from: ripley@nostromo2.net

Dear Good Doctor,

Help! They are resurrecting me! I have been fighting extremely illegal aliens since 1979, and I'm still ass-deep in these nasty, biting critters. Disgustoids. Putridians. Whatever you want to call 'em. I thought committing suicide last time would be the end of it, but now they are cloning me. Isn't that against the law? And did they bring me back as a high class Joy-Girl on some pleasure planet, or something fun like that? Noooooo! They put me right back into deep shit, surrounded by those toothy under-achievers. Am I going to have to see those drooly, extendible jaws coming at me till I'm 80? And the bad breath. Geez! Haven't I been through enough? If they ever do this to me again, I'm going to introduce the producers to the business end of "a personal friend of mine," an M41-A 10mm pulse rifle, with over and under 30mm pump-action grenade launchers. But I really don't want to have to do that. Please help me, Doctor.

the doctor's reply:

Sorry, Ripley. The doctor is such a big fan of yours that he really wishes he could help you. But you are caught in that old Hollywood trap--you make too much money to die! Kind of like Jason. Or James Bond. Or Rocky Balboa (although hopefully, the Rock is done, and saints preserve us from, "The Son of Rocky!) So hang in there, Rip! Just keep on saving the universe. It's a dirty job, but somebody has to do it. Just remember to stop and smell the roses once in awhile, in between sessions of blasting away with the pulse rifle. Of course , if you make one more horrid shitsucker like "ALIENS 3, THE RUTHLESS SEARCH FOR MORE MONEY," you'll probably be done too and won't have to worry about it.