Well, at least I wasn’t bored.

When confronted with specifics, like the cries of “he’s a terrorist”
And asked if he’ll decry them, so to calm the rabid throng,
It is telling that McCain, instead, decried his opposition—
He is proud of his supporters, but Obama’s thugs are wrong!
I can’t wait to see the Daily Show comparing his reaction
To the videos on youtube John McCain seems to have missed;
You can pander to Neanderthals, but when the day is over
There will come the recognition–that’s the Devil you just kissed.

When you’re losing in the middle ground and know you can’t recover,
The temptation’s irresistible to pander to your base;
Once you’ve written off the liberals, you’re free to use your rhetoric
On Bible-issue voters—take abortion as one case.
Disagreements are expected on a topic like abortion
When a right to life is weighed against a woman’s right to choose—
But to sneer with condescension at the “Mother’s health” exceptions?
First, the voters; now your dignity—what else ya got to lose?

(Every word of this is true.)

A friend of mine, some thirty years ago,
The eldest son, a farming family’s pride,
Was gone from school, about a month or so
Before we heard the truth—the boy had died.

He’d fallen from a tractor in a field,
Though whether he was dead first, we don’t know;
The coroner’s exam? Too late to yield
An answer; there was nothing it could show.

His parents tried to cure the boy with prayer–
They brought him home, and put their son to bed.
Devout and faithful, hope turned to despair;
It broke their hearts, admitting he was dead.

Their church—to whom they turn when times are rough—
Blamed them, and said they had not prayed enough.

(This is one of the reasons I care.)

My hopes for an IgNobel in literature are dashed by David Sims, of Cass Business School, for his article in Organizational Studies (vol.26, no. 11, 2005, pp.1625-40). That bastard.

But the IgNobel prizes are always reason to celebrate. I hope this is merely the first of several verses inspired by this year’s prizes–a bit combining The Economics prize (lap dancers earn higher tips when ovulating) and the Physics prize (mathematical proof that string tangles into knots). The two findings just seem to go together… or maybe it’s just me. (The form is inspired by a song by Tim Minchin)

Are the twistings and gyrations of a dancer in a g-string
A sufficient agitation to reduce aforesaid panties
To a knot?

Are the naughty knotting knickers the spontaneous expression
Of the underlying physics of materials, or is it
Merely hot?

Do the pheromones emitted hint at multiple causation
When covariant regression says the dancers may be thinking
Of their eggs?

And the most perplexing question from a scientist’s perspective–
How the devil did they justify expenditures to stare at
Women’s legs?

In utterly unrelated news… apparently I was reddited; yesterday and today are my two highest hit counts, nearly five times my last maximum. I hope, some day, to be pharyngulated, to empirically compare the two effects…

Not today, though. Please.

A quick and simple (in every sense of the word) guide to Intelligent Evolution makes good use of our old friend circular reasoning, assuming its conclusions all the way to proving the existence of the intelligent designer, simply by assuming that A) DNA is an example of “design” and B) all designs require a designer. They could have saved a step, by instead of using two false assumptions, simply assuming their final conclusion in one step, but I suppose that would have taken the fun out of it.

The code contained in DNA
Is evidence, or so they say,
God’s handiwork, there on display, the product of His Mind.
It’s plainly seen by any fool
It’s more than just a molecule
But rather, a precision tool that shows that we’re designed!

This molecule contains the clues
Creationists can gladly use
To show we did not come from ooze, through natural selection;
No “nature, red in tooth and claw”
But God, in wonderment and awe
Created, like a man of straw, his image in reflection.

A “pattern” differs from “design”
In elements which we define—
If your examples don’t match mine, why, mine are clearly right.
Our genes’ designs are clearly code;
A blueprint—Man, or tree, or toad—
From information God bestowed, in His most perfect Sight.

This Holy Blueprint I assume
Is proof we’re woven on God’s loom,
Created by the one to Whom we’re in eternal debt
The fact that I assumed it, true,
Could leave my “therefores” all askew
But have I ever lied to you? I wouldn’t take that bet.

You might suggest my logic’s flawed,
That my conclusion’s over-broad,
Or go all out and call me fraud—I’m doing righteous work!
I figured “What would Jesus do,
To have God’s message shining through?”
He’d lie, and cheat, and misconstrue, and be a total jerk!

And what’s important isn’t facts
But saving souls, and so the tracts
Say “judge them by their righteous acts” like lying in His name—
My logic’s circularity
Is more than mere hilarity
It’s honest Christian charity… and really, that’s a shame.

Cuttlecap tip to PZ, of course.

Our friends at Friendly Atheist and Daylight Atheism are in the spotlight these days. Senator Elizabeth Dole (R-NC) is attacking her opponent, Kay Hagen, simply by telling voters that Hagen, well, won’t actively discriminate against atheists. Click through for the stories, even if you read PZ’s take on it. As for me…

I thought I saw an atheist
Approach a voting booth—
Her voice was shrill, her eyes were wide
Her manner quite uncouth;
She tried to force her views on us
And exercise control—
I looked again—I’m wrong once more
Why, this was Liddy Dole.

I thought I saw an atheist
Discriminate and hate;
Deride a weak minority
Because the hour’s late—
To try to stir the masses
She’s been losing in the polls;
I looked again, and listened well—
Those words were Liddy Dole’s

I thought I saw an atheist,
So “radical” and “vile”
Wage war against America–
A villain with a smile
Promoting hate, promoting fear
For petty, selfish gain—
I looked again, and clearly saw
The Liddy Dole campaign

I thought I saw an atheist
Stand up and say “no more!”
I will not be your scapegoat
Like so many times before!
Americans, stand up as Christian
Muslim, Jew, and Pagan,
Or atheist, or anything,
And cast your vote for Hagan!

Of course, this poem expands on the original here and the first revisiting here.

Cephalopodcast has some suggestions:

Top 10 Things You Can Do on Cephalopod Appreciation Day

1– Make a Cephalopod
hansigurumi, home of peculiar knitted cephalopods and other original designs
Papercraft Flying Squid

2– Wear a Cephalopod
Buy a plush squid hat
Make a quick squid costume using office supplies

.

.

.

Oops–their links did not work here. Oh well, you’ll have to click through for the links, and for the rest of the top ten list!

I will suggest an 11th: Follow a cephalopod. In particular, follow a cuttlefish; even more specifically, follow a Digital Cuttlefish!

(I must admit, I really have no idea what all this “following” means, but I have noticed a handful of “followers” when I log on to blogger.com, and I figure I might as well make it easier for people to do this if it is something they are interested in.)

You may find it funny, you may find it odd
To follow a virtual cephalopod
But click if you wish, and follow me, follow,
For all of the verse (and much more) you can swallow!
If you want to sign up, or just think that you might,
The link’s over there, just a bit to the right.

Being the obsessive type (what, really? NO! we couldn’t tell!), I would love to see as many followers as possible. I don’t know why. But if you like what you read here, or if you are angry and insulted by what you read here, or you just feel like clicking a link, sign up, tell your friends, tell your neighbors, tell your pets, tell your enemies (and their pets, too), and make me regret the day I even considered putting up a followers list!

What a long strange trip it’s… nah, wrong music. It has, though, been the end of an era. Probably. Remember “Greed is good”? Remember Milken, and Boesky, and Schwarzman? Remember the parties, and the cocaine, and the opulence? Yeah, well, my dad remembered when his house was first wired for electricity, and the magic of turning on a bare lightbulb. Your kids and grandkids will find it all rather amusing.

I have given up predicting the future, but it certainly feels different this time. Seven Hundred Billion Dollars.

Actually, it feels like “dollars” are the wrong monetary unit. History has enshrined a particular coin as the touchstone of such situations… and even though the melody has to accommodate just a bit, it still has the right feel.

They used to tell me streets were paved with gold, they told me greed was good,
There were stocks and bonds and buildings to sell, millions to make if I could.
They used to tell me streets were paved with gold, all across this great land,
Why should I be off to D.C., holding out my hand?

Once I built a market, I watched it grow, every day in The Times
Once I built a market, well, you know… Brother, can you spare me…
Seven trillion dimes
Once I worked on Wall Street, I rolled in dough, with my partners in crimes
Once I worked on Wall Street, well, you know… Brother can you spare me…
Seven trillion dimes

Once in tacky suits, with condos to sell
Bullish on sub-prime real estate loans
Half a trillion bucks in short-terms as well
And I was the guy with the phones

Say, don’t you remember, you called me Hank, all throughout the Dow’s climbs
Say, don’t you remember, I ran your bank, buddy can you spare me…
Seven trillion dimes

Once in tacky suits, with condos to sell
Bullish on sub-prime real estate loans
Half a trillion bucks in short-terms as well
And I was the guy with the phones

Say, don’t you remember, you called me Hank, all throughout the Dow’s climbs
Say, don’t you remember, I ran your bank, buddy can you spare me…
Seven trillion dimes

PZ reports about the modesty police, the ultra-orthodox Jews who are justifiably fed up with lust and temptation, and are doing something about it! That’s right, they are stoning women who dress provocatively and lead good men to evil thoughts.

PZ’s suggestion?

Hey, I have a suggestion for all those fearful people who want to punish women for being so darn tempting. Instead of targeting women, let’s have all orthodox, fundamentalist men fitted with devices that measure penis enlargement, and that set off blinking lights and whistles mounted on the gentleman’s hats when significant arousal is detected. Then the clerics and rabbis and orthodox mobs can patrol the streets and stone anyone with a flashing hat — one way or another, the visible responses to perfectly ordinary human forms will disappear, the clerics will be able to claim victory over temptation, and they can stop abusing innocent women.

What an incurable optimist.

Of course, what really would happen if someone were to use such a device?

You have to promise not to laugh
Although my logic’s iffy;
I hooked up a plethysmograph
To show I’ve got a stiffy.

So if some woman’s leg I see
And “beep-beep!” goes my cock,
I do what scripture asks of me
And hit her with a rock.

If just a bit of ankle shows
But I still get a boner,
I’m justified, my Rabbi knows,
To go ahead and stone her

The scriptures say it’s not my fault
Some temptress shows some skin
It’s simple justice, not assault,
To stone her for her sin.

We’ll stone the sluts, on God’s behalf
Till all temptation’s gone…
But… wearing this plethysmograph?
It kinda turns me on…

PZed reports on an exciting new opportunity to boost your CV, bolster your credentials, and most importantly, hide that embarrassing crack on your wall with a shiny new Official Creationist Worldview Professional Certificate! I have no idea whether there is an actual physical certificate awarded to you, or whether it is cranked out of a Xerox copier or hand-lettered on lambskin parchment in 24-carat gold leaf by silent, solitary monks on the slopes of Holy Mount Athos.

Either way, it’s still worthless.

A Creationist Certificate, on parchment or on vellum,
Is the perfect bit of pseudo-bling to hang upon your wall.
Your friends will think it’s beautiful (unless, of course, you tell’em
What it is) because it’s done by hand, calligraphy and all.
Your brain, of course, from frontal lobe to back of cerebellum
Will now seize itself in protest ‘til your prostrate form will sprawl,
As it tries forgetting all it knows about, say, the flagellum,
And your cranial activity reduces to a crawl.

Your science is now up-to-date (that date is Antebellum)
Cos you dropped a bunch of money on a worthless bit of scrawl.