…injecting urine? No thanks.

It seems that some people have had the brilliant idea of treating allergies with home injections of urine, because there are antibodies present in urine, and therefore you’ll make antibodies to your own antibodies? What?

You see, you first eat the substance you’re allergic to, triggering an immune response. Then you pee urine that has lots of those antibodies (actually, it won’t be lots — if you’re leaking lots of protein into your urine, you have a problem), and then you inject 10ml of that urine, which will have a lower concentration of those antibodies than your own blood, into your butt, which will then make your immune system generate antibodies against your antibodies…oh, fuck it. This is just nonsense through and through.

But apparently it’s a thing. People are also collecting urine from pregnant women and shooting themselves up with it to help them lose weight, because there’s a hormone in it.

It’s human coriogonic gotrophin, said Iris McCarthy of Success Weight Loss Systems.

Never trust a Weight Loss Technician who can mangle human chorionic gonadotropin that badly.

Then there’s the gentleman who injected himself intravenously with his own urine, “to maximize his vitality and potency, as he had developed nausea and vomiting twice after drinking his urine orally”. Yeah, I can see how nausea and vomiting are unpleasant. Almost as bad, as the paper this story comes from describes, nearly dying of acute sepsis.

People: Urine is a waste product. Your body works hard to get rid of it. It’s not beneficial to take it back in, because then you’ll just have to pump it back out again. Trust me on this. Do not pump your butt full of pee. Do not inject it into your veins. Don’t drink it.

Oh, no — Roy Moore blames drive-by shootings on the fact that evolution teaches that we came from animals. So Republicans all act like babies because we teach that they came from babies?

I need a nap right now because I got up from a bed this morning. That’s always a mistake.

I’ll never be able to use it, because I wouldn’t be that polite to someone wearing a MAGA hat.

That’s a serious question. The United States of America has become a seething nest of snakes; we talk about getting out the vote and campaigning and making reasonable, evidence-based arguments, but here’s an example of what we’re confronted with. Alex Jones, everyone, ranting about lesbians:

It’s not just Alex Jones, either. It’s people who think Hillary Clinton ran a child sex slave ring out of the basement of a pizza parlor. It’s Nazis. It’s people who think Republicans will work for the good of the country. It’s Donald Trump. It’s a whole system that makes it lucrative to be an extremist nutbag, and that amplifies the voices of the loons unfiltered.

No apocalyptic novel I know of ever predicted that the US would be destroyed by a dangerous and contagious insanity, but here we are. Future historians are going to look back on us and wonder about the causes of this catastrophic collapse.

Jordan Peterson is notorious for his desire to annihilate a liberal arts education, wanting to throw out the humanities and social sciences (except psychology, apparently) as tainted by post-modernism. We’re supposed to fire all those bad professors who teach bad ideas, false facts, and unacceptable interpretations of the evidence.

I guess that means we can fire Peterson, then.

This article correctly identifies him as The Professor of Piffle. In addition to his intolerance and failure to understand modern literary criticism, it turns out that he, a professor of psychology, doesn’t understand how the brain works.

To fully grasp the depth of Peterson’s belief in power hierarchies, take his commitment to IQ testing: “If you don’t buy IQ research,” he has told his students, “then you might as well throw away all of psychology.” Peterson rejects the theory of multiple intelligences (emotional intelligence, musical intelligence, and so on) and insists that all of human intelligence is biologically determined, essentially unalterable, and expressed in a single number that can be ranked. Your IQ, he says, will govern where you end up in life: with an IQ of 130, you can be an attorney or an editor; at 115, you can be a nurse or a sales manager; at 100, you can be a receptionist or a police officer; at 90, you can be a janitor.

Peterson’s defence of IQ rests on shaky foundations. While he tells students that IQ was empirically established through Charles Spearman’s factor analysis, he does not share the well-known critique of that method: factor analysis supports both of the contradictory causal explanations of intelligence (intelligence as innate versus intelligence as the product of environmental advantage). Peterson then stacks the deck in favour of biology, citing brain size and neural conduction velocity (essentially, the speed at which an electrical pulse moves through tissue) as the determinants of IQ. Again, he does not tell students that both explanations were discredited by later research.

In the tradition of nineteenth-and early twentieth-century pseudo-scientists, phrenologists, quacks, and scientific racists, Peterson’s commitment to IQ is simply the reflection of his commitment to an unalterable hierarchy of human beings. And this is why his dismissal of “unnatural” and “made up” gender pronouns, alongside his casual sexism—his belief that women would be better served by having babies than careers and that male feminists are “creepy”—turns out to be central to his intellectual project, which seeks to resurrect the conventional patriarchal pecking order. For Peterson, transgender people and powerful women upset the “male dominance hierarchy” that forms the centerpiece of his thought. His world view is predicated on the promise of restoring authority to those who feel disempowered by the globalism, feminism, and social-justice movements he derides.

I have to object to the phrase “stacks the deck in favour of biology”, because no sensible biologist would accept that load of crap as in any way valid. It is not good that “the most famous professor in Canada”, as the article calls him, is promoting bad science.

The atheist community is buzzing about this story: a popular host of the Recovering From Religion podcast, Scott Smith, has died. I have briefly met Smith but didn’t know him at all well; the founders of Recovering From Religion, Darrel Ray, Nathan Phelps, and Jerry DeWitt are very well known. Most of what I’m seeing about his death is shock and dismay and testimonials about what a good guy he was. I didn’t know him well enough to say whether he was a good guy or not, but the facts of the story tell me that he was NOT a good guy at all. This is a terrible story of an awful person who apparently had a lot of people fooled.

Authorities have identified the man and woman who were found dead in a North Side San Antonio home after a suspected murder-suicide shooting.

William Scott Smith, 54, is believed to have fatally shot his wife, 46-year-old Jennifer Smith, before turning the gun on himself. Their three young children were at school during the killing.

Though William Smith’s motive is still unclear, court records indicate that Jennifer had filed for divorce earlier this month.

Let’s get this straight. This man was facing a divorce, and his wife wanted to be free of him.

So he murdered his wife.

He murdered a woman, full stop. Because she wanted to be free of him.

He murdered someone for the crime of wanting her independence.

There is nothing that Smith could have done in his life that could possibly atone for the criminality and inhumanity and selfishness of the circumstances of his death. His behavior was reprehensible and unforgivable. That he killed himself afterwards was not an act of atonement, but of cowardice.

Further, he orphaned three children, who get a life’s dose of trauma and grief right now. This, too, is unforgivable and irresponsible.

Don’t grieve for Scott Smith. Grieve for his victims.

His facebook page now has a brief memorial note at the top:

We hope people who love Scott will find comfort in visiting his profile to remember and celebrate his life.

Nope. Don’t celebrate the life of anyone who ended it with the murder of his wife, the mother of his children. Jennifer Smith is the one who should be remembered.

Perhaps the only good result of the dissolution of Scienceblogs is that I’m no longer even distantly associated with National Geographic. I say this because, as usual, the magazine is indulging in religious pandering to the old people who still subscribe to it.

They are reporting on the age of “Jesus’ tomb”. That is, they found some mortar in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre that dates back to Roman times…which is not news. Jerusalem was a Roman city in Roman times, it contains many ancient buildings, and finding Roman structures is not evidence that this particular hole in the ground is the specific tomb of a specific executed criminal in 33AD, nor that a slab of rock is specifically where Jesus was laid out after death. The mortar was dated to 345AD, which compounds the confusion — how is the erection of a temple 300 years after the purported execution evidence that this is Jesus’ hole in the ground?

Also, the identity of this particular spot was generated by a Christian zealot, Helena, mother of the Emperor Constantine, who went swanning about Jerusalem around 325AD, pointing at rocks and sticks and random plots of ground and declaring them to be sacred Christian treasures. She claimed to have found the True Cross™, the True Ropes™ that bound Jesus to the cross, the True Nails™ that staked him to the cross, the True Tunic™ that Jesus wore, and the True Tomb™ where he was buried, purportedly briefly. It’s all nonsense and not credible, but NatGeo makes it a big feature in their magazine, and it’s also going to be the subject of a documentary on the National Geographic Channel on Sunday.

It’s part of the tradition. Helena and Constantine contrived a set of fake holy sites to fleece the ancient and medieval rubes, and NatGeo regularly contrives phony stories about Jesus to fleece the more modern, but still equally gullible, rubes.