Disclaimer: No animals were harmed during the writing of this blog. Also, the author of this blog has no beef (no pun) with scientists or bunny huggers. In fact, some of his best friends are bunny-hugging scientists.
Did you see the story about the weird rodents that scientists have discovered that are immune to pain?
Now, most people will read this story and give it no further thought. But this is the type of story that worries me immensely and raises myriad questions in my (admittedly) warped mind. Let’s forget the obvious question; so you’ve captured the poor little mole thingamarat and inserted probes into God-only-knows which one of its orifices. Is it really necessary to characterise the wretched creature as “bucktoothed”, “naked” and “sausage-like”? How would Dr Frakengeekneurologist over there feel if he were described as “dorky”, “four-eyes” and “has-about-the-same-sex-appeal-as-a-hyena” in a rodent scientific journal?
But let’s not go off the deep end here and hone in on the real problem instead. The reason this article made it into the news is because scientists have discovered that these creatures are apparently immune to pain and “invulnerable to the pain of acid and the sting of chilli peppers”. I’m sorry, but that’s just unacceptable! What kind of cruel, did-not-get-enough-hugs-as-a-kid, poor excuse for a human being pours acid and sprinkles chilli peppers on a poor rat? What kind of bogus, fly-by-night kind of “research” facility is this? But more importantly, how does one go from finding a new species of mole rat to seeing the potential for painkillers?
Dork I: Hey Thomas, look what I found. A new species of rat.
Dork II: Way cool, Gary! Pin it down and let’s see what happens when we douse it with Tabasco sauce.
What the hell is going on here? I demand an explanation for this flagrant disregard for animal rights being perpetrated in my name. How desperate are we as a human race for pain relief? Where do we draw the line?
For starters, it really pisses me off to see this sadism being unleashed upon poor creatures, even if they do look like a slimy, post-apocalyptic alien race (let’s admit it). The article describes these “rodents” as “cold-blooded”, which is another dead giveaway that something is amiss here. No silly, nothing wrong with the creatures themselves but with the brains of these pseudo-scientists. Hello, even I know that the criteria for classification as a mammal include having a backbone, being endothermic (commonly referred to as “warm-blooded”) and sporting tits. It’s been that way since we made our first appearance during the Jurassic period.
This bunch clearly does not know what they’re doing. The article goes on to describe how “The researchers discovered that when unconscious mole rats had their paws injected with a slight dose of acid … the rodents showed no pain.” (The sick bastards!). Let’s all take a collective moment to digest this one. Who asked the mole rats whether they felt any pain? I have never met anyone of the Tom-and-Gary duo cited in the article but I doubt that one of them speaks Molerat. So how did they figure out when the rats felt pain? Well, according to the article, “They’d pull their foot back and lick it.”
If this were a court of law, the sober judge (assuming he hadn’t had any “tea” before) would slam the table and shout “Guilty!” without even retiring to his chambers to deliberate at this point. Who knows what the “pull the foot back and lick it” routine means? Maybe it means “Lord, I’m in so much pain, I implore you to take me now. Lick.” As a matter of fact, I do believe that the Bonga-Bonga tribe in the South Pacific island of Niki-Niki uses the same method to express pain.
But what really crawls up my black behind about this whole thing is the silence from animal rights groups across the world at this orgy of sadism against the naked mole rat. This is why I hate freaking bunny huggers. If this injustice were being perpetrated against a warm, cuddly animal with Katie Holmes-like eyes such as the giant panda, legions of big, unwashed women with hairy armpits would be all over that research facility like green flies on tripe. We’ve all seen them driving over sleeping street kids and bergies in Cape Town in the clamour towards Sea Point to give penguins warm baths. And then they get defensive when some of us wonder out loud if bunny huggers harbour impure thoughts about their chosen animals to obsess over. And you know what bunny huggers would say in response, the over-defensive lot — a lot of bullshit about only saving animals on the extinct species list and ecosystem balance yadah yawn.
Ecologically balance this one: Would any bunny huggers join me in my quest to save one animal that I personally know is in danger of being extinct? Yeah, I’m talking about the pubic louse, or The Big Itch (TBI) in prudish circles — otherwise known by its scientific alias, Phthirus pubis or PP. The TBI is a member of an unloved, unfortunate bunch of creatures that get a bad rap for their dietary habits — the dung beetle, the mosquito and the tapeworm being the other members. Nobody is fighting for these guys. I’m willing to put my family jewels on the chopping block that no bunny huggers would join me in my “Save the Phthirus” campaign, even if I produced stats from a credible research institution that proved unequivocally that the PP population had declined by a whopping 97% since the start of the market war between Dettol, Savlon and Protex.
Being the driven individual that I am, I’d be undeterred in my campaign despite the non-involvement of the bunny huggers. I’d leave that perverted lot alone in their stampede towards the southern Cape to feel up unsuspecting penguins. My first port of call here would be to gather as much scientific knowledge on the Phthirus as I possibly could. The scientific community has ignored this creature of love for far too long. The only information about it is slanted because only parasitologists have ever really given it much attention, as is evidenced by this lousey entry in Wikipedia. (Let it never be said that Silwane does not write properly researched articles.)
Is it me or is there something seriously wrong with looking upon one of God’s creatures as only a parasite? The Wikipedia description briefly describes the morphology of the TBI and then delves straight to discussing “epidemiology”, “diagnosis” and “treatment” — like the crab louse was some kind of disease. What about its feelings, dreams and aspirations? Is it fair that its entire 22 days of existence should boil down to what it consumes — that is, horny people’s groins? How would you feel if other species described you as a baby chicken muncher? Who died and made the human race the final arbitrator on these matters?
So, in my quest for the rights of the PP, I’d have to find out more about its behaviour and habits. Scientists have clearly been sleeping on the job. Did anyone ever perform an environmental impact study on the effects of a groin-itch-less ecosystem? Are we concerned about the effect of the dwindling numbers of The Big Itch on global warming? No? I didn’t think so.
The most obvious place to find the Bug of Love, I imagine, is probably the Durban harbour. That’s right; I’d probably have to sacrifice my body for science to bang hookers and call it scientific data collection. If any of those pseudo-scientists questioned my sampling methods, this is what I’d say:
1. My activities are an acceptable method of sample collection used by microbiologists everywhere. It’s called inoculation.
2. Let he who has never poured Tabasco sauce on a naked mole rat cast the first stone.
3. Besides, it has been proven conclusively that banging ladies of the night and chewing gum afterwards is good for the economy.
They would have no choice but to hang their heads in shame at the bankruptcy of their arguments. I’d throw myself into this scientific task with incredible zeal and fervour. And just to prove that I knew what I was doing, I wouldn’t waste time with the clean, sterile stiletto professionals. No siree. I’d scour the entire surface area of the Durban harbour, scraping the bottom of the barrel for the filthiest, cross-eyed ones I could find. I’d wait until about three days after a vessel from a place far, far away like Indonesia had docked — you know, to give the sailors time to “inoculate” the pleasure workers with exotic variants of Phthirus pubis. And then I’d pounce on them for about 10 days, which is roughly equivalent to a pubic louse’s half-life. I think we can all see that I’ve given this a lot of thought.
By this time I would probably have a nice, thick colony of them on my … er, mat. And then I’d engage in a one-man march to the Department of Environmental Affairs, careful not to toyi-toyi so much as to lose more than, say, 20% of my crop. Then, when Honourable Minister Kortbroek came out to the balcony to receive my memorandum of complaints, I’d open my coat to flash him and cry out:
“Pubic louse lovers of the world unite! They will never take us alive!”
Still, my heart is heavy. Even if I were crazy enough to actually invade Durban’s Victoria Embankment on my scientific mission, it still wouldn’t help the poor, weird rodent. The naked rat mole would still be subjected to torture at the hands of evil scientists with crazy eyes while bunny huggers sat idly by in heated rooms, petting unsuspecting lion cubs.
It makes me sick.
(Author’s note: my shrink says that whatever I have can be cured with a little understanding and lots of pretending that I’m normal.)
Author
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