First of all, let me make it very clear: I do not have a problem with science. Secondly, let me make it even clearer: I have a problem with science.

It would seem that today science has taken over all aspects of our society: industry, government, even the medical establishment; I ask you, when did we as a people decide to grant dictatorship to this insidious discipline? When did we decide to abandon personal responsibility, individual freedom, and Christian conscience to the dogmas of “the scientific method”? I hate to be the sort of person who points out the similarities between the scientific establishment and Hitler, but it seems as if in today’s technophiliac, test tube-obsessed, petri dish-worshipping world, there is nobody else willing to take up this most vital of cudgels.

Let me take you back to a time I call “the past”. It was a much simpler time, when man, and occasionally woman, lived in harmony with nature. Human beings romped happily, naked, through pleasant green meadows, gaining all that they needed from God’s bounty. The fruits of the earth and the odd mammoth carcass were quite sufficient. And these were happy days: extensive historical research and archaeological excavation have failed to turn up any references in cave paintings or prehistoric campsites to clinical depression, eating disorders or emo music. In fact, people back then seem to have been the happiest people in history — not a single source can be found suggesting they weren’t. And sure, on one hand absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, but on the other hand, that’s what a scientist would say.

So we have the proof: before we had science nobody was unhappy; now that we have science, almost everyone is unhappy. Just look around you, at the sad, gaunt faces in the street, at the proliferation of anti-depression initiatives, at the billions upon billions of blogs written by people who clearly have literally nothing better to do. Reflect that without science, we wouldn’t even have blogs. Ruminate on that putative paradise for a moment.

The reason for all this unhappiness is that science has removed the mystery from life. There was a time when we could look up at the sun and say, “What is that?” Possibilities abounded — it could be a shiny god, it could be a ball of fire coming to destroy us all, it could be something a giant drew on the sky in crayon. But now that we know that the sun is a huge light bulb hung from the clouds by Jesus, there’s nothing exciting about it at all. Thanks, Copernicus.

And then there’s disease. Back in the day, disease was almost a comfort. “Oh dear, old Tom has cholera,” we could say. “Looks like he pissed someone off”. As long as we behaved ourselves and obeyed all the rules and ate the hearts of the correct prisoners of war, we could avoid illness, and we could be sure that God was looking after us by punishing the wicked with pestilence. Imagine the reassurance people must have gained from that. Life was just one long stream of contented sighs. But now what do we have? “Modern medicine”, where suddenly there are diseases floating around everywhere, inserting themselves into our various cavities. You can’t even see them. At least when everything was caused by a vengeful God, we could see him (assuming the fever had progressed sufficiently).

Oh oh oh, squeal the sissy pro-science zealots, but what about increased life expectancy? Thanks to SCIENCE, we can now live longer than ever, they blurt, as if that’s a good thing. Increased life expectancy is the worst thing to happen to the human race since sabre-toothed tigers. Because what does increased life expectancy lead to? That’s right — old people. Old people who live in old houses, eating cat food and shooting at passersby. Old people who live in retirement villages accusing nurses of poisoning them. Old people who subscribe to magazines about mobile homes. Old people who keep insisting we acknowledge them as vibrant sexual beings. Old people: the scourge of the earth. Yet apparently we are supposed to be “grateful” to science for visiting this plague upon us all. We’re supposed to kneel at the feet of the scientists who infested our planet with these wrinkly grey-haired vermin, kissing their acid-stained fingers instead of cursing them for destroying our idyllic system of early death, where people didn’t outstay their welcome.

Look, I’m not saying all science is bad. I know science has provided us with many wonderful things, like nuclear bombs and chemical weapons. But has it been worth it? Is the ability to annihilate entire cities at the push of a button worth the horrors wrought upon our personal relationships by predictive text? Is our admittedly useful capacity to wipe out large tribal populations with poison gas worth the hassle of automated voice recognition on help lines?

And here we get to the crux of the problem with science: it goes too far. Scientists cannot leave well enough alone. They come up with a bright idea, like a weapon of mass destruction cloning sheep, but they can’t be satisfied with that, they have to push the envelope a bit further. “Well, we can kill millions in seconds,” they think. “Why shouldn’t we go ahead and make ugly shoes with holes in them?” And so, without a thought for the consequences, the eggheads wreak havoc upon humanity.

I feel that the tyranny has gone far enough. I think it’s time for us to take our world back from the so-called scientists, with their “hypotheses” and “experiments” and “observations” and “education” and “clean white coats”. Ever since the first scientist looked up at the unfathomable heavens and felt a burning desire to make everyone feel stupid, we have been held in thrall to these Godless beaker-jockeys, casting aside all commonsense, piety and practical superstition in favour of the pursuit of petty facts. It must stop. For the sake of our civilisation, science must end here.

Our children will thank us. Particularly if they are members of the Minerals Council.

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Ben has not one but TWO hilarious books out now: Surveying the Wreckage and Superchef. Ben writes for the A2 section of The Age on Saturdays and intermittently for New Matilda and Crikey. You should read his stuff before he turns into Eddie Mcquire. He blogs www.benpobjie.blogspot.com and tweets @benpobjie but he doesn’t do it very well.

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