Ken Ham, why you gotta’ be like that? Why so sticky-rich with the bafflement and inarticulate? What’s with the coverall catch-phrase of childish cheese “were you there?” that you throw at scientists like you just dropped the rhetorical mic?! Broheim, you obviously bought that chestnut with a wooden nickel from a debate team dropout-turned-used-car-salesman … See here man, born in 1981, I came up from a milk-crazed babe to a suave eighth-grader under the cocaine-glazed era of the Reagans, and outside of the hysteria of Satanic Panic, and the comedic triumphs of the Lexington-born everyman that was Ernest P. Worrall. The two cultural meteorites from the days of Rainbow Bright to hit me in my personal chest plate the hardest were dinosaurs and America’s strange fling with all things Australia (the Land Down Under was giving it to us hard, and we was gladly takin’ it!)
So let’s be upfront and brutal … As a personal lover of Dino-Riders action figures and Lord Humongous, Scholastic books full of steamy stegosaurus sex and INXS, the enchantment of trace fossils, and the beautiful Nick Cave, I’m personally asking Ken Ham to pack up his shit and get the fuck out of Kentucky, because, dude, when it comes to the twin-impact freshness that is dinosaurs and Australia you be stanky … You are the worst Australian thing to happen to science since Yahoo Serious dropped “Young Einstein” into our eager American mouths, and we gobbled up every atom smashin’ rock-’n’-roll moment, but let’s get really real here: Yahoo Serious’ crimes against humanity aren’t even in the same galaxy of the dangerous, dumb-dumb teachings of one Kenneth J. Ham. See, what I don’t like, Mr. Ham, you Geriatric-Children-of-the-Corn-lookin’ buffoon, is havin’ some dude from Megunesia who thought it would be best if he moved into my backyard of Petersburg, Kentucky, and build a double-feature cathedral to utter stupidity and complacent gullibility.
My sir, when you have the Catholic Church calling bullshit on the twisted methods that you personally use at Answers in Genius, well, oh my, you know you’re selling elixirs and tonics laced with slimy hogwash, because the Catholics have a real shaky history on the jungle floor of the sciences, ya dingus. And even they ain’t down with you, hombre! Here we are in 2016, having just had two heroes spend an entire year aboard the International Space Station, and you’re standing there all weird half-beard trying to pick a fight with evolution, and you haven’t made a single goddamn discovery! There’s no antiquarian dirt on your hands! You’re not an outlaw paleontologist! You have not added so much as a single iota of reason as to why plastic prehistoric dorks riding around on a triceratops should elicit any brain activity that doesn’t involve riotous jeers followed by a fart-laden guffaw.
You have written a tome in spittle, based on a big ol’ book of boring, the Bible, my most crunchy lamb, a title best left in motel drawers unless you’re a Hollywood soothsayer, and you got a Bible-based script so powerful and bloated that it’ll bring both Elizabeth Taylor and Mel Gibson back from the dead. Your fear of “molecule-to-man-evolution” is so great that you erected a toothless theme park of sadness and ass-backwardness — so next-level Neanderthal crazy that my brother Isaac (a man of science who has swiped-right on every reptile and insect on this big blue ball) weeps tears of shame at the mention of your swine-entwined name. Ken, you come from a continent that broke away from Antarctica 96 million years ago, a continent so rich in animal diversity that a person can spend his or her entire beautiful life studying the platypus alone. But here you are, looking children in their innocent eyes, and telling them Mother Earth is but a measly 6,000 years old, while you snatch up 18 million in banana bread from the taxpayer to go build a fucking boat that don’t float (the largest timber structure in the world! There’s no need to add a Tower Of Babel — you already have it dude! It’s called the Ark Encounter!) And speaking of Noah and his fuckin’ boat, let me point out real quick while I’m real mad on the subject, that this is America baby, the home of Mark Twain — we perfected the boat book. We got Poe’s “Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket,” and we’re the home of heavy ruling Herman Melville. If you want to build a monument to a truly great tale of wooden structures holding humans on harsh waters, then build a life-size replica of “The Pequod,” you nonsense-spreading lummox, you. When every single person with even an ounce of authority in the fields of paleontology, archaeology, geology, astronomy, cosmology and philology can come together and condemn you with rock-solid proof that you are a charlatan selling harmful toxic waste by the barrel to a portion of people who are force-feeding this bogus rubbish to children (I feel for these kids y’all) … well, sir, I say unto you, pack up your goofy set of tricks, and start kicking rocks down that lonely road of insignificance. Your destination — obliteration.