There’s an annoying phenomenon in public discourse where someone publishes an outrageously bad opinion, people get predictably outraged by it, attention-seekers are reminded that outrageous takes get attention, and disingenuous grifters put out more outrageously bad opinions. People react to all of it because we can’t help ourselves, and the cycle continues until everyone gets tired of it and another outrageously bad opinion takes its place.

There are good conversations that often get lost in all of this, especially when blatant douchebagginess is involved, which is unfortunate. We could all use more thoughtful takes focused on gaining a better understanding of a topic rather than just spouting off opinionated criticism.

If you missed it, the opinionated criticism du jour is that Jill Biden doesn’t deserve to go by her title of “Dr.” The op-ed that launched the first wave of outrage was written by a man with a B.A. who pointed out that an Ed.D. isn’t an M.D., as if he’d just discovered the debate over doctor titles in the academic world. The second op-ed, written by another guy with a B.A., whose job title is “critic-at-large,” thinks Biden’s dissertation was “garbage” and didn’t add “to the sum of human knowledge.”

The hubris in both of those pieces is as stunning as it is ridiculous. Consider this excerpt from Kyle Smith-the-film-critic’s op-ed in which he pans Dr. Biden’s dissertation with sentence after sentence of not actually saying anything substantive:


“Jill Biden’s dissertation is not an addition to the sum total of human knowledge. It is not a demonstration of expertise in its specific topic or its broad field. It is a gasping, wheezing, frail little Disney forest creature that begs you to notice the effort it makes to be the thing it is imitating while failing so pathetically that any witnesses to its ineptitude must feel compelled, out of manners alone, to drag it to the nearest podium and give it a participation trophy. Which is more or less what an Ed.D. is. It’s a degree that only deeply unimpressive people feel confers the honorific of ‘Doctor.”‘ People who are actually smart understand that being in possession of a credential is no proof of intelligence.”

Sure. And people who actually have something important to say understand that being in possession of a platform is no proof of deserving one, but alas, here we are. (This film critic, for the record, prides himself on this sort of over-the-top, bloviating meanness, so take it for what it is.)

The thing is, in the academic world, credentials actually do count for something. In fact, it’s pretty much the way the whole structure of higher education works. The irony of two people trying to write with authority on something that they don’t have anywhere near the credentials to claim authority on is kind of laughable—especially when that “something” is someone else’s credentials that they actually earned. I mean, when you spend your days watching movies and writing film reviews, do you really think you’re qualified to criticize a doctoral dissertation about education? I hope the answer to that is as obvious as the fact that an Ed.D is not an M.D.

I have nothing against bachelor’s degrees, by the way. I have one myself, in English and Secondary Education. It’s that very education that enables me to recognize that I am not qualified to critically analyze someone’s doctoral dissertation, even in my own field of study. Or maybe that’s just common sense.

Tossing the misogyny underlying both of these op-eds aside (not because it’s unimportant, but because it’s been covered), let’s actually examine the use of doctor titles and what having an Ed.D. actually means.

People seem to have strong opinions about whether people with doctorate degrees should go by the title they’ve earned, but I can’t help but wonder what those opinions stem from. Like, why do people care? I’ve had medical doctors ask me to call them by their first name, and I’ve had professors who go by Dr. So-and-so, and neither experience has altered my life in any way.

Some say it’s confusing because people usually think of doctors as M.D.s, but when an airline pilot asks, “Is there’s a doctor on board?” it’s pretty clear that someone needs medical attention and not scholarly research. If someone introduces themselves as Dr. So-and-so, all you have to do is say, “Oh, what kind of doctor are you?” and all confusion is squelched in three seconds flat.

So yeah. The “it’s confusing” argument feels pretty disingenuous.

Snobbery is usually the other accusation, but that’s hardly a given. Sure, insisting on being called “Dr.” can come with an air of arrogance, but that doesn’t make everyone who simply uses that title a snob. Have we seen any evidence of Jill Biden snapping at someone for calling her “Mrs.” and not “Dr.”? I don’t know her personally, but “intellectual snob” is not the sense I get when I hear her speak, nor is it in her reputation as far as I know. In fact, her advocacy for community college education would be the opposite of intellectual snobbery, so I’m not sure what the actual issue is here beyond political arrow-slinging and sexist condescension. Most people I’ve met who use their “Dr.” title do so in writing and in introductions, but beyond that aren’t terribly concerned with making sure people always use it.

The arrogance of the people trying to diminish this woman’s work and accomplishments, on the other hand, couldn’t be clearer.

Kamala Harris summed up why attacking her credentials isn’t just gross, but un-American, when Robin Roberts asked her about it on Good Morning America:

“I was deeply disappointed that in 2020, that kind of approach would be given any legitimacy,” she said. “Because let’s be clear about it: she worked hard. She raised her kids, she went to school, she went to night school, she got degrees, she earned everything she has. That’s the American way. That’s the American spirit. So, when there’s anyone who tries to diminish the significance of people who work hard, I think it’s just not the American way, frankly.”

There is room for debate about which doctoral degrees are worthy of the title, but let’s understand what we’re talking about before we offer opinions on that.

The title of “doctor” comes from the Latin word docere, meaning “teacher.” So technically speaking, calling a college professor “doctor” makes more literal sense than calling a physician “doctor.” The title has been used for hundreds of years to refer to the people with the highest credentials in a field of study, with the first doctorate degree being issued in France in the year 1150. The first M.D. degree didn’t come along until after 1700, and it was just a three-year degree in the U.S. until well into the 20th century. So getting precious about only calling medical doctors “doctor” seems pretty silly, considering hundreds of years of precedent.

Regarding Dr. Biden’s degree specifically, yes, an Ed.D. is different than a PhD in education. But the difference isn’t hierarchical; it’s the nature of the focus of study. An Ed.D. focuses on real-world application of research. It’s the degree someone who is actually out in the field, working in schools—and especially looking to move into leadership roles—would seek. A PhD in education is a doctoral degree focused on developing scholarly research and teaching advanced courses at the university level. Two different focuses, but both important to the field of education.

The difference, practically speaking, is actually similar to the difference between having an M.D. and a PhD in immunology or neuroscience or some other medical specialty. An M.D. focuses on the practical application of research in the field, whereas a PhD in medicine focuses on academic research. Both important. One isn’t “lesser” than the other.

So in my humble, underqualified, not-doctorate-credentialed opinion, someone getting their panties in a twist over a person going by “Dr.” instead of “Mrs.” says a whole lot more about them than about the person using the title they rightly earned.

  • Italian man claims to be ‘human cheetah’ with lightning-fast reflexes
    Photo credit: CanvaA man with fast reflexes.

    At first glance, this probably looks like a camera trick. Ken Lee, an Italian content creator, has built a massive online following by doing something that doesn’t quite feel real. Viewers refer to him as the “human cheetah” because it appears he has near-instant reflexes.

    Grabbing objects out of the air with uncanny precision, flicking clothespins and lighters, and throwing a blur of punches and kicks at impossible speeds, it is easy to call him unbelievable. Half the audience thinks his viral speed videos are fake. The other half is just as convinced they are watching something incredibly rare.

    Hands so fast they blur time

    In the video above, a timer runs to confirm its authenticity. In what looks like half a second, he reaches out and snags the lighter from the table. To prove it is real, he does it twice.

    Having amassed millions of followers on his TikTok page, the identity behind the mysterious influencer remains largely unknown. Active since around 2022, with almost 100 million accumulated likes, Lee has cultivated a fandom around his self-proclaimed “Superhero per Hobby!”

    Do you believe it is real? Is this person the fastest human alive? Many followers cannot wait for the next video to be posted. Plenty of his fervent fans are Italian, so sifting through the remarks takes a bit of hunting. Here are some comments that sum up how much people enjoy the fun and the spectacle:

    “Ken lee the fastest and the best”

    “Most dangerous human”

    “Is this what the lighter sees before my homie steals it”

    “It was sped up during he grabbed the lighter, if u count up with the timer u would be off by like 0,5 seconds whenever he grabs the lighter.”

    “If the flash were human”

    “How is it possible to get such powers ?”

    “I blinked and I missed it”

    People love good entertainment

    The awe of peak performance attracts people to watch elite athletes, musicians, or even dancers. There is something that deeply satisfies all of us when a human appears to push a skill to its limit. Whether it is real or fake seems to matter less than the opportunity to chime in on some good entertainment.

    How far could any of us go by practicing and repeating a particular motion over and over until it is mastered? Beneath the flashy nickname and his viral speed videos, Lee’s content has a way of drawing people in. This is not a superpower. Just repetition. Focus. Obsession. And maybe some digital wizardry.

    Testing the science of speed

    If you wish to question the validity of Lee’s performances, maybe some basic science can help. Human reaction time is not just a reflex. A 2024 study found that the nervous system can fine-tune responses in real time. Practice can make movements appear almost automatic.

    It has been well established in research that the gap between seeing something and responding has a limit. A 2025 study concluded that the most elite extremes allow for reaction times of 100 milliseconds. At that speed, the human brain can barely process that something has happened.

    Science explains Lee is not necessarily moving as fast as we might perceive him to be. And therein lies all the fun of it. We cannot prove it is real, nor can we actually prove that it is fake.

    Maybe Lee is the “fastest man alive” or the so-called “human cheetah.” Or maybe he is just a remarkable entertainer. Either way, he has clearly tapped into something strange and fascinating: a blend of human ability and fantasy that people do not want to miss.

    To give context to Lee’s videos, watch this performance on Tú Sí Que Vales:

  • Despite all the likes, literallys and dropped g’s, English isn’t decaying before our eyes
    Photo credit: LisaStrachan/iStock via Getty Images Fear not: There isn’t anything that needs saving.

    As a linguistics professor, I’m often asked why English is decaying before our eyes, whether it’s “like” being used promiscuouslyt’s being dropped deleteriously or “literally” being deployed nonliterally.

    While these common gripes point to eccentric speech patterns, they don’t point to grammatical annihilation. English has weathered far worse.

    Let’s start with something we can all agree on: Old English, spoken from approximately A.D. 450 to 1100, is pretty unintelligible to us today. Anyone who’s had the pleasure of reading “Beowulf” in high school knows how different English back then used to sound. Word endings did a lot more grammatical work, and verbs followed more complicated patterns. Remnants of those rules fuel lingering debates today, such as when to use “whom” over “who,” and whether the past tense of “sneak” is “snuck” or “sneaked.”

    The language went on to experience centuries of tumult: Viking invasions, which introduced Old Norse influence; Anglo-Norman French rule, which shifted the language of the elite to French; and 18th-Century grammarians, who dictated norms with their elocution and grammar guides.

    In that time, English has lost almost all of the more complex linguistic trappings it was born with to become the language we know and – at least, sometimes – love today. And as I explain in my new book, “Why We Talk Funny: The Real Story Behind Our Accents,” it was all thanks to the way that language naturally evolves to meet the social needs of its speakers.

    From dropping the ‘l’ to dropping the ‘g’

    The things we tend to label as “bad” or sloppy English – for instance, the “g” that gets lost from our -ing endings or the deletion of a “t” when we say a word like “innernet” – actually reflect speech habits that are centuries old.

    Take, for example, “often.” Originally spoken with the “t,” that pronunciation gradually became less favored around the 15th century, alongside that “l” in “talk” and the “k” in know. Meanwhile, the “s” now stuck on the back of verbs like “does” and “makes” began as a dialectal variant that only became popular in 16th-century London. It gradually replaced “th” whenever third persons were involved, as in “The lady doth protest too much.”

    While dropping the “l” in talk may have been initially frowned upon, today it would be strange if you pronounced the letter. And the shift makes sense: It smoothed out some linguistic awkwardness for the sake of efficiency.

    If people learned to look at language more like linguists, they might come around to seeing that there is more than one perspective on what good speech consists of.

    And yes, that absolutely is a sentence ending with a preposition – something many modern grammar guides discourage, even though the idea only took hold after 18th-century grammarian Robert Lowth intimated it was a less elegant choice based on the model of Latin.

    Though Lowth voiced no hard and fast rule against it, many a grammar maven later misconstrued his advice as an admonition. Just like that, a mere suggestion became grammatical law.

    The rise of the grammar sticklers

    Many of today’s ideas about what constitutes correct English are based on a singular – often mistaken – 19th-century view of the forces that govern our language.

    In the late 18th century, the English-speaking world began experiencing class restructuring and higher literacy rates. As greater class mobility became possible, accent differences became class markers that separated new money from old money.

    Emulation of upper-crust speech norms became popular among the nouveau riche. With literacy also on the rise, grammarians and elocutionists raced to dictate the terms of “proper” English on and off the page, which led to the rise of usage guides and dictionaries that were eager to sell a certain brand of speech.

    Another example of grammarian angst reconfiguring the view of an otherwise perfectly fine form is the droppin’ of the “g.” It became so tied to slovenly speech that it was branded with an apostrophe in the 19th century to make sure no one missed its lackadaisical and nonstandard nature.

    Up until the 19th century, however, no one seemed to care whether one pronounced it as “-in” or “-ing.”

    Evidence suggests that -ing wasn’t even heard as the correct form. Many elocution guides from the 18th century provide rhyming word pairs like “herring/heron,” “coughing/coffin” and “jerking/jerkin,” which suggest that “-in” may have been the preferred pronunciation of words ending with “-ing.” Even writer and satirist Jonathan Swift – a frequent lobbyist for “proper” English – rhymes “brewing” with “ruin” in his 1731 poem “Verses on the Death of Dr. Swift, D.S.P.D..”

    Embrace the change

    Language has always shifted and evolved. People often bristle at changes from what they’ve known to what is new. And maybe that’s because this process often begins with speakers that society usually looks less favorably on: the young, the female, the poor, the nonwhite.

    But it’s important to remember that being disliked and bad are not the same thing – that today’s speech pariahs are driven by the same linguistic and social needs as the Londoners who started going with “does” instead of “doth” or dropped the “t” in often.

    So if you think the speech that comes from your lips is the “correct” version, think again. Thou, like every other English speaker, art literally the product of centuries of linguistic reinvention.

    This article originally appeared on The Conversation. You can read it here.

  • 10 boys and 10 girls were left alone in separate houses and the different results are just wild
    Photo credit: Ian Taylor PhotographerTwo young children play in the grass.

    It sounds like the plot of William Golding’s Lord of the Flies. However, in the mid-2000s, it was a very real and very controversial reality television experiment.

    Footage from the UK Channel 4 documentary Boys and Girls Alone is captivating audiences all over again. It offers a fascinating and chaotic look at what happens when you remove parents from the equation.

    The premise was simple but high stakes. Twenty children, aged 11 and 12, were split into two groups by gender. Ten boys and ten girls were placed in separate houses and told to live without adult supervision for five days.

    The Setup

    While there were safety nets in place, the day-to-day living was entirely up to the kids. A camera crew was present but instructed not to intervene unless safety was at risk. The children could also ring a bell to speak to a nurse or psychiatrist.

    The houses were fully stocked with food, cleaning supplies, toys, and paints. Everything they needed to survive was there. They just had to figure out how to use it.

    The Boys: Instant Chaos

    In the boys’ house, the unraveling was almost immediate. The newfound freedom triggered a rapid descent into high-energy anarchy.

    They engaged in water pistol fights and threw cushions. In one memorable instance, a boy named Michael covered the carpet in sticky popcorn kernels just because he could.

    The destruction eventually escalated to the walls. The boys covered the house in writing, drawing, and paint. But the euphoria of freedom eventually crashed into the reality of consequences.

    “We never expected to be like this, but I’m really upset that we trashed it so badly,” one boy admitted in the footage. “We were trying to explore everything at once and got too carried away in ourselves.”

    Their attempts to clean up were frantic and largely ineffective. Nutrition also took a hit. Despite having completed a cooking course, the boys survived mostly on cereal, sugar, and the occasional frozen pizza. By the end of the week, the house was trashed, and the group had fractured into opposing factions.

    The Girls: Organized Society

    The girls’ house looked like a different planet.

    In stark contrast to the mayhem next door, the girls immediately established a functioning society. They organized a cooking roster, with a girl named Sherry preparing their first meal. They baked cakes. They put on a fashion show. They even drew up a scrupulous chores list to ensure the house stayed livable.

    While their stay wasn’t devoid of interpersonal drama, the experiment highlighted a fascinating divergence in socialization. Left to their own devices, the girls prioritized community and maintenance. The boys tested the absolute limits of their environment until it broke.

    The documentary was controversial when it aired, with critics questioning the ethics of placing children in unsupervised situations for entertainment. But what made it so enduring, and why footage keeps resurfacing years later, is what it reveals about how kids are socialized long before anyone puts them in a house together. The boys weren’t born anarchists and the girls weren’t born organizers. They arrived at those houses already shaped by years of being told, implicitly and explicitly, what boys do and what girls do. Whether that’s a nature story or a nurture story is the question the documentary keeps asking without quite answering, which is probably why people are still watching and arguing about it nearly two decades later.

    This article originally appeared two years ago. It has been updated.

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