A bit of a departure, at first–although they do show up on a Pharyngula thread, this was originally posted on Eric Hovind’s creationist blog! Eric had posted, with his approval, a racist piece of crap poem, lacking in rhyme, meter, meaning, and any shred of human decency. But for some reason, Eric liked it. After an early comment corrected the flawed statistics touted in the verse, Eric admitted the stats were wrong, but reaffirmed that he liked the poem itself.

I find out that the stats are wrong
But still I gonna sing this song;
My skull so thick, my bone so dense
It will not let in evidence.

If something fits my point of view
It doesn’t matter if it’s true;
I’ll let it in, and keep it in,
Cos telling lies is no great sin.

And if I’m told that it’s a lie,
With evidence I can’t deny,
I’ll keep the lie that fits my views–
Thank God I have the right to choose!

America is great, because
My lie’s protected by our laws!
The First Amendment still applies
To ignoranti spreading lies!

A perusal of some of Eric’s other posts led to this little quatrain:

No matter how hard Eric tries,
It’s all mistakes. Well, some are lies.
Misrepresenting for his cause,
Young Hovind puts the “F” in “laws”.

From a single idiot to a small group of idiots–several members of Congress, based on their own individual experience with alternative medicine, have managed to give hundreds of millions of dollars to support it–despite its lack of actual empirical support:

I know my treatment works, and hence
I have no need of evidence;
It does not matter what the facts is–
This is how I’ll spend your taxes.

A little double-dactyl about PZ’s being named Humanist of the Year (and being given a ton of cephalopodian gifts to boot!):

Booty-ful, cutie-ful,
Thanks to the Humanists–
They’d reconsider, if
Only they knew

Evidence seen in his
Cephalopoddities
Tells us that Humans are
Ranked number two!

A very sad thread on Pharyngula reported on the death of a kitten–burned to death in an oven as a “joke”. One commenter suggested that we should not, logically, care so much about the kitten, since it is merely taking advantage of our evolved fondness for baby-like features. Evolution forced me to respond:

There’s little or nothing that isn’t emotion
In thoughts that we claim are a logical stream;
It’s not as if science has bottled a potion
That separates things from the way that they seem.
The kitten has hijacked my baby-detector,
Making me care when I maybe should not;
So what? Is that reason to cruelly reject her?
To not give a fuck if she’s cooked or she’s shot?
All humans are products of natural selection–
We are what we are, and we do what we do
We’re fooled into thinking that cats need protection;
The kitten has forced me to tell you “fuck you!”

And noted that the recognition of something as the product of evolution does not mean that we can, for that reason, dismiss it:

We may note with some confusion
That this empathy illusion
Makes us feel a certain feeling, and decide that we won’t play.
We may feel it holds us captive
But remember, it’s adaptive,
So dismiss it at your peril, cos it got us to today.
I don’t think I have to mention
We’re unique in comprehension
But that does not make us logical, no matter what we hope;
We are animals–with passion
And with reason, each in ration,
We may think ourselves a genius, when we’re really just a dope.

On murder by “pro-life” people:

And black is white, and up is down,
And hate, it seems, is love
So long as you can claim it’s done
In God’s name, from above
And wrong is right and bad is good
Let’s re-write all the laws
To justify a homicide
If Jesus is the cause

And a comment on a metaphysical course of study…

Of Science, Metaphysical, you now have your Degree–
It’s a quality diploma (you can keep the crayons for free!)
Just a couple thousand dollars, and it’s more than worth the fee
(Which is why we recommend that you invest in two or three)

It’s important to remember, on the chance you disagree,
That we never ever ever give a cash-back guarantee.

Lastly, from Orac’s stomping grounds, on the discovery that some homeopathic preparations actually, contrary to homeopathic teachings, have some real ingredients in them! Sadly, these actual ingredients are causing people who use them to lose their sense of smell! Actual homeopathy would be safer–after all, it does nothing at all!

Is it Zinc or is it water
That you’re giving to your daughter?
If it’s water, then it’s safer, cos it doesn’t do a thing.
Insufficiently diluting,
Which is what they’re now disputing,
Means the “remedy”‘s no longer pure as crystal mountain spring.
I had thought that the expedience
Of having no ingredients
Was what they found attractive (and it’s cost-effective, too!)
But now noticeable fractions
Of a drug produce reactions
Time to circle up the lawyers and aver that it’s not you!

I don’t do personal notes…

but…

CuttleDaughter is now officially (as of tonight) a High School Graduate (as was CuttleSon 2 years ago now)!!! A couple of months until college, but for now she is on top of the world. Oh, and incidentally, she is also officially the most beautiful, intelligent, thoughtful, and friendly daughter in the world. My best wishes to all of the runners-up.

I have two wonderful children. Erm… two wonderful offspring, no longer children.

What? A verse? Hmmm…

Where once we were not mere machines–
We credited the gods or fates–
We now observe recessive genes
For CuttleDaughter’s gorgeous traits.

WHICH OF THE FOLLOWING IS THE MOST LOGICAL ARGUMENT SUMMARIZING THE “EVOLUTION AND INTELLIGENT DESIGN ARE COMPATIBLE” POSITION?
Come on in, slip off your skin, and rattle around in your bones! 22 (11%)
There once was a man from Nantucket. 60 (30%)
Kitties!!! 70 (35%)
Hey, nonny nonny. 44 (22%)

Votes so far: 196
Poll closed

The Kitties have won!!!11eleven!!

Ok, now the fun part. Statistics. I mean, sure, Kitties won, and if this were a simple election, we would be welcoming our new Kitty overlords with catnip and balls of yarn. But what would be the fun in that?

These were clearly nonsense answers—one might be tempted to treat them as random choices. But, like “I’m thinking of an odd number between one and one hundred”, all choices are not equal. Though this be madness, yet there’s method in’t.

First, let’s see if this is a statistically significant difference. Yes, the kitties won, but somebody had to—is it possible that this distribution of votes was simply random? (“Yes”, says the null hypothesis; “No”, retorts the alternative hypothesis.)   To test this, we need a limerick, courtesy of the good people at the OEDILF:

chi-square test, chi-squared test by Cuttlefish

Chi-square testing compares F_expected
To the real F_obtained you’ve collected:
Square, divide by F_e,
Sum these up, and you’ll see
If Hypothesis_null is rejected.

The chi-square test, a robust statistical test appropriate for nominal (categorical) data, calculates a ratio of observed frequencies F_o to expected frequencies F_e. The assumption of the null hypothesis is that the categories are unrelated; a significant value for chi-square allows one to conclude that there is a relationship between the categorical variables.

The formula is: χ² = ∑( (F_e – F_o)² / F_e )

Close, but in this case we are using a Chi-square goodness of fit test rather than a test of independence. No biggie; the formula is the same. All we need to know is that, with 196 responses, the expected frequency under the null hypothesis is 49 votes per answer.

Chi-square obtained, in this case, is 26.86. At three degrees of freedom, the probability of these results occurring by chance alone is less than one in ten thousand. Ok, for all practical purposes we can conclude it’s not random.

But why? Could be the order the answers were presented in; I could repeat the poll with randomized presentation. Could be collusion by participants. Could just be that people like kitties. Could be that kitties across the world were holding voters’ loved ones hostage. Sadly, no independent variable was manipulated, so we are at a loss to explain our results other than descriptively.

No big deal, of course; it’s just a nonsense poll. But for fans of experimental methodology and measurement, it is just one more example of the methodological concerns involved in poll-making.

Bottom line—the appearance of randomness is not randomness. Remember that when you look at psychic predictions, or remote viewing, or polls on cuttlefish blogs.

I like food. I don’t know if you know that about me, but I really like food. I like growing it, cooking it, serving it… and especially eating it. There are few foods I do not like, and fewer cuisines I don’t like. I know a Vegan cook who is so incredible, I could eat just her food and be happy… but, of course, I could also eat other things and be happy. As a cuttlefish, I have an ambivalent attitude toward seafood–I love to eat it, but don’t particularly care to be on the menu.

Anyway, PZ posted about PETA’s latest, and it inspired a little verse which I liked so much I thought I’d post it here, too.

I would never eat fishes, except they’re delishes,
And lead my poor stomach to growl.
And one of my vices, with handfuls of spices,
I think that it’s fair to eat fowl.
I find an appeal in a meal of sweet veal;
I’ll eat all that my funds will allow.
And I will not lose sleep while I keep eating sheep,
Or a goat, or a bear, or a sow.
I’ve eaten grilled squid, and I’m glad that I did,
I think whale meat might give me a thrill–
If you don’t like my menu, be careful, cos when you
Say “bite me!”, the odds are… I will.

So NPR does a piece on penguins, and it gets me thinking about the end of the human race. Gotta wonder how that happens.

Yeah, anyway… it was a story about a new way of tracking penguins. Very cool–the scientists at the British Antarctic Survey (BAS) found out that colonies of penguins, on an ice floe for months on end, leave a signature… in poop. That can be seen from space. Yup, penguin guano can be seen from satellites.

Oddly enough, the whole concept put me in mind of this picture:

Different sort of poop, but you can definitely tell where we live from outer space. (I almost included a satellite picture of water pollution, but googling “satellite view of pollution” depressed me too much.)

One of the reasons the BAS was interested in looking for penguins is… they may be disappearing. Climate change may (or may not–thus the need for data) spell the end for huge percentages of penguins. Which news did not exactly lift my spirits.

I got to thinking (part of this is likely due to “Earth: 2100” on TV) about the really long view. No, longer than that. Longer. Double that. Still not even close. In this long view, we are not looking at penguin shit, but at the penguin’s great-great-great-great-[etc]-grand-daddy’s fossilized coprolites. My mom was a science teacher, and her rock collection had a number of coprolites in it–I think I disappointed one of my teachers once, by not being grossed out by the coprolite he passed around class. Anyway, I was thinking that, millions of years from now, after we have gone extinct (ok, stop–take a breath, and realize what it takes for a father to write that), whatever species it is–if there is one–that finds curiosity selected for, may stumble upon our own coprolites. Of course, in this particular society, we process our wastes to such extent that finding literal coprolites from humans might be difficult. But metaphorical coprolites–like, say, Pittsburgh–will be their Dinosaur National Monument Equivalent. Future civilization, should future species take the civilization path (my money is on the cephalopods), will find our trash, our toilets, our cities, our landfills… our shit. And they will examine our shit to try to determine what happened to us.

Anyway…

Some scientists have figured out
A means of penguin-snooping;
A camera, beamed from outer space
Can see where they’ve been pooping.

The penguins stay on floes of ice,
For months in just one place
Which leaves a stain of shit so big
It’s visible from space.

The guano—smelly, reddish-brown,
Corrosive, salty goo—
Leaves such a stain, ten colonies
Were found when they were through.

Of course, the waste we humans leave
Is seen from space as well—
The lights by night, the smoke by day
(At least, in space, no smell)

I wonder, once we’ve run our course
And disappeared for good
Will, someday, trails of human waste
Be seen and understood?

Will future beings study us—
As findings will permit—
And learn how humans went extinct
By studying our shit?

I am very nearly back–I will hand in grades tomorrow, and will post a bit of a personal update after that, and try my inadequate best to thank people who have helped me more than they could possibly know. For now, all I will say is Thank You All, so very much, for your kind words and deeds.

First, though, a regular post…

Ok, California, you have pissed me off. But you have given me an idea.

I read it in the news today—
The Cali courts have had their say,
And if the gods have made you gay
No more can you get married.
The logic that the judges wrote
(Except in the dissenting note):
Fifty percent, plus one more vote
Gets any measure carried.

And so it is with great delight
I urge you now to stand and fight—
Our cause, you’ll see, is wholly right,
If I can be so candid;
The group that we will now oppose,
The proper person’s fearful foes—
Our enemies, of course, are those
Who choose to be left-handed.

In writings since the Ancient Greeks
Left-handers have been viewed as freaks;
They’re sinister—their form bespeaks
A tendency toward sin!
But now (he said, with evil laugh)
The court has simplified the graph:
If we can gather just one half
Plus one more vote—we win!

So join with me—we’re on a mission,
Seeking to restore tradition;
Sign our “Right Is Right” petition
And join the teeming throng.
Stand up! Say no to left-hand choice!
The courts are with us, so rejoice
And join right in, in righteous voice:
“If it’s not right, it’s wrong!”

Even right-thinking (pun intended) southpaws should sign this one–the notion that the civil rights of a minority are at the mercy of the majority’s caprice and whim is… short sighted. If I were in writing form, I’d throw in some reference to a house divided against itself, or of separate but equal, or some such, but I am a bit rusty. Instead, I simply offer a heavy-handed “modest proposal” in the manner of Jonathan Swift. Right-handers are in the majority–why do we put up with the obviously inferior and literally sinister left-handers? Fifty percent plus one vote, and we can take away their rights!

It’s an issue that cuts across racial and religious, socioeconomic and educational lines. It is an economic issue–must we really make left-handed scissors? Left-handed desks? What next, left-handed cars? Driving on the left? It’s unamerican! Lefties have disproportionately more industrial accidents–why should they have the right to work at all? They increase our insurance rates while diluting our gene pool! They are unnatural and wrong! It is time we did something about it, and the California Supreme Court has sent us a welcome signal! All it takes is a bare majority!

Left-handers should not have the right to marry. They should not have the right to separate facilities and/or equipment. They are not equal; they should not be treated as equals.

California, you know what to do.

If lefties want rights, they can move to Vermont.

Something had to give. It is the time of the semester when assignments come due, and grading piles up. It is the time of the year when furnaces, cars, bikes, and computers break down (I don’t know how they conspire to do this, but they do). It is the time of life when the maximum number of offspring are requiring tuition to be paid, loans to be applied for, this that and the other to be bought. It is the time of the economy when two decades worth of savings are worth less than a decade ago, as if ten years of work was for nothing. It is one of those rare years when I have no summer teaching at all, and thus no summer income to speak of. It is the time of my life when, with finances like this, my 25th anniversary is coming up in a couple of months. We’ll likely split a can of soup in celebration.

Something had to give. I can’t cut back on my job, or they won’t pay me. I can’t cut back on parenting or spousing, just because. I can cut back on doing something I very much like to do, but which takes time I don’t really have right now. So this might be it, or this might be it for a while. I really don’t know right now.

I love my readers. They have helped me through so much already. I don’t regret a moment of my time spent putting life into silly rhymed verses. I still owe some of my readers a signed copy of my book (I haven’t forgotten!), and I will do that. One kind and talented reader is helping me (the delay is all mine) to re-write the book, add some commentary and re-organize, so that may come out eventually… and I will, of course, keep checking email and comments.

But something had to give, and so I am, at the very least, taking a break. I hope to see you soon, but if not, I still thank you from the bottom of all three hearts for supporting me, for enabling my obsession, for helping to create the Cuttlefish persona.

For now, though… Good-bye.

The real world is hitting the fan, so I don’t have time to put these in their contexts. I think all were from Pharyngula this time, though, so there’s that much at least.

Congrats, MAJeff

Worth the hassle? Worth the fuss?
To join the club–be one of us?
Now you’ve looked behind the curtain
(You once suspected, now are certain)
And seen the truth: that Ph. D.’s
Are roughly well-trained chimpanzees,
Hairless apes with advanced degrees,
And narrow fields of expertise.

You ran the maze, you beat the rats;
I offer my sincere congrats
Now all the strain and toil and wait
Is done–it’s time to celebrate!
So here’s to MAJeff! And here’s
To all the work, and all the years
And laughter, heartache, sweat and tears–
(You need to hydrate. Drink some beers!)

PZ’s trouble & strife

Oh, trouble and strife! The Trophy Wife
Doesn’t quite get the cephalofetish?
But think, if she did, and dressed up like a squid
To entice you to someplace that’s wettish–
She would use both her charms and her tentacle arms
To entrap you in utter delight–
We’d just stare at the walls, while Pharyngula stalls
Cos you’re too effing busy to write!

Sniffs of snails on pheromone trails

The mucous trail that shows a snail
Has recently passed by
Will not grow stale before a male
Decides to go say hi.
At such a scale, the fine detail
The pheromones supply
Will never fail as they assail
The mollusk’s roving eye
(to no avail, I’ll moan and wail
I meant not to imply
The “eye” is hale–it may need braille,
It’s metaphor, not lie!)
My verse is frail–let sense prevail;
Let no one here deny
A snail may nail a bit of tail,
And who’d complain? … not I.

Ken Ham still stupid—film at eleven.

Creationism always finds
That change occurs within their “kinds”
No dog had kitten for its whelp
So god, of course, has had to help.
The change we see is always small
And sometimes there’s no change at all,
Example one is Ken Ham’s mind
Which has not had to change its kind
He’s calcified his stupid views
And so, of course… this is not news.

Slug Sex

The hugs of slugs, the tricks of dicks,
Hermaphroditic bliss;
To climb, make slime, perchance to dance,
Much closer than a kiss.
Their bed, a thread that’s slung or hung
From branch, or jutting rocks,
Where they display a gay ballet
Of intertwining cocks.
This sex may vex the prude, as rude,
Or deviant or odd;
To spin as sin, we know, would show
A very boring god!

Buffy was fictional, Boston

Vampires, draped in capes of satin,
Roam the halls of Boston Latin!
Pay no heed to calls for quiet—
Hell awaits; so go on—riot!
Bring your garlic, wear your crosses,
Try to cut your vampire losses,
Better still, just stay at home
Where monsters are afraid to roam.
The school can use the room, to teach
The ones whose brains aren’t out of reach.

Kent Hovind wants our money and our prayers

We’ll pray and pray, and pray some more,
To open up his prison door;
We’ll pray all day and pray all night
And not give up our prayerful fight;
We’ll pray all night and pray all day
Till God hears what we have to say;
We’ll pray on hill and pray in dale
For God to let him out of jail;
We’ll pray in dale and pray on hill
That Hovind’s freedom is God’s will;
We’ll pray until our throats are hoarse
For God to do the work, of course;
We’ll pray–and if you think that’s funny,
Look: it sure beats sending money.

Fossil Octopods

They look like modern octopods—they share the basic plan—
The same way that gorillas share the form of modern man.
Creationists will argue, but let’s drop them down a peg:
An octopus is more than just a way to show some leg.

Religious freedom or insanity defense?

In this kid’s death, I fear I see
Religion in conspiracy;
The church should also share the blame
For crimes committed in their name.
Indict them all! A public trial
Will let the people see how vile
A group can be–and what is more,
The other churches, by the score,
Will have to choose to take a side:
To let these horrid monsters hide
Behind “religious freedom”, or
To try to shut that legal door.
Does freedom of religion mean
Support for actions this obscene?
Let churches choose–they made this bed,
Now sleep–like the kid. Oh, wait. He’s dead.

Vaticondoms

In days of old, when Popes wore gold
But no one wore a condom
One’s rod or staff was kept from gaffe
By blessings heaped upon dem
With nothing there but hopeful prayer
To guard against diseases
Not even Popes had any hopes
Of doing as one pleases

To keep the chap from getting clap
The Pope starts staying celibate
His health at stake, he must not break
This vow just for the helibate
The rule holds, too, for me and you;
The reasons, though, not quite:
He says “no glove when you make love”
But only out of spite.

On cephalopod toxins

Pay attention, all you boys ‘n
Girls, and stay away from poison!
Toxic proteins work for me,
Because I use a pen, you see.
This poison poet always mocks in
Toxic ink, or inky toxin.
(That line appears intoxicated;
Maybe I’m just addle-pated.)
I think up verses, then I pen ’em,
Dripping with my protein venom.
I bite, or write; my victims curse.
Remember, poison could be verse!

PZ reports on the Catholic Church’s ongoing war on Teh Gay. Specifically, this time it is Melbourne (Oz) considering testing priests for homosexuality. Those who “appear to be gay” will be given the boot.

Of course, this is misguided. You don’t need me to tell you that. “Appear[ing] to be gay” is not what defines gay men. Heterosexual men (at least, self-proclaimed breeders, happily married and raising kids, never once looking longingly at Brad Pitt instead of Angelina Jolie at the movies) may be effeminate. And gay men may be … well, anyone. I had a student once who surprised our class greatly–tough as nails, South Philly, a real man’s man. Literally, as it turned out. A great guy, he kept track of the heteronormative comments by his classmates just so he could check how each student took his announcement (2/3 of the way through the semester, when he spoke of being spit on and hit with rocks during a gay rights parade). He didn’t “appear to be gay”. And of course, my uncle, who was apparently happily married for 18 years, with three kids, before running off with a Catholic priest. (No, it is not just the Catholics; my uncle was a minister himself.) He didn’t “appear to be gay”.

You know who did appear to be gay? Hanging out with men (12 of them!), no reports of any sexual relations with women, or even relationships, despite being roughly 30 years old. He did hang around with one woman, but again, all reports are that they were just friends… if you don’t count a relatively recent formulaic blockbuster.

When cutting through the crap and lies
We find, with really no surprise,
That Jesus hung around with guys
And told us “love your brothers”

His choice of lifestyle still survives
As priests and monks still live their lives
With one another–never wives–
The brotherhood just smothers.

And when the homosexual beast
That lives within each Catholic priest
Is bottled up, and not released
It’s likely to explode!

So nip the problem in the bud,
With “eat my body, drink my blood”
And each potential priestly stud
Has sanctity bestowed.

The church thinks that the problem’s faced
By having priests assert they’re chaste,
But Freud would say they’ve just displaced
Their homosexual urges.

See, ever since the world began
Some men have loved their fellow man–
A truth the Church can never ban
Despite their futile purges.

There are, of course, some other ways;
They could embrace their fellow gays,
Not blame them for the sad malaise
Of scandal, sin, and shame

The church, not gays, in thought and deed
Has sinned–a fact they won’t concede.
Now more and more, their numbers bleed…
There’s none but them to blame.

click pic for larger view–seriously, it’s worth it!

I was looking through my blog stats, and found a slow, steady trickle of posts coming from 97KYCK, a country station in North Dakota. Now… I don’t actually like country music (sorry), but I love 97KYCK. The picture above was on their homepage when I checked it, and the moment I saw what it was, I got a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. The picture is of the central sandbag-filling location at the Fargodome. These people, if you have not been watching the news out of the US midwest, are fighting for their homes, their city, and maybe their lives. The waters are expected to crest at over 40 feet; the latest prediction is 43 feet, which would break a 112-year old record, and which could easily devastate entire towns. This is truly horrible.

The AP reports

Thousands of shivering, tired residents got out while they could and others prayed that miles of sandbagged levees would hold Friday as the surging Red River threatened to unleash the biggest flood North Dakota’s largest city has ever seen. The agonizing decision to stay or go came as the final hours ticked down before an expected crest Saturday evening, when the ice-laden river could climb as high as 43 feet, nearly 3 feet higher than the record set 112 years ago.

I sincerely hope that residents are not relying on prayer as their sole protection. Pray while you sandbag, or pray while you get out of Fargo, or pray while you get to high ground, but please do not just pray! This is one of those times when a bronze-age superstition is not gonna help; gathering with your fellow townspeople and working… may or may not help. I hope it does. I hope the people who wasted their time praying get to tell me “I told you so!”.

But… if the levee fails, if the sandbags do not hold, I am going to be checking with 97KYCK to find out where to send money. I urge any and all of you who can, to do the same, if disaster hits. This is not a good time for any of us (cuttlehouse is certainly not unhit by the financial tough times), but we are hell and gone more fortunate than the people working themselves to exhaustion trying to save Fargo and surrounding towns. I hope your efforts have been enough, ND.

And, Fargo, please don’t take offense, but I will not pray for you. There is no time to waste in prayer.

(Let’s face it, anyone in Fargo who is reading this instead of working is not helping anything at this point. If you are reading this after the flood is over, hey, go nuts.)

Bag by bag, and hand by hand,
The people build a wall of sand;
As father, mother, son and daughter
Fight against the coming water.
The waters rise; the tension mounts,
And every single second counts;
Each pair of hands that’s clasped in prayer
Is one whose effort’s missing there.
There will be loss of life, I fear,
The wall of water coming here
Could tear the wall of sandbags down
And spread destruction through the town.
I hope I’m wrong, with all my heart—
The town has got a decent start,
A sandbag wall ten meters tall—
I hope that it will hold it all.
The water rises, day by day;
I hope the folks who stopped to pray
Instead of putting sand in sacks
With aching arms and straining backs
Will not regret their wasted time—
Will not perceive their prayer a crime
Will not have lives that they have cost
Because of useful time they lost.
A day or two, and we will know—
The wall could be an inch too low,
Or hold the flood and save the lives
Of sons and daughters, husbands, wives,
The wall, if it should hold, will show
Not heaven’s work, but man’s, below;
If prayer could work, we would not need
To fill up bags at breakneck speed.
It’s effort, not vain fantasy
That keeps a city safe, you see;
A million hands clasped tight in prayer
Mean less than just one working pair.