Latest word from our lads with the electrodes, anatomised

One would have to cite the lurid intrigue commissioned by the British Crown over the remains of Roger Casement, as honourable precedent for the inextinguishable zeal of our pseudoscientists, for hooking us up to electrodes to monitor the responses of the anatomy to the ordeal of pornog-raphy. In the latest go-round in this endless misprision and misconstruction of sexuality, our sporting clinicians have come up with yet another positive proof of a false premise, that organic contingencies can explain anything. The New York Times, paper of unfail-ingly belated record in such matters, reports that the latest Rube Goldberg experiment has discovered bisexuality. And not a word about playlists?

Only in the most carnally morbid of cultures, lashed to an invasive evangelism relying wholly on a catechism of genital improbabilities, could our dim dialectic of sexuality draw the slightest motive. Ours being the only nuclear bastion of the crudest binary distinctions, our frenzy to divide humanity into no more than 2 cadres of sexual response is of the greatest international interest. Not that science, of even this frivolity, stands much chance against the depth of this policy, the nice people of Guernsey and of Andorra must be quaking in their boots to apprehend what effect this disturbing study might have on the deployment of our forces. 

This latest parody of empiricism is only likely to degrade the dignity of fact even further, where it is anathema in the first place. Who can suppose that our Michelle will be deterred in her crusade for compulsory conjugality, by further reports of its diversification? Voodoo is only invigorated by quackery, of which this meets every test. Nor, in her mortal struggle with Texas' crown prince of penal injection, is the tenuous distinction between love and death in her mind, likely to fare well.

Like you, I cringe at the prospect of the detailed publication of this evidence, for its digest of distractions to be assimilated in our dis-course. We have to be able to trust at least some of our stimuli - the green light, of ancient probity. May its glow never dim.