And on the seventh day, we partied. And it was good.

In studying biological systems, I have come to an awesome conclusion. There are a lot of weird and even unnecessary things that happen on the cellular level. So, I'm thinking that maybe, just maybe, the creation consisted of a six day long party followed by an all-nighter in which everything was thrown together. I mean, if I could juggle the cosmos, I'd probably work less and party more too.

Thoughts on Enzymatic Bullying

Coming Soon.

Your Chemically Nitrogenous Friend

No.  If that were the case, I would have titled this post Your Gaseous Nitrogenous Friend.

I am talking about molecular nitrogen as it appears naturally in the air.  Nitrogen, your friend and mine, is very inert and, at approximately 70% of the atmosphere, it keeps the oxygen concentration at bay.  A high concentration of oxygen in the atmosphere could lead to a catastrophic explosion.  Observe this hypothetical discovery of fire without nitrogen:

Two cavemen near the entrance of a cliff side cave dwelling:

Caveman 1 (Neanderthal): "I make man's red flower."

Caveman 2 (Homo Erectus): "You fool, you've killed us all!"

The world would light up like a roman candle and we would have to start evolution over again. The unfortunate thing, besides the fiery destruction of every living thing on the entire planet, is that it would continue a vicious cycle of evolution, discovery, and destruction.  We would be stuck in a perpetual game of evolutionary constipation, if you will.

Where have all the cowboys gone?

The other night I was thinking about the 'theory of evolution and survival of the fittest...' and realized that nature (more specifically, the chosen apparel of cowboys) is weeding the cowboy gene out of the human genome.  Usually, species flourish according to their ability to survive and reproduce.  And cowboys may not be passing along their genetic wrangling information as well as the next man.  I once overheard an old cowpoke saying, "H***, Roy.  I've been sterile since I was six. But I love my butt tight wranglers. (took a sip of coffee from a tin cup) Yup, and I ain't never gonna stop." end quote.  There it is, straight from the old coot's mouth.  He basically said, "...my... wranglers [made me]...sterile."  So, what I am saying is that their pants are too tight.  Now, I don't want to go into the grisly details, but their pants... their horrible pants are making them more sterile than a doctor's office.  And you know what that means.  No more baby cowboys.  That's right, buckaroos.  Science can be a bi***.  And it just bit you in your wranglered a**.