Some days I get very mad at science. Some days I feel like telling science to go straight to hell.
Like today, for example. It was announced that scientists have decided that Brontosaurus was a real dinosaur. This is after decades of telling us that we (non-scientists) were imbeciles for thinking that this creature was different from a dinosaur called Apatosaurus.
Let me give you a timeline of how this mess happened. Over a century ago, scientists announced that they found fossils for two different dinosaurs: Apatosaurus and Brontosaurus. Then, decades later, they said the fossils were from the same animal — not from separate animals — and — guess what! — they’re both named Apatosaurus. Science — that sadistic bastard! — knew that we were all much more familiar with Brontosaurus because of The Flintstones, but selected the other name just to make us all look stupid.
And, now, with absolutely no apology, science announces that Brontosaurus really did exist so we can go back to acknowledging them again.
Well, you know what science? I don’t care what you say because I never stopped calling them Brontosaurus. What’s more, I still refer to Pluto as a planet, and I let water boil or freeze at whatever temperature it damn well chooses. You know why, science? Because I’m tired of letting you run my life.
I know what you’re thinking: Science is good! It’s logical! If it weren’t for science there’d be no internet or sugar substitutes! Smart people love science! So, if I don’t like science, I must be:
a.) A religious wacko; or
And, yes, in most cases, I’d agree that people who hate science are all the above. But just because you get mad at science doesn’t mean you don’t believe in it. I do believe in science! I’m absolutely fine with the idea that I evolved from an ape! Global warming is happening and it’s scary! I’m really worried about the fate of polar bears!
But, sometimes, science goes too far and acts like a bully and an arrogant jerk. And that’s when I get mad and threaten to stop believing in gravity.
What typically sets me off is when science kills my dreams.
Science loves magic — but only the magic it creates and can explain in an insufferably smug and reasonable manner. Science seems to relish the opportunity to debunk the ethereal things that make us feel hopeful, thrilled, and alive: like God and love.
Excited that near-death experiences may prove the existence of an after-life? Oh, silly fool, says science. That’s simply a hallucination caused by insufficient oxygen to the brain. There is no God, you backward, primitive idiot. And then science rolls its eyes and sighs dramatically before launching into a lecture about the Theory of Relativity, which it wields as a theoretical weapon to destroy any notion of faith, spirituality, or soulfulness.
Euphoric because you’re in love? Get a grip, says science. Love isn’t a real thing. Then science scans your brain and takes a blood sample to demonstrate how you’ve been chemically manipulated into temporarily thinking that it’s a really good idea to purchase a sectional couch with someone you barely know. This won’t end well, clucks science. And you’ll lose a lot of money on that couch.
Is science right about this stuff? Sure, but who cares? Why must science ruthlessly discard the fun and mystery of life by plugging any joyful element into an equation in order to create a tidy explanation?
Science should stick to finding cures for cancer, feeding the hungry, and developing better technology so we can finally kill off Comcast.
As we’ve seen, science doesn’t know everything. It was wrong about the Brontosaurus. So why would I trust it to explain away the vagaries of my heart and my soul?