The Troglodyte’s Dilemma – Flat Earth, Round Mind

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Once upon a time, in the darkest recesses of the internet, there lived a troglodyte named Grumble. Grumble was a curmudgeon of the highest order, a hermit who had spent eons huddled in his cave, surrounded by conspiracy theories and half-eaten pizza crusts. His pasty skin had never seen the sun, and his eyes squinted at the mere suggestion of daylight.

One fateful day, Grumble decided to venture out. Perhaps it was the lure of a new meme or the tantalizing scent of a freshly baked tinfoil hat that beckoned him. Whatever the reason, he emerged from his cave, blinking like a mole caught in the headlights of a UFO.

And there it was—the Earth. Flat. Round. Simultaneously.

Grumble’s mind did somersaults, which was impressive considering he hadn’t moved more than three feet from his pizza-stained beanbag chair in years. The horizon stretched out before him like an infinite pancake, syrupy and mysterious.

“Flat,” Grumble muttered, scratching his unkempt beard. “Round. Both. Neither. What sorcery is this?”

He pondered the implications. If the Earth was both flat and round, did that mean his worldview could be both cynical and naive? Could he simultaneously believe in chemtrails and gluten-free diets? The possibilities were dizzying.

But Grumble had a problem. How to descend from his lofty cave? He surveyed the landscape. The edge of the flat Earth beckoned, a sheer drop into the abyss. Should he slide down like a penguin on a cafeteria tray? Or perhaps leap into the unknown, arms flailing like a caffeinated octopus?

His troglodyte brain whirred. “Slide or jump? Slide or jump?” he muttered, pacing in circles. “Why not both? A slide-jump! A sump? A jlide?”

He attempted the sump-jlide maneuver. It involved a clumsy belly flop followed by a mid-air twist. The result? Grumble face-planted into a cactus. His tinfoil hat flew off, revealing a bald spot that hadn’t seen sunlight since the Y2K scare.

Undeterred, Grumble tried again. This time, he belly-slid down the flat Earth, gathering moss and conspiracy theories as he went. The wind whistled through his nostrils, and he whooped like a caffeinated octopus in freefall.

But halfway down, Grumble hit a snag. The Earth curved. His slide became a loop-de-loop, and suddenly he was plummeting toward the sky. His existential crisis intensified. Was he ascending or descending? Was gravity mocking him? And why did the clouds smell like burnt toast?

In a desperate bid for clarity, Grumble attempted a mid-slide jump. He flung himself into the void, limbs flapping like a deranged seagull. For a moment, he hung suspended, caught between flatness and roundness. The universe held its breath.

And then he crashed. Hard. Grumble lay sprawled on the ground, dazed and disheveled. The Earth, it seemed, had made its decision. It was both flat and round, just like Grumble’s sanity.

As he nursed his bruises, Grumble realized something profound. Maybe the Earth wasn’t a binary choice. Maybe it was a cosmic shrug, an enigma wrapped in a paradox. And perhaps, just perhaps, he could embrace both cynicism and wonder.

And so, our troglodyte hero rose, dusted off his tinfoil hat, and wobbled toward the horizon. He would slide, jump, and maybe even pirouette. Because life, my dear readers, is a sump-jlide of absurdity—a flat-out, roundabout adventure.

And Grumble? Well, he became the world’s first climate-denying-conspiracy-theorist-turned-gymnast.