Scientists, college professors and circuit court judges have long since determined that every person on the planet is connected by six degrees of separation. With that in mind, I am trying to contact Mr. Jemaine Clement of the Flight of the Conchords minstrel duo regarding a matter of utmost urgency. Failing to contact him through conventional means, I am asking you to pass this post along via email as a sort of “blog-o-gram” to anyone you suspect knows Mr. Clement. Or to just anyone at all.
Thank you for your participation and please do not read the remainder of this memo as it is a private matter between Jemaine and myself.
Dear Mr. Clement,
Having recently discovered your Flight of the Conchords HBO television program, my wife has become aware of some uncanny similarities between you and myself.
First, we have the exact same eyewear. See diagram #1
Notice the thickness and coloration of the frames. Strikingly similar. Second — behind the glasses themselves — we both have abnormally small eyeballs. Some people may even describe them as “beady”. Third, we have large nostrils. Our beady eyes may even be able to fit inside our large nostrils. Fourth, we have the same bedroom stylings as detailed in your trilling of the ballad, “Business Time”. I have no recorded proof of my own bedroom manner but you’ll have to trust me that it is veritably identical to yours. And fifth, we both have an astonishingly clever wit. Yours is evidenced by your grammy-winning comedy album. Mine is — well… again, you’ll have to take my word for it, but our shared rhetorical acumen boggles the mind.
Now, all these similarities could easily be shrugged off as mere coincidence. Except…
The parallels continue.
We both have black hair. (Or, at least, very dark brown.)
We were both born in the 1970s.
You are a citizen of New Zealand, but spend a lot of time in the United States. My parents once sat in an airplane next to a Kiwi who was in America as a foreign exchange student. The three of them conversed the entire way from Denver to Los Angeles and my parents were surprised to learn that New Zealand has white people with English accents. Their prior image of New Zealand was more or less as another Papua New Guinea. See diagram #2
The preponderance of all these coincidences has led my wife to believe that I am leading a double life as one half of the Flight of the Conchords minstrel duo. By now you’ve probably guessed, Mr. Clement, my wife thinks I am you.
I have, of course, tried to convince her to the contrary, pointing out an obvious height difference between you and me and the fact that, if I were really you, then what am I doing hiding the massive wealth that no doubt comes with a hit cable TV series? She usually laughs as though we’re sharing some kind of joke but I suspect she’s really masking a deep-seeded resentment.
Now, the notion of a double life is clearly ridiculous. Clearly. You and I both know the truth, don’t we, Jemaine?
Still, the similarities are hard to shrug off.
And indeed, one night, after hours of insomnia brought on by this existential quandary, an epiphany came to me — which did not come dressed as David Bowie, by the way. Surprisingly enough.
Using Occam’s Razor, I have figured out the simplest answer to all these coincidences. As I said before, you and I were both born in the 1970s. In fact we were born just 27 days apart. 27 days is nothing in gestational terms, Jemaine. The date of birth does not matter. We may, in fact, be precisely the same age.
Using guesstimations based on your television image in relation to such things as lamposts and mailboxes, I have surmised that you are roughly six feet, three inches tall. A man somewhat taller than average. I happen to be five foot, six and one half inches (seven inches in shoes), which makes me somewhat shorter than average.
What does all this mean?
Well, what if you and I are actually twins separated at birth? And not just regular twins, but conjoined twins, one of whom is a shriveled and malformed version of the other?
Imagine yourself being born.
Okay. Now picture the midwives wiping the afterbirth of of you. They get you all cleaned up, but there is one piece (an unusually large fragment of placenta perhaps) still clinging to your forehead.
The midwives rub it down, but it’s not budging. Finally, the afterbirth shrieks and — OH MY GOD — it’s a second baby! A miniature Siamese twin connected to the larger baby by a small thread of cerebral cortex. (This is how we’ve come to share our rapier wit, by the way). Horrified, the doctors snip the cortex, peel the smaller baby from the larger one’s forehead and ship the deformed little guy off to America for scientific study.
Your first reaction to this theory will likely be denial. That is a perfectly normal response. But review the uncanny similarities once again. Take another look at the scientific chart.
Now relax. Take a deep breath. Sit down and fix yourself a stiff drink. Have a quiet moment to absorb all this.
While you let this new information settle in, I’ll just go ahead and tell you a little about myself. I live in America — on the West Coast. I have a wife and three kids. I make my living as a professional expert. I have published many of my opinions here on this website which you are free to peruse at your leisure.
Primarily, I’m a college football expert. Being from New Zealand, you probably have no idea what that is. And living in New York City will be of no help to you either. Home to the Columbia Lions, Big Apple residents also have no idea what college football is. But, quite simply, it’s a game much like cricket. Or, like rugby. Actually I’m not sure which. But picture a sport that’s either a lot like cricket or a lot like rugby. The collegiate version is played by your typical 200-300 pound college students and is very popular throughout the Southeast United States and parts of the Midwest.
I’m also an expert on spontaneous human combustion. See here.
. Hitchhiking. See here
I should let you know that I do not expect a response from you. Just post your initials in the chat box at the bottom of this page to inform me once you’ve read this. If you wish to say something lengthier, I’m all ears. (Or should I say all nostrils, eh?) As we are twins, I’d be happy to correspond through telepathy if you prefer. Whatever.
By the way, Jemaine, do you have a grass allergy and/or a distaste for raw tomato?
Hold it. Don’t answer that. We can save the really good stuff for after the introductions.
And if this memo should happen to find you on January 10, Happy Birthday, brother! Or if it’s a couple of days before January 10 (let’s say January 7 to 9) then happy early birthday. Or if it gets to you on the 11th or 12th, then happy belated birthday. But if it gets to you any other day, then nevermind.