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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.