Magazine December 09, 2019, Issue

Among the Flat-Earthers

(Roman Genn)
Or, Satan’s balls

Frisco, Texas — Am I just dropping a garbage bag full of dead dogs into outer space?

Okay, so that question is going to need some context . . . 

And the context, here at the Embassy Suites Hotel Convention Center and Spa on the dreary Cracker Barrel–pocked exurban northern fringe of Dallas, is the Flat Earth International Convention, which — and this is the first thing you need to know and will be enthusiastically reminded of every seven minutes — has absolutely no relationship of any kind whatsoever with the Flat Earth Society, those heretical, weak-tea, milk-and-water, pansified, considerably less respectable

This article appears as “Satan’s Balls” in the December 9, 2019, print edition of National Review.

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Readers write in with fond memories of fatherhood, some long-held admiration, and some prefix pedantry.

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