PhaWRONGula

Pharyngula + Poetry

2008-04-26T17:36:00.000-07:00

If you're finding the poetry sparse
And you're lacking for whimsical farce,
Go visit the Cuttle-
Fish, witty and subtle;
That blogger is kicking some arse.

The Digital Cuttlefish seems to have taken up the mantle of Pharyngulan Poet and is doing it with panache.

GOTT MIT UNS

2008-02-23T18:19:00.000-08:00

Pharyngula: Is this going to be the major creationist strategy?

Martin Luther, Christian hero,
Rated all the Jews as zero:
Work them! Out them! Purge the stain!
We're at fault for Jews not slain.

Charlie Darwin fancied finches,
Measured up their beaks in inches,
Gathered gobs of evidence...
OMG! This all makes sense!

Martin Luther gave the stinking
Nazis all his Christian thinking:
When you meet an evil Jew,
Ask: What Would Jehovah Do?

Charlie Darwin, keen observer,
Used his brain, not Christian fervor,
Found that Mother Nature works
By keeping beneficial quirks.

Adolph Hitler used his Bible,
Buoyed by Luther's lurid libel,
To support his sick solution--
Roundup, rail truck, execution.

Christian anti-science kooks
Seem ill at ease with history books.
Rather than accept the shame,
Guess which hero gets the blame?

Bye George. (He's lost it)

2007-04-30T08:40:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: George Gilder, Lord of the Adguacyth

There once was a Gilder of words
Who had crashed by investing in nerds,
Then while trawling through tripe
Found a rich vein of hype
With a gilt edge for fleecing the herds.

He had tried giving alms to the rich
And he'd scratched the male chauvinist itch,
But he boosted his stocks
Feeding faith to the flocks
With his bozo-biology pitch.

In building on Bill Dembski's myth
It's clear he's not taking the pith
Of the math that he's mauled
Or the science he's stalled
With Revenge of the Adguacyth.

A Lifelong Faith

2007-04-25T09:21:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: A brief history of disbelief

I've never even seen him, but I know
I trusted him back then (in my own way).
I'd lay me down to sleep, but first I'd pray
That blessings in the night he might bestow.
'Twas always after pain that he would show
His riches at the dawning of the day.
The parts of me he made me give away
Were parts I had to shed to let me grow.
Throughout my teenage years he left me be,
In order that my faith could be made strong.
His many interventions in my youth
Sustained my trust, although it's been so long.
He will return! My heart and head agree,
And still beneath my pillow stays one tooth.

Tripplehorn Doublespeak

2007-04-22T03:55:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: Pompous git solves the problem of induction … with Jesus!

Dear YouTube, to whom it concerns,
The stoopid! Please stop it! It burns!
We'd rather not hear
From this kid cavalier
Till he listens to grownups and learns.

In David Hume's writing there lurks
An epiphany for the young turks:
Ooh, induction is flawed!
But it beats Praise The Lord
'Cause it works... bitches, it works.

Could we base all our science on cults?
Not for long if we're thinking adults,
Because each time you try
To detect the sky guy
The Ineffable f's your results.

Ev'ry time we say D.I.

2007-04-19T08:07:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: Department of Foot-Shooting, Intelligent Design Division
(With apologies to Cole Porter)

Ev'ry time we say D.I.
I sigh a little
Ev'ry time they tell a lie
I wonder why a little
Why some Urge above me
Who must be in the know
Should design parts of me
But leave others to grow...

When they sneer
There's such an air
Of spin about it
See the smear of fundie fare
With science skin about it
Well stocked with one-liners
But how strange (deranged?)
These major quote-miners
Ev'ry time we say D.I.

[Instrumental break]

With no need for designers
Is it strange the change
From wishers to whiners?
Ev'ry time we say D.I.

Cephalopodmas

2006-12-11T16:55:00.000-08:00

Pharyngula: Music for Cephalopodmas

Long time ago in elder days,
So the traveling cultist raves,
A great stone city, tombs and all,
Had sunk beneath the waves.

Hark, you fools: That is not dead
Which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death,
Yes, even death may die.

In his house the Dread One dreams;
Wait upon that day
When Old Ones rise to rule the earth
And mankind burns to play.

When psychics tell of dreams at night
They speak of cities strange and vast
With Titan blocks and monoliths
Imbued with horror's cast,
All clad in ooze and hieroglyphs;
And from some point below
There comes a voice, that's not a voice,
Of chaos none should know.

Hark, you fools: That is not dead
Which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death,
Yes, even death may die.

In his house the Dread One dreams;
Wait upon that day
When Old Ones rise to rule the earth
And mankind burns to play.

The great priest, in his chasm of stone
Since when the sun was young,
Inspires his own to prance and slay
And yell with alien tongue.
In time this utter loathsomeness
Shall greet our human eyes;
For what has risen yet may sink,
And what has sunk may rise.

Hark, you fools: That is not dead
Which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death,
Yes, even death may die.

In his house the Dread One dreams;
Wait upon that day
When Old Ones rise to rule the earth
And mankind burns to play.

Due Respect

2006-11-24T07:27:00.000-08:00

Pharyngula: If we're choosing teams now, I want to be with the shamelessly godless

In our battle against butchers
(who survive on lies and lectures to the vulnerable--
vultures who misquote to float conjectures)
we should criticize the creatures
who with nonsense-tolerant natures
blame the blokes who pull no punches.

In the fight for fairer futures
don't let tepid types be teachers.
Never privilege the preachers
who hold fantasies as fixtures,
who make syncretistic mixtures
of reality and raptures
(splicing science with their scriptures),
who erect synthetic structures
to protect their credulous cultures,
then impose obstructive strictures
on the voice of one who ventures
to oppose their pious postures.

If some counterfactual features
in their faith-defensive speeches,
simply boot them in the breeches.

Sacred Scam?

2006-10-09T09:26:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: There is no separation of church and state

"It's time to end the sacred scam."
That's what the Godless liberal says
But he can't know how hard it is
To humbly serve the Great I Am.

How hard in this God-given land,
By evil constantly beset,
To find those untaxed millions that
We need to meet the Lord's command.

How could that anti-Christian curse
Know what it's like to plant the seeds
Of Gospel Truth in daycare kids
On payments from the public purse.

And why should we be made to raise
The funds to make our crèches safe,
As if our prayers were not enough,
As if to doubt the Savior's ways?

So what's so bad if we've ignored
Financial statements? Don't suggest
We have employees we can't trust:
They've told us that they love the Lord!

And why this cry for civil rights?
While godly men are at the helm
To lead with love, discreet and firm,
You'll see no ugly workplace fights.

So quell your atheistic slurs;
Our nation needs God free to act
Beyond the rules that you respect,
Through us,
Ecclesiastical Entrepreneurs.

Looking back

2006-10-06T04:36:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: Will this work?

Remember early info-age
Before 2K & 10,
When genome seqs were run by geeks
On hardware humming hot for weeks;
All brains were simple then.

Recall the days of Hollywood
When starlets ruled the screen,
When flesh-life still had roles to fill
In 2-D movies shot to thrill--
So quaintly pre-machine.

Remember when the snake oil flowed
In PowerPoint plus poise--
The next big thing with QA lingo
Boomed your biz with buzzword bingo
Meaning lost in noise.

Remember when the minds of men
Spent weekends watching jocks,
When freaks of meat with agile feet
Were lionized for sheer conceit
And pimped by idiot box.

Remember when the brightest minds
Were valued overseas,
But strapped for cash, their budgets slashed,
Were treated here like neuro-trash,
Divided by degrees.

Remember how teh stoopid spread
Infecting unsafe heads,
When fundie fools could castrate schools
And stifle thought with prudish rules
Enforced by covert feds.

The world was hateful-crazy then
Before the New Cognition
With every child from birth beguiled
By ancient myths contrived and styled
On gods and superstition.

It's hard to think of how they coped
With fear-memes running mad;
So few could see how life could be--
That all they had to do was free
The simple brains they had.

What separation?

2006-10-01T23:56:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: The Special Favors for Fundamentalists Act of 2005

In a land headed backward in time
Where dissent is construed as a crime,
Any person who cites
Constitutional rights
Is ungodly and not worth a dime.

Here's a thought: just reverse the directions;
There'd be outrage and violent objections;
Free speech would be stricken
If the words of a Wiccan
Were quoted on government erections.

The religion of those in authority
Is presumed to be granted priority:
Each monitored minion
May voice the opinion
Of the self-proclaimed "moral" majority.

But the folk who hold other beliefs
(Out of sync with th' commander in chief's)
Faced with fundie crusade
Are denied legal aid
And are told where to lodge all their briefs.

So for justice, remember to clench
More than teeth when approaching the bench.
If you're not Christian sheep
Basic rights don't come cheap
From the mob that thinks "freedom" means "French".

The Pied Poper

2006-08-28T18:23:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: Vatican watch

The rat singer sang
"Just say no to big bang"
And he wished all their condoms away.
God provided him aids
To promote his crusades
On the willful, the poor and the gay.

But the offerings decreased
(Blame the profligate priests)
And he found himself lacking for coyne,
So, to halt the decline
Of his business divine,
Found a cultural war he could join.

"By reviving debates
For the United States
To stop science relying on fact
I've a chance to rewind
My infallible mind:
Here's some history my church can redact."

See the Poper had tried
To see birth control pied
But the masses won't play by his rules.
Now he's bucking the slide
To enlightenment's side
By defiance of science in schools.

Wells' Farrago

2006-08-27T01:31:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: Fresh PIGDID
On: The Politically Incorrect Guide to Darwinism and Intelligent Design

They're drinking from the Wells of deep delusion.
That mine of quotes he delves is rich indeed
From which he poaches diamonds in profusion
To fill the sandbag levees of his creed.

The flood he fights is only just a theory;
By light of Moon he toils against the tides;
With every shovelful he grows less weary;
His great commission succors and provides.

I looked into the John as one who tries
To find a catchy phrase for him, a hook:
"Here lies a saint. In steadfast faith he lies."
(Not for his grave. A warning on his book.)

The Dustmen of Academia

2006-06-14T19:35:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: No quarter. Don't ask.

Mr. Myers exhorts us to "stand against the tide of garbage and fight it," and stand we shall:

The Ivy League Dustmen are we:
Where oceans of offal there be,
Our gowns in the tide
We'll stand side by side
(Whatever might happen,
At least we'll have tried,)
Though rubbish should rise like the sea.

Faith to faith

2006-06-12T20:28:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: Francis, I'm very disappointed in you

Francis Collins:

...if God made himself so obvious, so known, so easily interpretable in daily events, then the whole concept of faith and of making a personal decision about where you stand would be pretty meaningless.

If my faith in ineffable God
Weren't baseless, unreal and odd,
Then my faith would lack meaning;
My standing--mere leaning
On mythical crutches. Oh sod!

Worms

2006-06-05T05:24:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: The god worm

It was early eighteen forty three
When Edgar gave praise to the Grub--
The hero who conquered Hamlet's "to be"
(And comes to us all: there's the rub).
Though Poe's devourer still rules today,
Protagonist in every cast;
Its mother's cruel role in brain decay
Is unsurpassed.

Watch now as her pundits opine
On fragmented frettings from god
Reframed for the public party line
As a moral measuring rod.
Watch how their worm-tongued wringing of words,
Unmoved by zeitgeist flux,
Finds merit in mute god-goaded herds.
(Their deus ex machina sucks.)

And dare to describe her circular track
That returns to the self-same spot,
A sophist's path of there and back
To prove what reason cannot;
Yes, dare to trace her riddled way
Of rot beneath the pate;
Deplore the digested, festering grey...
You'll stand accused of hate!

She's a maggot, painless, but pretty
To those with lobotomized taste;
And her victims deserve only pity
For the wit that she's turned into waste.
Deworm if you possibly can,
And courageously, coolly, confirm
That the play is the pantomime, "Man,"
And its stage fright the Credulous Worm.

No Monkeys Where?

2006-05-26T18:45:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: Here in the North, there is no such thing as monkeys.

Says Molly T, from Cana-duh, the North is monkey-free:
We've human been since God decreed, and thus will always be.
And every faithful Northerner should proudly venture forth,
And preach it to the heathens: there's no monkeys in the Noarth.

There's monkeys in the jungle wild, and monkeys in the sea;
There's monkeys in Connecticut, although there shouldn't be.
But monkeys here, in Canada? I'll offer this retort:
We're monkey-free, and no, siree--no monkeys in the Nort'.

We're monkeyless in Montreal, and yeti-free in York;
And anyone says otherwise is asking for a fork
Entrenched in his behind--so let us shout for all we're worth:
There's absolutely, guaranteed, no monkeys in the Nurth.

There might be monkey mountaineers on Himalayan treks,
And monkeys in the Amazon, enjoying monkey sex--
But we, as proud Canadians, will give no hold or berth
To foolish foreign fantasies, like monkeys in the Nerth.

(NB: As a long-time resident of Canada, I should like to offer my sincere...er, mockery. What a twit!)

Living on Poetry

2006-05-25T05:38:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: I think I shall never click...

The lyrical alchemist knows
That transmuting his words to cash flows
Is a pie in the sky.
Most poets don't die,
But pragmatically lapse into pros in another discipline that, although pedestrian, will keep bread on the table.

Kryonic Profit

2006-05-22T22:33:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: Kryon of Magnetic Service has all the answers

How sweet to play the prophet of the age!
To preach the music sung by DNA
And lift our flat depictions off the page
To planes unknown by scientists today.
In four-dimensional paradigms we're bound
To muddle time, magnetics, gravity
And matter placement. Suddenly profound
New science thrives in dodecality.
And sweeter still this grand loquacious dance
Of loaded words, that hint at hidden lore,
At harmony, at healing, at romance,
Attracts the wishers' wallets by the score.
Rely on this in future's land uncharted:
There're always fools and money to be parted.

God's Other Chosen People

2006-05-17T19:30:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: America, Return to God! and Don't blame me

America, Return to God!
Burn the witches, stone the gays,
Unsparingly apply the rod
Of discipline to wayward ways.

Ban the breast, the buttocks too,
And other shameful parts from view
For fear some poor defenseless child
Behold foul flesh and be defiled.

Sing prayers in school and make it plain
That Jesus is the one to trust
For strength when sinful drives of lust
Turn teens to moms. Abstain! Abstain!

Cast out the tinkerers of the gene
Who truck with what they oughtn't wot.
Allow the Lord to intervene,
To cure disease at whim (or not).

Why strive for peace in foreign lands
When Revelation's book demands
That Armageddon get the nod?
America, Return to God!

PhaWRONGula's Question for Science Bloggers

2006-05-16T18:07:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: Great Science Questions

The floor has been opened, and so
It's time we got on with the show:
Which is more sorry--
Behe, or Horrie?
The peanut crowd's dying to know.

(NB: I was going to do something incredibly clever involving a game of telephone--something that would start, perhaps, with the difference between Pfiesteria and amoeba, and end with Behe's knees--but wit failed and limericks prevailed. Or something to that effect. Sorry!)

Vector Day

2006-05-15T21:05:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: Immigration solved, the Christian Libertarian way

There's a VD disguised as Vox Day;
Libertarian? Christian? No way!
He's had empathy loss
Since he fired up his cross
With the Knights of the New KKK.

Breaking News: Christians Love Fresh Canadian Produce

2006-05-12T17:18:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: Scary, Evil Christians

"It's Dominion* we're after," the preacher did say:
"'Midst the beans and the leeks and the summer-squash gay,

"We'll sample the fruits of the fields and the seas;
The gifts of the earth, and the vines, and the trees;
The honey prepared by industrious bees;
The preserves you can and the meats that you freeze;
The fennel that's fresh as a cool autumn breeze;
The wine that's delicious, right down to the lees!
So, come to Dominion--get down on your knees,
And thank the Creator for carrots and peas!

"It's Dominion we're after--Dominion's the place
A Christian can count on for stuffing his face!"

* Dominion is (was?) a chain of grocery shops. I haven't seen one in a while, but they used to be all over Canada.

(And, in other news, yikes!)

PhaWRONGula's Scairt of Horowitz

2006-05-11T17:18:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: Horowitz Can't Count

The august Mr. Horowitz
Has graced us with a peek
At bogeys one-oh-one, but look:
His list has sprung a leak.

Did good old Horrie hoist his book
Half-writ upon the shelf?
The answer's no--the final page
Was clearly for himself!

Torture is Bad

2006-05-09T15:23:00.000-07:00

Pharyngula: Chew on This for the Afternoon

There once was a teacher, a scatty old creature,
Whose spectacles lived on his head.
From morning to night, he looked quite a fright,
As if he'd just risen from bed.

His trousers were tatty; his notebooks were ratty;
His pens were all certain to leak.
He bathed every Sunday, but most times, by Monday,
He smelt like the end of the week.

I've heard people say that back in his day
He kept himself tidy and neat:
Impeccably dressed, in shirts starched and pressed,
With shiny black shoes on his feet.

What made him this way, I can't rightly say,
Except it had something to do
With torture so dreadful it left him a headful
Of claptrap and bally-go-hoo.

Just what was so ghoulish? A question so foolish
It frightened him out of his wits?
A scatterbrained theory? A dunderhead query
That blew his composure to bits?
Whatever went wrong in classes bygone,
Whatever disaster, the torture goes on:
His lectures are really the pits.