Science is not a pretty thing. It is unpleasantly proportioned, outlandishly attired, and often overeager. What, then, is the appeal of science? What accounts for its popularity? And who gave it its start?
In order to better understand the modern penchant for science it is necessary to take the historical point of view. Upon doing this, one makes the discovery that the further back one goes the less science one is likely to find. And that the science one does encounter is of a consistently higher quality. For example, in studying the science of yesteryear one comes upon such interesting notions as gravity, electricity, and the roundness of the earth—while an examination of more recent phenomena shows a strong trend toward spray cheese, stretch denim, and the Moog synthesizer.
These data unquestionably support my theory that modern science was largely conceived of as an answer to the servant problem and that it is generally practiced by those who lack a flair for conversation.
It is therefore not surprising that only after Abolition did science begin to display its most unsavory features. Inventions and discoveries became progressively less desirable as it became harder and harder to get good help.
Prior to the advent of this unfortunate situation the scientist was chiefly concerned with the theoretical. His needs properly attended to, he quite rightly saw no reason to disturb others by finding a practical application for his newfound knowledge. This resulted in the establishment of schools of thought rather than schools of computer programming. That this was a much pleasanter state of affairs than presently exists is indisputable, and one has only to look around to see that the unseemliness of modern science is basically the product of men whose peevish reactions to household disorder drove them to folly. Even in those cases where a practical touch was indicated one notes a tendency toward excess.
A typical example of this syndrome is Thomas Edison. Edison invented the electric light bulb, the purpose of which was to make it possible for one to read at night. A great and admirable achievement and one that would undoubtedly have earned him a permanent place in the hearts and minds of civilized men had he not then turned around and invented the phonograph. This single act led to the eventual furnishing of small apartments with quadrophonic sound systems, thereby making it impossible for the better element to properly enjoy his good invention. If one follows this line of thought to its logical conclusion one clearly sees that almost without exception every displeasing aspect of science is, in one way or another, a hideous corruption of the concept of reading at night. Reading is not a particularly popular pastime—hence the warm welcome the majority of the population has extended to such things as snowmobiles, tape decks, and citizen band radios. That these newer appliances have not entirely taken away the appetite of the public for electric lamps can only be attributed to their unwillingness to let perfectly good empty sangria bottles go to waste.
Scientists are rarely to be counted among the fun people. Awkward at parties, shy with strangers, deficient in irony—they have had no choice but to turn their attention to the close study of everyday objects. They have had ample opportunity to do so and on occasion have been rewarded with gratifying insights.
Thus electricity was the product of Franklin’s interest in lightning, the concept of gravity the outcome of Newton’s experience with an apple, and the steam engine the result of Watt’s observation of a teakettle.
It is only to be expected that people of this sort are not often invited out. After all, a person who might well spend an entire evening staring at a kitchen utensil has little to recommend him as a dinner companion. It is far too risky—particularly if the person in question is moved to share his thoughts with others. Physical laws are not amusing. Mathematical symbols do not readily lend themselves to the double entendre. Chemical properties are seldom cause for levity. These facts make it intolerable for a gathering ever to include more than one scientist. If it is unavoidable, a scientist may be safely invited to dinner providing that he is absolutely the only member of his profession present. More than one scientist at the table is bad luck—not to mention bad taste. Legend has it that the atom was split when a bunch of scientists working late decided to order in a pizza. Indeed a terrifying story and one made all the more chilling when one learns that a number of their colleagues smarting from the snub of being excluded from this impromptu meal spitefully repaired to an all-night diner and invented polyester.