Do NOT Read This

[edit: this is open for revision by anyone who wants to improve it; this isn't funny, yet . . .]
So, I've been slumming on twitter, and I found some absolutely morally bankrupt reprobates from 'down under' who've taken me in like I'm a stray wallaby injured in a freak kangaroo accident. Or, what's more likely I'm the baby in the "dingo ate my baby" stories we hear. Anyway, one of the slimier ones actually has admitted, publicly even, that he's male - so you know how loathsome he must be. I did some research, and clearly he's repugnant. Just look at this article he wrote! Need I say more?



Well, we started rapping about Twatson on Twitter and he mentioned that about her and PZ there simply must be a joke be to found in second derivatives, minimums and reality tv.  Not at all an easy order to fill, I can assure you. Particularly not in 140 characters. So here I am at my blag seeing what I can bang out.

Welcome to the geek zone; if you're not comfortable with differential calculus, this joke will probably fail on you. If you're comfortable with calculus, it will most certainly fail! (I am quite happy to open this project up to collaboration so as to make it truly funny, but here's my opening attempt.)

Things one will need to know:

The second derivative of velocity is the third derivative of position. The third derivative of position has a technical--and very little known--name "The Jerk".

The Concavity Theorem

The Dunning-Kruger Effect

Something about reality tv.

What Rebecca Twatson is known for.

So, if we go back to the recent TAM and think of it as a reality TV show, or popularity contest, we have on the one hand team Dawkslap and team Twatsonista.  The match-up was that of a Titan fighting a mortal retard. So, the Titan takes the stage, confident and debonair, perfectly quaffed hair punctuating the equipoise of his grandiloquence. On team Twatsonista, we had a drunk sodden halfwit and crew hanging out in a bar, staggering her way to brutal humiliation at a rapid pace. Unbeknownst to her, the fuse was lit on the tampon of her career - throwing her estimable intellectual reserves against the rubber wall of a Dawkslap, she and crew were imbibing in anticipation of victory.


The position of the lectern-turned-trebuchet served as the optimum vantage point for the opening salvo - ballistic and cold: childcare for all.

Like a flan in the oven, Twatson was at the height of her power. As the news reached her, traveling at the speed of bad news, and she realized what had happened, the hotair escaped her capacious, commodious head. It was then the judges let her know, it's not the

 or even the

that kills you, it's the

that does it.