisted soul left this revolting display of moldy, microwave-safe crockery in plain site? Alas, bite marks in the mac and cheese are indistinct.
4. The "Borrowed" Shirt Caper: Quinn claims that a sweat stain was discovered on her raw silk flame notch neck tube tank (can we get an expert witness to explain what that is?) and since she does not sweat, someone must have borrowed it unlawfully. I advise sending her for psychiatric evaluation.
5. The Telltale Toilet Seat: Who left it up? Dad, being the only male, is the likely culprit, yet he pleads his innocence. Since no one is willing to collect the evidence, we've decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
If in any of the cases above the evidence points squarely to yours truly, I will immediately appeal the decision, citing contamination, breaks in the chain of custody, and the stupidity of the whole idea in the first place. If that fails: Release the clone army!
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