This evening, I am watching an episode of that marvelous and profane Western, Deadwood, as I type this; it is a most excellently compensatory distraction, allowing me to sublimate my urge to express myself in uncompromisingly vulgar terms on Pharyngula. This is an essential coping mechanism.
I have been reading Jonathan Wells again.
If you're familiar with Wells and with Deadwood, you know what I mean. You'll just have to imagine that I am Al Swearingen, the brutal bar-owner who uses obscenities as if they were lyric poetry, while Wells is E.B. Farnum, the unctuous rodent who earns the contempt of every man who meets him. That imagination will have to hold you, because I'm going to restrain myself a bit; I'm afraid Wells would earn every earthy sobriquet I could imagine, but I'll confine myself to the facts. They're enough. The man completely misrepresents the results of a paper and a whole discipline, and does it baldly on the web, as if he doesn't care that his dishonesty and ignorance leave a greasy, reeking trail behind him.
Let's start with Wells' own words.