Fermat Memes

When Fermat claimed all his numbers (2^(2^n) + 1) were prime, Euler casually factored F₅ = 4294967297 into 641 × 6700417... by hand . That's like watching someone solve a Rubik's cube while blindfolded and riding a unicycle. Euler's brain was basically the 18th century supercomputer we didn't know we needed! The man factored a 10-digit number without calculators, computers, or even electricity. Meanwhile, I need a calculator to figure out the tip at restaurants.

The mathematical escalation is real! First panel shows the Pythagorean theorem (3²+4²=5²) - a mathematical classic we all know and love. Second panel kicks it up with Fermat's Last Theorem for cubes (3³+4³+5³=6³), which is actually false but looks convincing enough to trick students. Then the third panel hits with that 3⁴+4⁴+5⁴+6⁴=7⁴ equation that has the student completely baffled! Fun fact: While the Pythagorean equation is legit (9+16=25), the other equations are mathematical trolling at its finest. The third one isn't even close to true! It's the perfect representation of that moment in math class when you think you understand the pattern, then the teacher drops an impossible problem that makes your brain short-circuit. Mathematical trauma in three panels!

The innocent optimism of first-year math students thinking Fermat's Last Theorem is just "a little" challenge versus the soul-crushing reality that destroyed mathematicians for 358 years. Poor Andrew Wiles spent seven years in his attic just to prove what Fermat casually scribbled in a margin. "I have discovered a truly marvelous proof which this margin is too small to contain" — yeah right, Pierre. Next time leave your homework fully completed instead of traumatizing generations of mathematicians.

The math problem asks to prove that 2 32 + 1 is divisible by 641 without a calculator. This is actually a famous result in number theory—it's the first counterexample to Fermat's conjecture that all Fermat numbers (F n = 2 2 n + 1) are prime! The proof requires some clever algebraic manipulation showing that 641 = 5 × 2 7 + 1 = 5 × 128 + 1 = 641, and also 641 = 2 10 + 2 5 + 1 = 1024 + 32 + 1 = 1057. From there, it's just a few steps to prove divisibility. But honestly, who wants to do all that work? The bottom panel perfectly captures the collective mathematical sigh of "nope, not today" that even seasoned mathematicians feel when faced with tedious proofs.

The perfect mathematical burn doesn't exi— Numbers like 23456789 look special in base 10 (our standard number system) because the digits increase sequentially. But in other bases? Not so much! In base 16 (hexadecimal), this "special" number would be written as "165B27D" — suddenly not impressive at all. It's like claiming your height is remarkable because it's exactly 6 feet, while ignoring that it's just 1.83 meters or 72 inches. The property isn't intrinsic to the number itself, just to how we've chosen to represent it. Math nerds know: true mathematical beauty should be base-invariant!

This Python code is a hilarious brute-force attempt to disprove Fermat's Last Theorem—one of math's most notorious problems that took 358 years to solve! The theorem states that no three positive integers a, b, and c can satisfy a n + b n = c n for any integer n > 2. The programmer is basically saying "hold my coffee" to Andrew Wiles (who finally proved the theorem in 1994) by trying to find counterexamples through nested loops. It's like trying to empty the ocean with a teaspoon—this code would run until the heat death of the universe before finding anything! The punchline? The code will always print "Fermat was right" because, well, he was! Mathematical mic drop! 🎤

The mathematical version of "the book was better than the movie." What we have here is a massive tome representing the countless attempts to prove a mathematical conjecture, while the actual conjecture itself is just a tiny little book. Nothing captures the pain of mathematics quite like spending 800 pages trying to prove something that can be stated in a single sentence. Fermat probably laughed himself to sleep after writing "I have discovered a truly marvelous proof which this margin is too small to contain." Sure, buddy. Four centuries of mathematicians would like a word.

The ultimate mathematical troll! Pierre de Fermat was the original clickbaiter of the 17th century. His "Big Theorem" (actually called Fermat's Last Theorem) famously claimed he had a proof that wouldn't fit in the margin of his book. Spoiler: he probably didn't have one, and mathematicians spent the next 358 years trying to solve it until Andrew Wiles finally cracked it in 1994 with a 200-page proof. Meanwhile, Fermat's "Little" Theorem is actually quite useful in number theory and cryptography. Classic mathematician move—leaving a mathematical cliffhanger that tortured brilliant minds for centuries. The ultimate "I know something you don't know" flex!

Regular folks with time machines waste their opportunity on trivial tourist activities, while mathematicians? They'd immediately hunt down Fermat to demand proof of his infamous "Last Theorem" that tormented generations of brilliant minds for over 350 years. Fermat casually wrote in a margin that he had a "truly marvelous proof" but insufficient space to write it down—the mathematical equivalent of "my girlfriend goes to another school." Spoiler alert: he was probably bluffing, since the eventual proof required mathematical techniques not invented until centuries later. Every mathematician fantasizes about this confrontation. "Show me your 'truly marvelous' proof, Pierre, or admit you were just showing off!"

Professor: "Is my exam difficult? No, not at all!" The exam: *casually asks you to disprove Fermat's Last Theorem while solving the Riemann Hypothesis during a coffee break* That third question is literally asking you to prove Fermat's Last Theorem without using the 100+ page proof that took mathematicians 358 years to develop. Sure, prof, totally reasonable for a 3-hour exam! Next time just ask us to build a functional time machine using only a pencil and our tears.

Pierre de Fermat really woke up one day in 1637, scribbled "I have a truly marvelous proof which this margin is too small to contain," and then chose mathematical chaos. The absolute troll left mathematicians banging their heads against walls for 358 years until Andrew Wiles finally proved it in 1995. Imagine dropping the mathematical equivalent of "I know something you don't know" and then DYING without elaborating. Greatest mic drop in scientific history. Either Fermat was a genius who actually had a proof (doubtful) or he was history's first clickbait artist. "Mathematicians HATE him for this ONE simple theorem!"

The mathematical universe has a twisted sense of humor. First, we get the Pythagorean Theorem (3² + 4² = 5²), which actually works. Then someone notices 3³ + 4³ + 5³ = 6³, and we think, "Hmm, interesting pattern forming here..." Then comes the ultimate troll: 3⁴ + 4⁴ + 5⁴ + 6⁴ = 7⁴? Nope! That's just mathematicians giving you false hope before crushing your pattern-seeking soul. This is why mathematicians drink coffee—reality is disappointing enough without being fully awake for it.