Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Cimex scientiam: U got me bugged


1) Obtain a small piece of rock from outside on the ground.

2) Glue some pipe cleaner feet on it.

3) Glue some googly eyes on it.

Behold: The Science Bug

Where does one begin to explain this mealy non-attempt at imparting scientific knowledge to the next generation?
[Shakes head.]
Was this an isolated incident? A rupestrian pipe dream hatched by some lone kooky teacher?

Johnny Gutts happens to remember the same project from an even earlier age... five, perhaps.
“Musta come from outta a book or something.”

He wasn’t taken in by it either: “By then I was already used to the overwhelming waterfall of sh*ttiness.”

Amen, Mister Gutts.

Apparently this assignment is a concerted effort by teachers to either foist bogus knowledge on the young or to shirk their day jobs, or both.
In the increasingly media-saturated environment of recent decades, perhaps kids are becoming more attuned to the questionable notions and claims put forth before them by those adults who should know better.

Good on ya, kids -- don’t swallow it. Speak up against this content-free pedagogical pussyfooting. Your parents can help, as Mrs. Gutts did when young Johnny came home from school and showed her the class ‘project’: she rolled her eyes and muttered, “How scientific.”

This simple yet pungent retort cemented the importance of the power of B.S. detection in the psyche of one Johnny Gutts.

Let this be a lesson to young and old alike: Don’t believe everything you are told.

This platitude is brought to you by the Emotive Response System.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

Lutetian Vignette: Uintathérium Intemporel

Solitary Uintathere, knee-deep in a brackish bog, slowly and thoughtfully munches on fern and moss as the Eocene sun rises from behind the dense cypress.

So remote from anything significant in the timeline, as 41,917,067 B.C. was pretty much an off-year as far as global history is concerned.

Yet this beast seems to understand the greater scope of what was, and what will come to be.
Perhaps he is a reincarnation of a lower order Triassic reptile. Or even a retroincarnation of a latter-day hominid.

Still he stands in place, a plodding gnaw of the jaw, a languid blink of eyes abdicant.

Soon the fen will turn to tar, and our friend’s form will be the subject in a Polaroid™ of pitch, bound to the hands of the continuum’s clock, ponderings petrified, or perhaps even paroled.

Whither the mind and soul of this robust beast?