Critical mass of Cotton

Yesterday, the climate blogosphere reached critical mass of Cotton. Douglas J. Cotton. And with that critical mass, as such things go, they go boom. Lucia has previously announced why Doug Cotton is banned at her place. Undeterred, and fully advised he has been banned for bad behavior (here at WUWT also), Mr. Cotton continues to use his Cotton Socks™ to sockpuppet his presence throughout the climate blogosphere, and today, Lucia has had enough and has decided to provide Doug his own thread for entertainment purposes called: The Fullness of Time: Doug Cotton Comments Unveiled!

Lest you think this is a problem exclusive to Lucia’s shop, I can advise you that just about every sceptical climate blog has had similar problems with Mr. Cotton posting his own brand of physics under his real and/or list of sockpuppet names and fake emails. We’ve heard that even the Prinicipia/Slayers have un-welcomed him, and over the weekend, it seems critical mass has been achieved as new blogs weighed in via emails behind the scenes. With that, I offer this short play:

Doug J. Cotton orders a pizza (A play in one act)

[The stage is split in half. On the left, Cotton’s study–a room full of books, piles of books, thousands upon thousands of books. In the center a desk covered in manuscripts. Cotton occupies the chair, quill in hand, dashing out another screed. Outside it is snowing, or raining, or sleeting or roasting hot.

On the right, a telephone on a card table. Seated at the table a youth, gender unimportant. Maintains perfect stillness until the phone rings–as it must.]

Cotton: It is a frigid night, and possibly raining, snowing, sleeting perhaps, definitely hot due to atmospheric pressure. In five strokes of the quill I will have completely gutted the Greenhouse Effect and replaced it with the Autonomous Thermal Gradient! Ah… but I am faint with hunger. To the telephone, anon! [He digs under stacks of manuscripts to find the phone. Success.] Hello, Domino’s? I’d like to order a pizza. [to self] Damn these tiny buttons.

Youth: [picking up phone] Thank you for calling Domino’s. How may I be of service?

Cotton: I would like to order a pepperoni pizza. Extra cheese. Oh, and with olives.

Youth: Is that all?

Cotton: That’s about it. What’s the total?

Youth: Nineteen eighty including tax. Your phone number?

Cotton: 555-6219. 234 5th Ave Southeast, Sydney… My name is Doug… Doug Cotton… Doug J. Cotton… I will not soon be forgotten. [awkward pause] I have my own blog. I have a paper describing a new paradigm coming out.

Youth: [nonplussed] Uh… great. That pizza will be delivered in about a half hour. [tries to hang up]

Cotton: Hold on there, youngster. Is it finished yet?

Youth: We’ve hardly had–

Cotton: Okay… well… is it finished now?

Youth: Sir, I haven’t even called the order in–

Cotton: How about now?

Youth: No.

Cotton: Now?

Youth: Still no.

Cotton: I’ve changed my mind. I want salami instead of pepperoni. Genoa salami. With the fatty parts cut out.

Youth: I’m afraid we’re–

Cotton: Is it done yet?

Youth: Look, Mister Doug J. Cotton, you have no idea how this works. Pizza doesn’t appear magically when you say the word. It’s a process. It takes time and heat. Three hundred seventy five degrees, twenty minutes, plus driving time. Got it? Goodbye. [Youth and Cotton hang up simultaneously]

Cotton:[Cotton picks up the phone again, dialing.] I have completely eviscerated the Greenhouse Effect, you know.

Youth: You again? Look, Mr. Cotton, the cheese is finished, and it’s going in the oven, so–

Cotton: Is it done?

Youth: Uh, no.

Cotton: Then we have time to chat. You see, we deal here with fundamental differences in the way we view the world which I believe are rigidly fixed in our flawed interpretations of The Second Law of Thermodynamics. There is also the problem of pride. Does anyone really expect those who have dedicated their professional lives to a phantom magic gas to easily come to grips with just that? Yet that is exactly what the situation boils down to. Can you imagine Roy Spencer conceding that everything he has ever written is meaningless drivel? In a way it is a blessing that he is spared that realization but I am have no compassion for him whatsoever. It will be interesting to see how he responds to the inevitable. We shouldn’t have to wait much longer.

Youth: I’m not sure exactly what you’re talking about–

Cotton: Well I guess nobody wants to hear about how the Stefan-Boltzmann Law is applied in flawed ways. That is too bad. I may present that evidence anyway. For the moment let me explain how I intend to go about it…

Youth: [Slams phone down] Asshole.

Cotton: [not missing a beat] …as long as there exists simple criteria sufficient to account for all planetary atmospheres. I have also explained why Spencer is wrong in his assumptions about pressure, bank vaults exploding and internal energy generation on Uranus. Ah… What’s that beeping noise? [Looks quizzically at the phone. Hangs up the receiver. Pauses. Picks it up again.]

[masking voice with an atrocious accent.] Ees thees Daw-mee-nose?

[Fadeout]

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Credit: This bit of humor was originally created for a troll with a similar M.O., the late John A. Davison who also once graced the pages of WUWT some years ago.  Jim Anderson at decorabilia, who also experienced Davison, originally wrote this satire in John A Davison Orders a Pizza.

Since that satirical play describes Mr. Cotton’s present day trolling antics and claims about the greenhouse effect equally well, I decided to adapt it with some changes. Readers might note that some phrases (like bank vaults exploding) are borrowed from this thread at Roy Spencer’s.

You can watch Mr. Cotton’s video, and decide for yourself if his ideas have any merit.