Pants on Fire!

Public Service Announcement: Things Not to Do

The "Things Not to Do" story is one of my favorite non-science Pharyngula entries. It makes me wonder what would happen if the same unfortunate circumstances were encountered by a member of the ID movement. I imagine...

When Michael's thigh began to fry
And smoke was rising from his fly,
He took some time to wonder why;
So curious was he.

"This pocket heat's beyond the range
Of human ken; It's passing strange.
What's in there? Batteries and change.
How ever can it be?"

"Could metal coins and batteries short?
Could random movements thus comport?
The chances must be close to naught,
Yet still it's burning me."

He rang a friend, got no free hunch.
Said William, "Second law's the crunch;
It can't be happ'ning."
"Thanks a bunch! My burn's now third degree."

The batteries burned and left him lame,
A candidate for (dubious) fame:
Awards they give in Darwin's name
For self-pruned family trees.

Phunicular crosses the line

Pharyngula: That Revolting Article about Earwax and Smegma

Bad Taste Warning: Skip this one if you're squeamish.

Phunicular thinks it a wheeze
To exude vulgar verses like these
On rubbing young furries
With smegmatic slurries.
Here mousey, try some of this cheese!

Poetic Phrase from PZ

Pharyngula: Gabler gone, but it makes no difference

The Gabler is gone,
a victim of age,
leaving a terrible stain

of ignorance on
biology's page:
spittle-flecked, senile, insane.

Our textbooks were marred
by this lying old knave,
willfully wielding his warps.

"It's awfully hard
to dance on a grave
when you're still battling the corpse."

S-snarking? Snarking!?

The pessimist, pushing poisoned pens,
Perceiving apoplectic pains,
Perhaps projects when she opines
That playful praise that's packed in puns
Deploys piqued barbs on peeved harpoons.
Her post our pristine ploy impugns:
Honi soit qui mal y pense.

You Are Old

Pharyngula: Whatever you do, don't tell my wife!

"You are old, PZ Myers," the young man said,
"And your birthdays roll 'round like a fan;
And yet you continue your blog-links to spread—
Does Mary approve of your plan?"

"In my youth," said the sage (adding links to his page),
"I kept my mind active and supple;
And since all my links keep me lithe for my age,
She'll cope if I publish a couple."

"You are old," said the lad, "and I'm certain your words
Will infuse fertile minds with delight;
And your links could entrance young impressionable nerds;
Do you think, at your age, this is right?"

"In my youth," PZ Myers replied with some mirth,
"I was quiet and bookish and shy;
But, now that the geek have inherited earth,
With blog-links, my limit's the sky!"

"You are old," said the youth, "as I think we agreed,
And have grown most uncommonly wise,
To the point where the masses all covet your seed.
Do you have any hints for us guys?"

"What?! You're talking in metaphors? What have I said?"
Feeling faint, PZ gaaack'd and he blinked;
"If you hope I'll give hints to get webbedly-wed,
Young lad, you can go and get linked!"

Skepticism

Pharyngula: Evidence that religion rots your brain

Our international news today
Rests on a strong foundation.
It's built on rock, not shifting sand,
And dressed in words you'll understand
Whatever your social station.

Sylvester's stone, a monument,
Can tell when popes are dying;
When a pontiff's life is under threat
The stone breaks out in a cold, cold sweat,
All natural cause defying.

It's written down in documents—
This rock's prophetic power.
Confirmed by nuns in habits gray,
When a pope's approaching judgement day
This monument needs a shower.

"The stone cries too," say nuns, "it's true!
There's people who have seen it."
That leaves no room for doubt, although
When asked, "Who saw?", they did not know.
Newsworthy? No. Latrine it.

When hardly-hard-nosed Hardach writes,
You might expect sensation.
She'll find a curse in mummy's ice,
And words from unnamed nuns suffice
To spice up her narration.

The battle for your brain today's
Been thoroughly reconnoitered,
So be a skeptic, check the source,
Ignore the rubes or else, of course,
You'll find that you've been Reuter'd.

Zombie Lamb

Pharyngula: Bad Teachers

Mary had a zombie lamb
Made in her voodoo church,
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to lurch.

It followed her to school one day,
Its dread acts to conduct.
What happened there I cannot say:
This verse has been Kentucked.



Three blind guides,
See how they lead!
One played a teacher but cared for naught,
One drilled the lines that her preacher taught,
And granny took fright at creative thought;
That's three blind guides.



Baa, baa, blank sheet, did you learn at school?
Yes sir! Yes sir! Three good rules.
Lib'rals are evil; God will prevail;
And don't get creative or you'll end up in jail.