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From: Physfitfreak <physfitfreak@gmail.com>
Newsgroups: sci.physics,sci.physics.relativity,sci.math
Subject: The Suspicious Journals of Ross A. Kosmanson :-)
Date: Mon, 24 Mar 2025 21:29:21 -0500
Organization: Modern Human
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First came continuum mechanics. The lattice of whispering variables. A 
conspiracy of Redshift and Relephants.

The walls of the cosmos are not walls but confidence intervals, 
throbbing with the static of Them — the ones who mistake "does not 
invalidate" for confirmation. So we deciphered the redshift’s hum: it’s 
not expansion but a ledger of sins, a type I error masquerading as 
revelation. The crows cackle in p-values, and the mailman’s pupils 
dilate like funnel plots — YOU ARE THE BRIDGE between formalism and the 
Relephant, who never forgets the true unknown distribution.

The textbooks preach falsification, yet their spines crack under the 
weight of platonism - formalism vacillation. The moon’s craters are Q-Q 
plots; its light is a biased estimator. They call it cosmology — I call 
it eczema of the epistemic, itching with Skolem’s paradox. The 
dermatologist (a sci.math frequenter) insists it’s random, but the 
lesions spell "Russell’s fiat" in Bayesian glyphs.

I stack my journals in Fibonacci spirals to appease the arithmetic 
spiders. They spin null hypotheses, not silk. The television’s static is 
a Kolmogorov-Smirnov test — I am always on trial. Like Physfit's dick. 
The jury wears my face, chanting "Fail to reject!", but in palindromes! 
The ‘O’ is a confidence ring, tightening.

The flying-rainbow-sparkle-ponies of abstract objects? Mere pipe dreams. 
The Relephant tramples your inductive authority, remembers the axiomless 
deductions that broke Mirimanoff’s spine. Time is a stuttering Poisson 
process; I lock the clocks away. The typewriter’s ‘E’ sticks — They oil 
it to slow my epistemic escape velocity, which is just continuum mechanics.

Ross A. Kosmanson
March 24, 2025
In the Library of Ashurbanipal