Going Bat-Shit

I've never been very much into science.

Sure, there was a time when I put salad dressing, ice cream, bits of old candy bars, a celery stalk, and strips of cheese into a soda bottle and would leave it on the kitchen counter, covered with a towel, for a month to see what would happen, but that was largely the extent of my interest in science. I got an "A" in chemistry, probably because my teacher was insane, definitely through no actual comprehension of the Periodic Table or any tenets of Chemistry, and we know that my affiliation with Physics lasted for all of two days.

When I hear a story on the radio about something sciency, that's generally my cue to tune out and gaze out my windshield at some unsuspecting pedestrian/joggers tank-top-covered breasts and, usually, get caught doing it because, while I have limited scientific abilities, my slickness abilities are far more limited.

Yesterday morning, however, a sciency story caught my ear and actually held my interest, but it wasn't necessarily because there were no boobies to stare at, or because it was particularly interesting, it was because it made me mad.

The story, (admittedly, I didn't catch the whole thing) centered around an alleged problem that was occurring with recently-constructed wind turbines, which are wind-powered generators of electricity, just on the off-chance you didn't know that.

Apparently, these ostensibly ecologically and environmentally-friendly energy producers are secretly creating an unintended though significant problem in our fragile ecosystem:

They're killing bats.

You know-- these things:


Yikes, right?

According to scientific research, bats are being killed by wind turbines, and not necessarily in the way you might think they're being killed. See, you might be tempted to think that, because wind turbines have dangerous, rotating fan-type things that spin around at sometimes high rates of speed that bats are being essentially filleted to death as if by a Hibachi chef at your table side on a Saturday night-- but that's not what's going on at all. No, it's not the bird getting sucked into the 747's engine fan situation. Apparently, according to research (that's probably being paid for by the government, you know, while the whole country is basically out of work) the pressure that is built up inside the wind turbines is so great that, when a bat gets near the turbine, its lungs and/or other internal organs basically explode.

And I was sitting there in my car, driving to therapy, actually, thinking to myself,

"So?"

I mean-- take another look


and ask yourself


"Do I give a shit about this?"

Chances are you'll probably come up with, as I did, "No. I do not."

See, the way I look at things like this is the old Cost/Benefit method. Less dependence on oil, gasoline and coal, versus some dead, disgusting, fucking scary-ass flying fang-fuckers? I'm kind of okay with that.

The other thing is-- is there some kind of law that says that scientists have to ruin everything? Okay, so, you're bored. You're sitting in your high-tech laboratories playing "Zelda" and looking for chicks who dig losers on E-Harmony and you're wondering about what you can write your next $3.2 million dollar grant for, and you come up with this? The Effect of Wind-Turbines on the Bat Population of America?

Come on, guys. Why don't you just shut the fuck up? Focus on the remote possibility of your ability to procreate and leave the rest of us alone.

I don't know-- maybe if Koala bears or puppies were having their organs explode because of wind turbines I would care a little bit more, but bats? You're gonna have to try a little harder than that to take my attention away from the tank-tops and bobbing up and down ponytails of the world.

"Mein Fuhrer! I Can Walk!"

In case you haven't heard, scientists are now able to make paralyzed rats walk again. The National Association for the Perambulation of Paralyzed Eeking Rodents (NAPPER) has passed a unanimous motion rejoicing in the landmark medical event, hailing it as the scientific community's most valuable achievement since its ability to genetically engineer munster.

Lab workers and researchers have been using rats and mice and guinea pigs and other small furry things that nobody cares about 'cause they're nasty for dozens and dozens of years. I know PETA pretends to give a shit about the civil rights of mice, but I'll guarantee you they'd start shooting the little wriggly bastards if they were armed and locked in a small room with fifteen thousand of them.

Personally, I think doing pharma and stem cell research with ugly little buggers like rodents is a great idea. Just don't come near my dog, you white-coated geeks, or you'll get one in the nuts.

I wonder, though, just how far researchers go with these rats and things. I mean, when they first brought out Viagra-- you see where I'm going with this. Were Viagra and Levitra tested out on impotent little mice? Are there impotent mice? I have no idea.

That's one of the wonderful things about blogging, I think. You start to consider things you never gave a moment's consideration before, all in the noble pursuit of churning out semi-entertaining grog for folks, most of whom you've never met.

Nice.

So, getting back to limp-doodle vermin, how exactly is that done? Do researchers call up their mousie suppliers and say,

DOC: "Hey, Tom, it's Dr. Schmenkmann over here at Bristol, Meyers, Squibb. Do you have any mice over there that are, um, not... getting..... any?"

RAT GUY: "Well, what do you mean, Doctor Schmenk?"

DOC: "Well, you know-- any rats or mice that are just kinda.... not... in the action, as it were?"

RAT GUY: "You mean fags, sir?"

At first I thought that the lab dudes would sterilize the mice, but that wouldn't work, because then they'd never know if the medication was working or not, they'd have to reverse the sterilization process. I mean, these sonsofbitches did actually paralyze perfectly healthy mice and rats in order to do the stem cell research on them.

And, really, like I said, I'm okay with that. When my wife and I had our first duplex, you cannot even begin to fathom how many of those pink-nosed motherfuckers we annhiliated, and it wasn't in the goddamn name of science either. I don't care what these queer bastards do to our little furry friends. Attach car batteries to their nipples-- waterboard them. I don't give a shit. Just cure cancer before my mommy gets it.

(God forbid, n'yah mean?)

I hate those stupid commerials for New Jersey Public Schools they run (on Philadelphia channels, inexplicably, like we're going to see that shit and go, "Damn! Let's move to Cherry Hill, honey!") on TV. One of them takes place in a science lab, and there's this teacher, who looks like a blonde Moe, and he's talking about how dedicated he is to science and experimentation and shit, and I want to yell at him and say, "You're one of the highest paid public school teachers in the country, dickcheese-- that's what you're dedicated to."

But I don't, because my wife already thinks I'm crazy enough. I don't need to start yelling at the TV to belabor the point.

Then there's this black kid and in one shot he's in the lab next to the teacher and they've both got two little beakers of bright blue liquid that they're holding up to the light, apparently to examine. I'm sure there's Berry Blue Kool-Aid in each of the beakers, and I silently think to myself that the commercial would be much funnier if the kid and the teacher clinked beakers and drank the shit down, then expired dramatically onto the lab table-top, wretching up blue fluid and bile all over the camera lens.

That's the kind of science I can get into. That and giving mice mega hard-ons.

As you can probably tell, I wasn't very much into science as a kid. I didn't understand it. I thought the Periodic Table was like a tip calculator for teenage girls and that I would learn all about it Health class, but I didn't. Instead of receiving a pity pass from my Chemistry teacher, I received a pity A. Wholly unnecessary. Physics was different. I attended for two days and then dropped out.

Just like the police academy.

Astronomy and Geology were much more my speed. I won't even address Biology, during which I colored black and white ditto sheets containing sketches of amoebas and lichen and, in college, where I went to class maybe 30% of the time and received a D.

And so it was that I would never enter a career where I would be giving mice the power to walk or attain erections.

I've never met a scientist myself, but I want to. I want to meet someone who experiments with animals and gasses and shit. Someone who probably has crazy hair and a personality disorder and a collection of fucked up neckties. I want to meet a really weird bastard and call him "my scientist friend" when I tote him around with me at parties. Obviously, once I have a scientist friend, I'll start going to parties.

"This is Jodphur. He's my scientist friend. He works for Glaxo and he discovered this supercool enzyme that turns ferrets' dicks red."

I want a scientist friend badly. I like the friends that I have, but none of them are scientists, that I know of. Of course, they could be, like, back-alley, basement-type scientists. You know, like how I do amateur G&S, they could do, I don't know, amateur science. But it can't be weird shit, like raping cats with frozen garden hoses in their garage, you know? I want a scientist friend, not a nutcase friend. I have enough of those.

Speaking of which-- did this post start out being about impotent mice?