On the *ologies

I met a man at a party who introduced himself as a Herpetologist. He told me some interesting, albeit, disgusting stories about feeding large snakes. I just couldn’t help myself. There is some manically childish portion of my back brain that that was silently chortling thinking of this man as someone who must study a type of STD.

There is something about the *ologies that brings my brat brain to the forefront. It is like all those knock knock, elephant, and light bulb jokes that no adult would ever admit to laughing about. That warped part of my mind gets great pleasure when it thinks of Theology as the study of the Huxtable’s oldest son. It cackles in glee when it perceives a Paleontologist as a scientist who tans poorly or Biology as the study of those who feel sexually ambivalent. Epistemology must be the study of angry people who write e-mail. Urology brings the reply, “Ain’t mine”. Ecology is, of course, the study of universities who only teach the fifth letter of the alphabet. Etiologists must study either what “ya’ll et” for dinner last night or the origins of the word that comes before “cetera”. Oncology is the study of geese that suffer from speech impediments. The study of daytime television psycho-babblers is, undoubtedly, Philology.

I really do know the actual definition of these disciplines. I do sometimes confuse Etymology, the study of words with the study of insects (Entomology). I admit to thinking that there should be an Etymentomolgy where one studies the words used to describe insects. Ichthyology used to throw me, but then I had an aquarium and spent a fortune fighting the fish disease “ick”. So it is forever etched into my memory.

I used to attend classes in a building that had housed the School of Horology. I speak, of course, of the science of measuring time and clock making. Scatology, which really should be the study of a jazz vocal form, is the study of excrement. My favorite *ology is Phrenology, a nineteenth century study of the bumps on your head.

Even the aforementioned Ichthyologist can sometimes tickle my demented mental gnome. I chuckle as I think of groups of white coated scientists studying the religious beliefs of those who take bad tasting medicines. I can’t stop. Someone help me. Call a *ologist.