Category: LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: The Walnuts Concludes 🌭

Post author By Michael Swaim
Post date 10/23/2025
9 Comments on Learning Day: The Walnuts Concludes 🌭

A few months back, I celebrated Pride Month with an appreciation piece about the Burt Reynolds sitcom Evening Shade, for showcasing basic human decency around trans issues.

But I’m not done yet!

It’s not enough simply to support trans rights and queer people…true allyship demands that I likewise denigrate and toxify heteronormative sex until it surrenders. Hence, it’s time for a real gut-punch to the libido that can only be categorized as a pretty Fucking Upsetting Learning Day, and elsewise described as…“YIKES! EVEN MORE PEANUTS PORN PARODY!”

The Walnuts has returned. Have returned? Anyway, Charley Brown’s dick is out, I guess let’s not get hung up on grammar. Last time we covered parts 1 and 2. This time – I SWEAR – we conclude the series with parts 3 and 4. In case your neural defenses already scrubbed the relevant brain-footage, part 2 ended on quite the cliffhanger! Charley had just learned that the sexual relationship he had with Lucy when they were both ten resulted in a daughter. Lucy grew up to marry Shrolder and they pretended to have adopted the child, but she’s actually Charley’s bio-kid, and also having sex with Shrolder, her stepdad! AAUGH!

As part 3 begins, Charley tucks that issue to the back of his mind and pivots hard back to what’s really important, the outstanding question of who’s going to be wearing his balls for a chinstrap tonight (presumably with a single pube curlicued across their otherwise bald surface).

We pull out (unlike ten-year-old Charley, amirite?!) to reveal he’s in bed with a background character, whose rude tiddies have here been tastefully censored with some walnut jpgs.

Her postcoital advice is both actionable and incisive, but as someone who writes professionally about porno comix I’d be a fool to claim I even see the folly of my own ordeal, let alone Charley’s. Also please note how little sex there actually is in this comic for the third outing, and let that underscore our shared shame – me for having spread this dark knowledge, you for having imbibed it. Why does this thing exist? Who was this even fashioned for?

Don’t worry though, tons of sloppy tentacle sex coming in part 4! I wish I was kidding.

I WISH I WAS KIDDING.

Being a typical cishet piece of shit, Charley Brown would rather take life advice from a sketchy drug-dealing dog with a penis than stoop to admitting the wisdom of a human female, so then this happens:

I like to think that Charley fell asleep between panels and the rest of the story is a dream. Or hey, even better, he had a massive aneurysm and this is his vision upon dying! Either scenario would go some way toward explaining the chaos that comes next, none of which ever touches on Shrolder or Chuck’s estranged daughter ever again. It’s almost as if the guy who made this pervy Peanuts comic lacks formal training??

Spoilers: even though he gives off huge Joey Pants in The Matrix vibes, Charley’s going to pick the red pill. On the plus side, this will NOT derail the comic by turning it into an incel manifesto or other political screed. See?

On the downside, neither will it “continue the story” in any real way, nor answer any of Charley’s problems, which are now our problems. Instead, we’re treated to what you get whenEVER you take a pill a dog handed you…an insane trip whose only theme is being upsetting.

Again, I barely even have to censor this image because the team of maniacs at JRKcomix have lost all interest in making you cum. This is no longer masturbation material; this is an earnest mashup of some stuff they remember from The Big Lebowski and some stuff they remember from The Peanuts. The perfunctory nature of the art and storytelling makes me wonder if this artist was working on a deadline, but how could that possibly be true…someone was WAITING for this? There was MONEY to be made off this if delivered in a timely manner?

The drug/dream sequence ultimately ends when Snoopy flies his doghouse into a giant open vagina, here covered by a jpg of an open walnut. Witness how its shape echoes your fragile human brain, now ruined.

Sobered, Charles wrestles with his options. The only sound is that of a bird pecking aimlessly at the shiny, wormlike penis of a dog. Whether it expects to earn nourishment or sexual gratification from this is left unexplored. Spyke, for his part – impassive, Al Swearengen-like – checks his watch and delivers a terse monologue about a prostitute he watched die delivering a deformed baby and how that relates to gentrification…sorry, I’m stretching the riff a bit because what really happens next is so filthy I needed more time to make bigger jpgs of different kinds of nuts to cover it up.

Please rest assured though! All the genitals in The Walnuts are so poorly-drawn as to be entirely non-sexual anyway. I censor them only out of courtesy; if you can masturbate to this shit, I’d imagine you could masturbate equally well to an office chair, Focusrite USB-C Scarlett 2i2 desktop preamp, or third thing I look around my office and see – a rubber vagina, let’s say.

“Hey Bill, part 3’s still on track for a Friday release, right? Remember, our whole Q4 is riding on this!”

“You know it, boss! I already added the onomatopoeias and everything!”

“Great. And you spelled “fuck” right, right?”

“…”

“…Bill? You spelled “fuck” right, right? Can you not hear me?”

(muffled gunshot from next room)

Hot cashew-on-pecan action aside, it turns out we’re now in a scene of Charley banging Lucy again so he can get her take. Her take on what to do about their trauma history and the daughter they share? Of course not! I meant the other thing, the “who to date tonight” thing. First though, more of what the people really came for – a bit of the ol’ ugghh-and-splerph!

I just showed you Charley Brown cum on Lucy’s face, so I hope you’ll believe me when I say I’m not cutting anything out at this juncture. I mention it because this next transition is pretty abrupt…the scene is literally just the beloved Peanuts kids banging one out, then Lucy says:

True to the source material, Charley is in the end unmasked as a pathetic people-pleaser just waiting for someone to tell him what to do. In this case, he tried to listen to a random hookup girl, but his misogyny prevented him from being able to absorb her advice. Then he tried listening to a dog, but the dog’s drugs were wack, an equally common scenario. Finally, Charley has returned to his roots and played “move the football” with his ol’ pal Lucy, and the path forward is clear.

Astute readers may recall that Peppercorn Patty is supposed to be a lesbian, but as it turns out the people who make Peanuts characters fuck each other aren’t too hung up on accurate labelling. What Patty really seems interested in is a polycule with Charley and Marcia, her current girlfriend.

aaaaaand that’s sort of where we have to leave it. Despite the fact that the movie they’re watching is called “THE END?” this is emphatically the end of Charley Brown’s Walnuts adventures. We shall never find out what happens with his daughter and Shrolder, nor what word was accidentally dropped from Patty’s final sentence. Here’s some guesses though:

“I mean who wouldn’t like to get their _______ in some good ol’ fashion lube?”

baseball
life savings invested
cheap high from eating a couple pumps of hand sanitizer diluted

Hahaha, we have fun. Well…we used to. Now it’s time for The Walnuts Part 4, an issue so hideous it shut down the franchise. And not because offended people demanded it – let’s be honest, no one read this – but because the creators themselves realized they could degrade Charles M. Schulz no further. Once they uploaded part 4 their work was done, the defilement was complete. As someone once famed for fucking pumpkins, its cover presents what I can only describe as a worst-case scenario. In Soviet Walnuts…pumpkin fucks YOU.

Also Lynus has scrupulously coaxed his adult body into being egg-shaped; I’ll let you decide which is the more disturbing offer.

In a surprisingly expository lore dump for a Peanuts porno, Charley’s little sister Sally explains that although they only recently became a sexually active couple (see the events of The Walnuts part 1 [No, wait, don’t.]), she’s apparently been humoring his strange obsession with The Great Pumpkin for over a decade. If you’re not a Peanuts fan, you should know that The Great Pumpkin is canonical, and also a totally made-up character Linus expects to appear to him some fateful Halloween night with the faith of an ultra-Christian doomsday prepper.

Although Schulz never revealed what made Linus think that, by applying Occam’s Razor – “the explanation with the fewest assumptions is usually the correct one” – we can deduce that his parents (and therefore all the parents in the Peanuts series) were probably cultists running a The Village-like experiment on the children during which they fetishized Halloween and only spoke using trombones to rob their subjects of a comprehensible rubric by which to strive for approval. That or too much dog drugs. What’s important is: then Lynus eats Sally’s pussy out.

Aside from talking with his mouth full, which almost certainly compromises his labial game, Lynus seems proficient enough at the act. We know this because Sally passes that age-old test of a lover’s passion…cumming enough times to summon The Great Pumpkin. It’s how the Director’s Cut of Brazil originally ended!

Lynus and Sally have pumpkin-patch sex in various positions for a while, to what I imagine are the rhythmic sloshing sounds of water moving inside his ovoid stomach. Ever the good blanket boy, he splerphs momma.

They do love each other though, which makes it kind of beautiful.

Making it kind of less beautiful, if you look carefully in the background of that frame you can juuuuust make out the tentacle-monster that’s about to rape Sally for the duration of the column, until you click away in embarrassment, or until you go insane, whichever comes first. Don’t worry, though! Pecans will hide it…pecans can fix all of this.

It’s not exactly the end of the Silent Hill movie starring Sally from Peanuts, but it’s as close as you can get without a TimeCop stepping out of a rift behind you and bludgeoning you to death for the good of not just this, but all realities. Now LOOK UPON LYNUS’ DUMPTRUCK ASS AND BE DAMNED BY IT.

It’s hypnotic. It’s as if you carefully balanced the egg that is his torso on another, sideways egg. It doesn’t stop there, either…I can’t in good conscience show you his egg-shaped penis to prove my point, but let’s just say the skewed cashew I used to cover it up in the above “Splerph” frame doesn’t spare a pixel, width-wise. Guy’s dick is all about that base. A trapezoidal chode is what I’m describing. Anyway, Lynus pervs out and runs off to get a camera to document the assault. It’s like a form of bad Japanese hentai!

God, please don’t do that to me because I said that! Is that the standard punishment for saying that now? Fuck. Or should I say “Fuk?”

Sally then gets veggies shoved in her every orifice, an act Gen Z refers to as “the salad shooter” whenever they get together with real-life friends to explore their sexuality, so fortunately it hasn’t actually come up yet.

Did I do it? Did I ruin Peanuts for you irretrievably? No? Fun Fact: The Little Red Haired Girl is based on Schulz’s real unrequited love and muse Donna Mae Wold, to whom he proposed after landing his first big syndication deal. She said no. Said Schulz of the relationship: “I can think of no more emotionally damaging loss than to be turned down by someone whom you love very much. What a bitter blow that is.” Hey, try gettin’ facefucked by a cucumber, Chuck! A bitter blow indeed. Also, Lynus missed his big moment because he left to fetch the camera, and the JoKeRs at JKRComix can’t even fucking spell “splooge” right, so it’s a bummer all around.

Obviously that isn’t actual SPLOONGE but rather just green plant juice so I don’t need to censor it, like how 90’s cartoons would have robot baddies spray neon pink oil everywhere as they fall into a thresher screaming in hideous TV-PG-rated anguish. Lynus likewise lets his disappointment be known, looking for all the world like a snowman with a traffic cone for a dick.

Fourteen years of slavish devotion have yielded him naught but a satisfied girlfriend and an immortal legacy in comics that we’ve now tainted down to the molecular level. End of episode, series, and karmic punishment. From incest to xenophilia, pumping kin to a Pumpkin King, truly The Walnuts had it all…or at least all the parts we had to scrape off to pass the surprise health inspection. Now go eat your vegetables kids, but not in that way! NEVER in that way.

———————

BONUS ADDENDUM

Thanks for reading along with me, beloved Hotdoggers! I’ll see you next time for more of my never-ending series on comic strip porn parodies…next up is MILField, then Calvin and Knobs, followed by Poonsbury, Fuckme Winkerbean, Non Squirtur, Fuckstrot, and The Jizzard of Id.

After that, Broom-Filleda’s on deck, which sets us up nicely for a run of some Mother Goose and Cumm books, a few Hagar the Bangable, Big Abner, and Bloom Cunty collections, six months’ worth of Luanal, and some cherry-picked For Better or For Tits strips. Then we’ll really double down when we cover the whole of The Pooncocks, The Family Circle Jerk, and Get Fuzzy, plus one panel from an old Crankshaft I really like, which I’ve censored here with another old Crankshaft panel from a different strip, sometimes called “frotting.”

Sequential art was a mistake.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Honk, the living embodiment of lust and impulse. But today, dear readers, Honk will get no joy or satisfaction from the hours of sweaty rhythmic slapping of meat. Instead, Honk will think about that time the great pumpkin sploonged all over, and Honk might never become aroused again.

Tags Free, how do I even tag this?, Michael Swaim, oh boy, sex?, you are on a list now

LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: Canadian Handbook for the Recently Embarrassingly Deceased🌭

Post author By Merritt K
Post date 10/22/2025
3 Comments on Learning Day: Canadian Handbook for the Recently Embarrassingly Deceased🌭

So: you’ve died in Canada. And as the famous saying goes, when you die in Canada, you die in real life, bud. There are plenty of dignified ways to go in the Great White North: crushed by moose, run down by zamboni, cut in half by Shania Twain. And then there are the deaths so specific, so embarrassing, that we never thought we’d have to warn people against them.

But here we are. You fucked up big-time, pal. So big, in fact, that we’ve had to make bespoke PSAs to ensure that no Canadian ever suffers the same fate. Let’s be real: they probably weren’t going to anyway, but we’ve got the magical combination of a small entertainment industry and government funds to blow, so at least your incompetence got some PAs paid.

Wow, dude. We tried to warn you about these. We made a whole puppet show. But you still thought about it. You thought about taking drugs.

There you were, wandering through a dark alley with your lumpy-ass potato head and your lumpy-ass potato-headed friend, looking like a couple of dried-up Mickeys Rooney.

You shouldn’t have been walking around in a desolate alley that’s straight out of the 1994 Greydon Clark film Dark Future, potato Rooneys. Do you want to get reverse Westworld-ed? But there are worse things in life than becoming a slave or prostitute to a jumpsuit-wearing robot. Things like David Cronenberg.

When David Cronenberg offers you Eastern Promises in a grimy Toronto backstreet amidst the discarded Tim Hortons cups and National Post issues, you tell that lanky national treasure to go finger his disturbingly erotic chest orifice.

We thought that was obvious. It’s David Cronenberg! He made The Fly! He made eXistenZ! He made Fast Company, which was kind of just a straight-up action movie about drag racing and not viscerally disturbing at all. The point is, you can’t predict the guy. Speaking frankly, you got off easy just having an inexplicable vision of Elvis and then immediately dying. By all rights you should have had a surreal experience blending flesh and machine until you couldn’t tell where your immersion blender ended and you began.

So there we are. Don’t take drugs from David Cronenberg. If you must accept drugs from a Canadian director, make it James Cameron. At worst, you’ll probably just have a sweeping, cinematic vision of alien hair sex. Atom Egoyan is probably fine, too. Smoke that shit and you’ll have a non-linear trip in which you believe yourself to be a member of the Armenian diaspora.

A stranger is just a captor who hasn’t mailed parts of you to the cops alongside taunting letters yet. And there isn’t anything necessarily embarrassing about getting got by someone you don’t know. I mean, maybe that guy offering you a ride really does know your parents, and there really has been an emergency. It could happen!

But you were something of an innovator in getting kidnapped and murdered by a faceless maniac, weren’t you? Let’s review the facts: someone called your home phone. You answered, and they asked for your parents. When you said they couldn’t talk at the moment, they asked, “you aren’t home alone, are you?”

You said yes, you trusting little fool. The voice in your ear cackled. “Excellent,” they whispered. “That’s just what I wanted to hear.” You’d fallen right into their trap. Somehow, admitting the negligence of your parents empowered this nefarious caller to compromise you to a permanent end.

Sure, it’s probably worth feigning the presence of a responsible adult on the outside chance that a caller is a random child murderer making their way through the phone book. But even if they’re hungering for tender young flesh and emboldened by the absence of a parent/guardian, how did they go from there to locating your home and gaining access to it? If you’re telling an unfamiliar adult who knows you’re unattended your GPS coordinates and the location of the spare key to your front door, then you might actually be too stupid to live. Radical cartoon rabbits on hoverboards could not have saved you.

Hey, why doesn’t the girl rabbit have whiskers? Is that how rabbit sexual dimorphism works? Well, in any case, we made them siblings, so nobody’s ever going to draw them exploring each other’s bodies.

We figured calling the place “Planet Danger” would be enough to keep people away. Should we have called it “Planet No Great Deeds Are Esteemed Here?” Maybe you thought we were goofing. We weren’t.

It’s a planet made up of grinding gears and surprise buzzsaws. We don’t know why it exists. Maybe it’s a factory world long-since abandoned by its creators, churning out alien smartphones until the sun explodes. Maybe it’s one of God’s little pranks, like horseshoe crabs or benzodiazepine tolerance. Nobody’s sure. But we’re sure of one thing: you don’t fuck around with Planet Danger.

But you did, so now there’s a PSA about it. We couldn’t show a real person getting horribly mangled, of course, so we used a robot. We called him Ass-tar, in honor of your dumb ass… tar.

Hopefully, seeing a dead-eyed machine crafted in the shape of a skeletal child getting its arm severed by a flying buzzsaw will be enough to dissuade anyone else from following your example.

We are all descendants of the ape-men who didn’t go around just eating whatever vaguely edible-looking objects they found on the savannah. And then you went and dishonored their legacy by chugging the first bottle of alluring blue liquid you found under the sink. That inspired us to create a PSA where two off-brand muppets tell kids not to do that.

I’m going to be honest. We were just fucking around with this one. We didn’t even try to make them look like anything. We had the girl monster try to eat the guitar for some reason.

And when they sing their little monster song, we thought it would be funny if the refrain was “don’tcha put it in your mouth.” Because you can put things other than food in your mouth, right? I mean, not you. You’re dead. But like, dicks, right? You can put dicks in your mouth. It works on two levels, singing beet.

We capped the whole thing off with a solemn talking lion that looks like he’s stroking out. This is the kind of lion the other apes would have laughed at you for getting mauled by, and in a way, this entire PSA is our way of laughing at you for shoveling loose poison into your face.

Sigmund Freud once said, “there is no such thing as an accident, penis penis fathersex.” You should have listened. Maybe then you wouldn’t have fallen face-first off a ladder into a glass display case or horribly scalded your face with a giant pot of boiling oil.

Oh yeah. We showed a real person with their skin melting off. To kids. We’re done with that pussy-ass robot shit.

Workplace safety is no joke. One minute you’re breaking the fourth wall, explaining to viewers that you’re a beautiful young woman in line to be head chef, a week out from getting married, and the next you’re Canadian Deadpool.

Wearing proper safety equipment, getting the right training, and refusing unsafe jobs are all part of— Jesus Christ, what the fuck is that?

It’s a fucking zombie! The dead have risen from their graves and roam the earth in a state of endless torment, an agony from which the only reprieve is the consumption of our living flesh!

Fucking run! Fuck! No amount of workplace safety could have prepared us for this! We were fools to think we could stave off the inherent risk of living in a chaotic universe with PSAs! Arrgh! Save me, David Cronenberg!

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: OrneryWeevil, a doomed soul who failed to heed the advice of a fellow wanderer, now cursed to an eternity reading every comment posted under internet porn videos.

Tags canada, Free, Merritt K, oh fuck, PSAs

LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: Flat Earth University 🌭

Post author By Dennard Dayle
Post date 10/21/2025
3 Comments on Learning Day: Flat Earth University 🌭

Earth might be round. I don’t tell new friends, it tends to throw off the tone. No point feeding the “preachy Rounder” stereotype. But when I’ve known someone long enough to bond over shared hatreds, I let the round Earth slip. And wait.

Some people shut down. They deflect back to safe topics, like leeches curing deviance. Then slowly but surely disappear over the disputed horizon. Still, every now and then I meet a real one. Someone that leans in and asks for links. Or better yet, has their own. For all the strains of modern life, there’s nothing like finding another Rounder.

Raw, independent thinkers. Without expensive paper from Flat Earth University.

Note the watermark. The journal spends Midjourney tokens with care. Flat sheep love precedent and authority, and LLMs make faking them easy. Well, not quite, but they make trying easy. For all the headlines theft and suicide get, con artistry’s the biggest victim. We’ve cheapened fraud, dumping heartfelt scams for impersonal nonsense. It hurts my heart.

We all know that one Flattie. Fast car, a trophy spouse, and a master’s in Geocentric Cosmology.

Imagine picking the bachelor’s. Buying a degree in There Be Dragons, without the self-esteem to click “master.” There can’t be ten souls that broken on God’s round Earth.

Then again, I’ve got Rounder bias. Maybe The Journal of Geocentric Cosmology has a worthwhile message. I’d trust The Journal of Geocentric Cosmetology first, but number two still deserves a shot. Giving each idea space separates facism and state capitalism with American characteristics.

To test my faith, I tried to reach Dr. Steven Alonzo, President of Flat Earth University and a “distinguished figure in the worlds of academia and technology.” He’s from Toronto—relatively close on the disk—so I figured I’d hold up a sign and wait. Two weeks later, no response. After I spent money on a big art school marker. I’d try the roof, but I know when I’m being ignored.

I can relate: it’s easy to miss little things like email, sleep, and food during the semester. Based on his 18-class course list, Alonzo also enjoys two-minute sprint naps. It sounds unhealthy, but no one’s died in a sprint napping study. More importantly, here’s a peek at the course list:

If “Introduction to Plasma Moon Theory” took students, this would have a different title. Sadly, Flat U. has a small glitch:

Maybe Dr. Alonzo needed a break from mentoring early-career schizophrenics. Unless, of course, he recorded blurry lectures on a MasterClass clone. I admire platforms that ask if you’ll pay for YouTube. That’s a Tom Sawyer plan. As for YouTube itself, I’m not sure why I use it for free.

He must’ve been updating the journal. The latest post’s from February, but that’s last week in research years.

Before the title, peek at the byline. Squint, if it helps. Dr. Alonzo highlights his bachelor’s degree. In our asylum wing, Dr. can mean a few things:

Let’s find out.

Dr. Alonzo’s legit! In computer science. Just ask Dr. Alonzo:

Great for ranting about C#, not maps. That’s what I’d type, if fellow Flat Earthers hadn’t asked York University and found Dr. Alonzo’s degree in vapor. His dissertation sits in the Narnia archives between Excalibur and a stuffed Jabberwocky. Leaving me torn. On one hand, Dr. Alonzo’s a fraud by Flat Earther standards. On the other hand, I like typing “Dr. Alonzo.” It scratches my cyberbullying itch.

I’ll stay the course. Patriots give a good fraud another chance.

Back to the title: “The Globe as Projection of the Graticule.” I appreciate the vocab lesson. After decades skimming fantasy worldbuilding, I never picked “graticule” up. For those living in equal ignorance, it’s just the grid on a map. For those that knew: how’s the draft? We poke fun at maps of DragonLand, but it pulls some readers in. Plenty of people love a fun, detailed lie if you just admit that’s the game.

Dr. Alonzo Googled latitude and longitude, crushing my expectations. We may have a false fraud alarm: his critics are flat earthers.

Don’t let feelings mislead you: idiocy and genius can both cause migraines. Absorbing Dr. Alonzo’s cutting-edge thoughts simply pushed your floor model brain too hard. And this thesaurus-powered cope’s out of context. Starting with a paper’s results is like trying to fly to Australia. Or an abstract. But The Journal of Geocentric Cosmology doesn’t do abstracts, citations, research, or posts longer than Green Eggs and Ham.

It’s liberating: after saying lines exist, Dr. Alonzo goes right into the implications:

A Philosophy 102 version of “living my truth.” Decent sign for Dr. Alonzo: pass/fail filler’s often taught by leaders in the field. Namely, leaders that want to live indoors. Most Nobel nominees have watched a frat pledge snore. Winners can name the frat by ear.

Note the branching realities. On Earth One, Dr. Alonzo writes letter bombs to Galileo. But on Earth Two, Superman’s evil and Dr. Alonzo has a degree. Only a team-up between our Superman and their Dr. Alonzo can stop the Crime Syndicate’s fake constellations.

Don’t punt your phone yet. The Alonzo Theorem has two more steps:

Here’s a gift to any Athena College student reading. Once, and just once: if your work’s late, thin, or outright wrong, add “We should approach [topic] with humility” to the end. Free B. No questions. That sentence gives me pure joy, and I’ll know you didn’t copy Sam Altman’s parrot.

Dr. Alonzo’s failed to sell flat earth theory to me, himself, or other Flat Earthers. Still, I learned something. You can call anything a journal. There’s no robed council. Scott Adams wrote The Journal of Post-Marriage Philosophy. The Times is The Journal Of Weimar Reenactment. You’re reading The Journal of Late Homo-Sapien Psychiatry.

Sorry about that genius-migraine. I’ve hit the cutting phase where joy becomes memory, and wanted to share that feeling. See you next week, for Confederate Beauty Pageants!

I should sleep.

Beautiful, sanity-preserving sleep.

Another sunrise it is.

See, I’m a hypocrite: I’ve lied to you twice. I love every undead inch of YouTube, and Dr. Alonzo says he ditched Canada for Belize years ago. Lord knows where he’s really trainspotting, but it’s tropical. Today, either a parent or a miracle funds his twin passions: denying the shape of the planet and the shape of Dr. Alonzo. I hope you’re ready not to get jacked.

Sorry, I meant three lies. Here’s our real title.

Okay, I’m pathological too. Here’s our real cover.

He might not know her.

Meet the fitness branch of Flat Earth University. It’s worlds more active, and equally unprofitable. Flat Earth Fitness churns out lifting tips for people iffy on gravity. The fitness non-empire mostly haunts Facebook, with info you can find elsewhere, in higher resolution, from someone that reads. I prefer Dr. Alonzo’s YouTube push, where Flat Earth Fitness was an overnight hit:

And why wouldn’t it be? Like many men in undisclosed locales, Dr. Alonzo has life advice. But instead of human trafficking protips, he just wants to flatten your round body.

First up, planks. The flat Earth theory of workouts.

Stirring. At least there’s a cat.

Then madness seeps into the voiceover:

He’s Coach Steve now. Why not?

Flat Earth Fitness stars the stock AI voice. You know the one. Beneath all the skipped science classes and pills, Coach Steve’s sense of humor fights for air. The robot repeats “flat surface” twice per sub-minute video. Including wobbly planks, lunges, squats, and some naps Coach Steve calls calisthenics. You can blame branding, guilt, propaganda, LLMs, my clown bias, or the crib death of reality. I think Coach Steve’s last brain cell is fucking around. Say I’m wrong, and I’ll start The Coach Steve Punchline Review.

Then there’s the plug.

Coach Steve found his fourth true calling during lockdown: vaccination. Against weakness.

You can get Covid Calisthenics: Nutrition and Calisthenics for the SARSCOV2 Pandemic from Belize landfills. Or Amazon. I recommend landfills,they feel cleaner.

Unlike Dr. Alonzo’s star charts, Coach Steve has a simple thesis: germs only kill the unjacked.

Fair enough. I strongly believe Covid only kills Lilliputians, and that the plague stopped 7 million double agents. But that’s fucking insane, so I don’t tell anyone. I don’t have Steven’s giving soul.

See, Coach Steve lost forty pounds and his mind, and wants to spread that wisdom around the disc. He wants to fight disease, in the literal sense. Leading to a blend of platitudes, broscience, and self-worship. For example, on nutrition:

Beautiful. Food influences so much, and Coach Steve picked an arena where it barely fucking matters. It’s like saying you should call your mother to get abs, or clean your room to fix your squats. Three madmen in, I’m finally learning to appreciate Coach Steve. He’s hooked on secret knowledge, but forgot to get normal knowledge on the way.

While the discredited info’s fun, Coach Steve shines with the obvious. Here’s him inventing eating less:

Somehow, Coach Steve picks up a third person habit. Though D-Day learns nothing about lifting, he finds the joy of saying your own dumb nickname. Prof. Dayle also learns the rush of typing your own titles. Especially unearned ones. God-emperor Dayle can’t wait to impress the neighbors. Naturally, the rest of Covid Calisthenics is a cookbook.

No instructions, but that’s a feature. Flat Earth Cuisine ends in food poisoning. And hospitals were a bit busy.

This week’s story has a happy ending. With Covid Calisthenics, I stopped hating Coach Steve, and started understanding him. He’s a Spinal Tap lunatic, jumping from wave to wave until something sticks. He knows three things: Earth is a disk, he’s the smartest monkey on the disc, and he’s sick of jokes about turtles. We’re seconds away from Flat Earth Speedruns. Or Flat Earth Demon Hunters, a prompt we’re now racing to finish.

A fine mirror. We’re all mad, Coach Steve just fell off the edge first.

It’s really over.

Righto.

This year, Steven re-re-rebranded around crushing pussy.

Or rather, the pussy-crushing aesthetic. I doubt Steven has much free sex. He’s busy studying his idols.

And lamenting not crushing pussy.

And writing Flat Earth Sonnets for his idols. I don’t know why, and the change haunts me. Because I know why. A lonely washout moved to play Passport Playboy, and found failure and registries. Now I’ve lost a fun lunatic.

We almost had something.

I’m watching a unicorn try meth. I’d have cheered Flat Earth Baking, Flat Earth Bachata, and Flat Earth Visa Renewal Tips. Life is a stupid adventure, and none of us have answers. A good lunatic simply makes that obvious. Now someone’s peed in the punch bowl. Sorry, punch disc.

To think, two minutes ago we didn’t know Steven’s search tags.

Another beautiful lunatic ruined by this sinful world. Steven should be posting star charts, not ragebait about prostitutes ghosting tourists. As for us? This is a resource crisis. At this rate, the only lunatic genres left will be incel and secret incel. I don’t have that many jokes about not fucking. No one does. It’s the absence of an action. It’s like mocking the wind.

Feel crazy lately? Don’t sweat it. Better to lose your mind than your soul.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Sean Chase, a tanuki that loves rebranding himself, but always gets found out because of his giant magical testicles.