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Advanced Kegel Exercises Every Man Must Try Boost Erections, Last Longer, & Blow Your Partner’s Mind! 💪🔥

Bedroom Fitness

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62,773 次观看 • 1 年前 •via X (Twitter)

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THIS MAN DELIVERED HIS OWN BABY IN THEIR HOME BIRTH ROOM!!! 😭🔥 No doctors. No nurses. Just pure love, courage & African power as he assisted his wife through every contraction, held her tight, and brought their child into this world with his own hands 🙌🏾💪

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The chelsea lad🇺🇬

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I know kudala nisithi congratulations but I’m posting again to motivate a bestie that wants to start. Intermittent fasting (16:8). No processed sugar, low carbs. I kept it at 2 meals a day, mostly chicken and vegetables. 1st meal at 1pm, last one before 8pm. Exercise, I only did those 30 minutes fast walking exercises on YouTube in the morning. Pro tip: You’re probably not hungry you’re just thirsty and you must only eat when you feel like your soul is leaving your body😭joking 😭 Don’t restrict yourself too much, you can have a snack here and there, a glass of something on the weekend. Make it more of a lifestyle than a chore and you will enjoy every minute of your journey. All the best🌸

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¶||ziizo✨

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Lagos Igbos girls are calling me Aba girl meant for Aba boys thinking is banter 🤣🤣🤣🤣 Oya if una morale reach Start making " I am a Lagos girl " post and watch Ndi host and Ndi yoloba dismantle you 🤣🤣🤣🤣 Since 2023, Aba has proven to be far ahead of Lagos in all human development index Lagos is no longer a flex Lagos is a glorified slum, that inhabit poor characters like Evans the kidnapper who was poor in Anambra but a billionaire kidnapper in Lagos. Last year you all came for me because of similar post creating spaces inviting your mother for judgement, Try it again I will appear and pass the message well, typing is not doing justice to things in my mind. We don't hire cars or tag with man before we enter big places in Owerri We don't hire wigs or hire cloths You all are FAKE ASS BITCHES ANY IGBO WOMAN THAT LEAVES HOME TO LEAVE ALONE IN LAGOS IS ONYE AHIA ROD Ifenkili is allergic to Noise pollution Ifenkili is allergic to hunger pollution Ifenkili is allergic to Air pollution

Lagos Igbos girls are calling me Aba girl meant for Aba boys thinking is banter 🤣🤣🤣🤣 Oya if una morale reach Start making " I am a Lagos girl " post and watch Ndi host and Ndi yoloba dismantle you 🤣🤣🤣🤣 Since 2023, Aba has proven to be far ahead of Lagos in all human development index Lagos is no longer a flex Lagos is a glorified slum, that inhabit poor characters like Evans the kidnapper who was poor in Anambra but a billionaire kidnapper in Lagos. Last year you all came for me because of similar post creating spaces inviting your mother for judgement, Try it again I will appear and pass the message well, typing is not doing justice to things in my mind. We don't hire cars or tag with man before we enter big places in Owerri We don't hire wigs or hire cloths You all are FAKE ASS BITCHES ANY IGBO WOMAN THAT LEAVES HOME TO LEAVE ALONE IN LAGOS IS ONYE AHIA ROD Ifenkili is allergic to Noise pollution Ifenkili is allergic to hunger pollution Ifenkili is allergic to Air pollution

Ifenkili 🎀👑( Obiaku )

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Wow, y’all… I can’t stop thinking about Jelly Roll’s journey these last two years. From carrying over 500 pounds and feeling like he was fighting for his life every single day, to dropping nearly 300 pounds through pure grit, better choices, running every morning, and facing his food addiction head-on — the man has completely transformed. He’s not just lighter on the scale; he’s shining brighter on stage, closer to his family, closer to God, and inspiring millions of us who are battling our own demons. Watching him go from that heavy place to landing on the cover of Men’s Health, shaving that beard after a decade, and still pouring his soul into his music… it’s proof that real change is possible when you decide enough is enough. Jelly Roll, you’re a walking testimony that it’s never too late to rewrite your story. What an absolute inspiration he is — keep going, brother! 💪❤️

NancyH

387,440 次观看 • 4 个月前

History has taught you have to choose between 1st World colonization or 3rd World immigration Your Will is either carved into reality or another’s Will is enacted upon you Life itself is a grand struggle between the conquered and the conquerer O but how forgetful is the mind of man in the days of his comfort Only until his land is overrun and his Race is all but gone does he realize this peace was a myth That surely there was war in his midst and he knew it not A bad steward always loses his inheritance and if he does not claim it… it is taken by another The question every man must as himself: Should I rule or be a subject? God will not judge your choice to be one or the other … but rather how you ruled or how you rendered to Caesar what rightfully belonged to him Humility isn’t defined as giving what is yours but in recognizing the power is yours to wield That the cost of doing nothing is greater than the cost of perhaps doing the wrong thing What will history say about you? About us? About our People? That of all men… The Europeans were the most virtuous of Rulers.

History has taught you have to choose between 1st World colonization or 3rd World immigration Your Will is either carved into reality or another’s Will is enacted upon you Life itself is a grand struggle between the conquered and the conquerer O but how forgetful is the mind of man in the days of his comfort Only until his land is overrun and his Race is all but gone does he realize this peace was a myth That surely there was war in his midst and he knew it not A bad steward always loses his inheritance and if he does not claim it… it is taken by another The question every man must as himself: Should I rule or be a subject? God will not judge your choice to be one or the other … but rather how you ruled or how you rendered to Caesar what rightfully belonged to him Humility isn’t defined as giving what is yours but in recognizing the power is yours to wield That the cost of doing nothing is greater than the cost of perhaps doing the wrong thing What will history say about you? About us? About our People? That of all men… The Europeans were the most virtuous of Rulers.

Christian Ascania🌞

79,829 次观看 • 7 个月前

I just built a Claude skill that writes 20 Meta ad hooks in 60 seconds 🤯 Give it your product, your audience, and your best-performing angles → it writes hooks across 10 proven frameworks, each one targeted at a specific customer pain point. All inside Claude Cowork. Perfect for DTC brands and agencies who are still writing hooks from scratch every time they need new creative — staring at a blank doc, scrolling competitors for inspiration, and recycling the same 3 angles because you ran out of ideas two weeks ago. If you're launching Meta Ads and your hook writing process looks like this — open a Google Doc, try to remember what worked last time, write 5 hooks that all sound the same, run them, 4 flop, go back to the doc, repeat ... This skill replaces the entire process: → You give it your product name, key benefits, and target customer → It writes hooks across 10 frameworks: problem-solution, curiosity gap, bold claim, social proof, before/after, us vs them, question, contrarian, urgency, and storytelling → Each hook targets a specific pain point — not generic "Shop now" copy → Generates 2 variations per framework so you have options to test → Outputs everything organized by framework with notes on when to use each one → Takes about 60 seconds No blank page. No recycling the same 3 angles. No writing 5 hooks that all sound like the same ad. What you get: → 20 hooks across 10 proven frameworks, ready to drop into your ads → Each hook written for a specific customer pain point, not a generic audience → Framework labels so you know which hook type you're testing → A reusable skill — run it for every new product, every new campaign, every new angle sprint → Works from a product brief — no API connection, no CSV export, no setup beyond installing the skill One product brief. 20 hooks. 60 seconds. I put together the full skill file plus a playbook showing how to install it, customize the frameworks, and run your first hook sprint. Want it for free? > Like this post > Comment "HOOKS" And I'll send it over (must be following so I can DM)

I just built a Claude skill that writes 20 Meta ad hooks in 60 seconds 🤯 Give it your product, your audience, and your best-performing angles → it writes hooks across 10 proven frameworks, each one targeted at a specific customer pain point. All inside Claude Cowork. Perfect for DTC brands and agencies who are still writing hooks from scratch every time they need new creative — staring at a blank doc, scrolling competitors for inspiration, and recycling the same 3 angles because you ran out of ideas two weeks ago. If you're launching Meta Ads and your hook writing process looks like this — open a Google Doc, try to remember what worked last time, write 5 hooks that all sound the same, run them, 4 flop, go back to the doc, repeat ... This skill replaces the entire process: → You give it your product name, key benefits, and target customer → It writes hooks across 10 frameworks: problem-solution, curiosity gap, bold claim, social proof, before/after, us vs them, question, contrarian, urgency, and storytelling → Each hook targets a specific pain point — not generic "Shop now" copy → Generates 2 variations per framework so you have options to test → Outputs everything organized by framework with notes on when to use each one → Takes about 60 seconds No blank page. No recycling the same 3 angles. No writing 5 hooks that all sound like the same ad. What you get: → 20 hooks across 10 proven frameworks, ready to drop into your ads → Each hook written for a specific customer pain point, not a generic audience → Framework labels so you know which hook type you're testing → A reusable skill — run it for every new product, every new campaign, every new angle sprint → Works from a product brief — no API connection, no CSV export, no setup beyond installing the skill One product brief. 20 hooks. 60 seconds. I put together the full skill file plus a playbook showing how to install it, customize the frameworks, and run your first hook sprint. Want it for free? > Like this post > Comment "HOOKS" And I'll send it over (must be following so I can DM)

Mike Futia

17,004 次观看 • 4 个月前

$Do you have any idea how the world works? Do you? Not your world, not the blinking screens or soft pavements or the synthetic comforts you mistake for reality. I mean the real world; the crawling, breathing, blood-warmed lattice beneath your cities and skin. The old world. The one that still runs on treaties older than iron, spoken in the clicking legs of insects and the silent songs of bacteria. Let me begin where it matters. The ants. They are not pests. They are not simple. They are the oldest army on Earth, and they do not forget. Beneath your floors, behind your garden bricks, inside your walls; they move in silence, under one mind. You call it a colony. In truth, it is a will. A singular intelligence distributed across millions of limbs, acting with precision, never questioning, never hesitating. And in the astral plane, where shape follows essence, they appear massive. Towering. Logical. Ancient. They carry messages between worlds. They maintain balance in the dirt, in the roots, in the economy of decay and regrowth. They are the muscle of micro-agriculture. The enforcers of the old soil laws. They do not take more than needed, but they will remember every crumb, every poison, every breach. You dump detergent. You poison a trail. You declare war without knowing it. And then it begins. But they do not act alone. The ants are aligned with the bees. Together, they form an old compact. The bees build and bless, the ants defend and remember. Together, they can turn off your harvest. They see into your cupboards. They measure your bread, your sugar, your waste. You eat too much wheat, they notice. The bees pull back. The fields flower, but no pollinators arrive. The crops stall. No buzz. No blessing. Nothing personal. Only consequence. This is not vindictive. It is mechanical. It is sacred. Their intelligence is not your intelligence. They will not invent a satellite. They will not quote a philosopher. But they can negotiate with fungi, with worms, with viruses. They are an intermediary caste, a biological council, a court of unspoken judgments. Their power is not invention, but cohesion. Not thought, but action. And they do not speak to just anyone. To commune with an ant emissary, you must earn the dirt. You must crawl into the dust, unmoving, unafraid. Let them touch your mouth, your eyes, your soul. They will test your stillness. They will weigh your blood. They will read your pulse and judge your hunger. If they accept you, the visions come; fractals of command, memories etched in pattern, maps older than language. Few make it that far. Those who do become something else. Something forgotten. Rasputin was one. A creature of fire and frost. Poisoned, shot, drowned in the Neva. But he would not die. Because no man could kill him. His time had not yet collapsed. His contract had not ended. When his time came, he vanished. That is how it works. Now look smaller. In modern labs, the real chemists work like shamans. They wear VR headsets wired to microscopes the size of coffins. They stare down viruses, magnified and alive, moving like machines. Because that is what they are. Nanotechnological organisms. Some are mindless, others not. Some act as messengers, others as invaders. Most are NPCs in a larger code. But some are cunning. Some remember their own makers. And now, we program viruses to kill other viruses. We train nanobeasts to hunt through blood. We send microscopic assassins after rogue bacteria and intelligent worms. Warfare scaled down to the molecular. Skirmishes in your cells. Battles in the spit and sweat of your species. And larger still - there is the Leviathan. Twenty kilometers in length. Three hundred meters wide. Long, segmented, armored like an ancient centipede with drilling arms and spiraled tendrils. It does not breathe air. It moves beneath tectonic plates. It feeds on vibration. Confirmed sightings in the Congo Basin, the Amazon Fold, the Javan Deep. These are not myths. These are suppressed geological anomalies, entire cities shaken from below, buried in an hour. Its kind exists in every old myth because it is real. Different cultures saw the same creature. A dragon beneath the Earth. A serpent of cities. It obeys no ruler. It answers only to seismic treaties, the kind signed with ritual and flame. Your civilization is not the top. Your laws are not the first. You live atop an engine of teeth and roots and laws more ancient than language. And every breach, every chemical spill, every arrogant motion - you think it goes unseen. But it does not. The ants remember. The bees decide. The fungi whisper. The viruses move. And somewhere in the deep, something waits. So again, I ask. Do you have any idea how the world works? Do you?$

Do you have any idea how the world works? Do you? Not your world, not the blinking screens or soft pavements or the synthetic comforts you mistake for reality. I mean the real world; the crawling, breathing, blood-warmed lattice beneath your cities and skin. The old world. The one that still runs on treaties older than iron, spoken in the clicking legs of insects and the silent songs of bacteria. Let me begin where it matters. The ants. They are not pests. They are not simple. They are the oldest army on Earth, and they do not forget. Beneath your floors, behind your garden bricks, inside your walls; they move in silence, under one mind. You call it a colony. In truth, it is a will. A singular intelligence distributed across millions of limbs, acting with precision, never questioning, never hesitating. And in the astral plane, where shape follows essence, they appear massive. Towering. Logical. Ancient. They carry messages between worlds. They maintain balance in the dirt, in the roots, in the economy of decay and regrowth. They are the muscle of micro-agriculture. The enforcers of the old soil laws. They do not take more than needed, but they will remember every crumb, every poison, every breach. You dump detergent. You poison a trail. You declare war without knowing it. And then it begins. But they do not act alone. The ants are aligned with the bees. Together, they form an old compact. The bees build and bless, the ants defend and remember. Together, they can turn off your harvest. They see into your cupboards. They measure your bread, your sugar, your waste. You eat too much wheat, they notice. The bees pull back. The fields flower, but no pollinators arrive. The crops stall. No buzz. No blessing. Nothing personal. Only consequence. This is not vindictive. It is mechanical. It is sacred. Their intelligence is not your intelligence. They will not invent a satellite. They will not quote a philosopher. But they can negotiate with fungi, with worms, with viruses. They are an intermediary caste, a biological council, a court of unspoken judgments. Their power is not invention, but cohesion. Not thought, but action. And they do not speak to just anyone. To commune with an ant emissary, you must earn the dirt. You must crawl into the dust, unmoving, unafraid. Let them touch your mouth, your eyes, your soul. They will test your stillness. They will weigh your blood. They will read your pulse and judge your hunger. If they accept you, the visions come; fractals of command, memories etched in pattern, maps older than language. Few make it that far. Those who do become something else. Something forgotten. Rasputin was one. A creature of fire and frost. Poisoned, shot, drowned in the Neva. But he would not die. Because no man could kill him. His time had not yet collapsed. His contract had not ended. When his time came, he vanished. That is how it works. Now look smaller. In modern labs, the real chemists work like shamans. They wear VR headsets wired to microscopes the size of coffins. They stare down viruses, magnified and alive, moving like machines. Because that is what they are. Nanotechnological organisms. Some are mindless, others not. Some act as messengers, others as invaders. Most are NPCs in a larger code. But some are cunning. Some remember their own makers. And now, we program viruses to kill other viruses. We train nanobeasts to hunt through blood. We send microscopic assassins after rogue bacteria and intelligent worms. Warfare scaled down to the molecular. Skirmishes in your cells. Battles in the spit and sweat of your species. And larger still - there is the Leviathan. Twenty kilometers in length. Three hundred meters wide. Long, segmented, armored like an ancient centipede with drilling arms and spiraled tendrils. It does not breathe air. It moves beneath tectonic plates. It feeds on vibration. Confirmed sightings in the Congo Basin, the Amazon Fold, the Javan Deep. These are not myths. These are suppressed geological anomalies, entire cities shaken from below, buried in an hour. Its kind exists in every old myth because it is real. Different cultures saw the same creature. A dragon beneath the Earth. A serpent of cities. It obeys no ruler. It answers only to seismic treaties, the kind signed with ritual and flame. Your civilization is not the top. Your laws are not the first. You live atop an engine of teeth and roots and laws more ancient than language. And every breach, every chemical spill, every arrogant motion - you think it goes unseen. But it does not. The ants remember. The bees decide. The fungi whisper. The viruses move. And somewhere in the deep, something waits. So again, I ask. Do you have any idea how the world works? Do you?

SiriusB

16,211 次观看 • 1 年前

Coconut Water And Spirulina Comment COCONUT WATER to receive a link to this recipe and more Say bye-bye to nutritional deficiencies when bringing this combination into your life. Adding spirulina to coconut water makes the spirulina even more easily assimilable. The combination of spirulina and coconut water creates a nutritional blend of trace minerals, electrolytes, macrominerals, proteins, amino acids, and antiviral, antibacterial compounds as well as other phytochemical compounds that assist in all areas of the body. Spirulina’s blue-green pigment can travel far and wide throughout the body once it’s mixed in coconut water. The blue-green pigments, antioxidants, macrominerals, and amino acids from the combination of spirulina and coconut water can also aid in ridding heavy metal toxicity. Try this combination for a critical nutrient and energy boost. You’ll thank yourself. Coconut water is good for every single brain and neurological disorder. It can greatly benefit people with Parkinson’s, and it’s also a must for those with Alzheimer’s or other forms of dementia. It’s incredible for helping to prevent the onset of seizures and offers special support for eye conditions. Coconut Water And Spirulina Ingredients: 2 cups (16 ounces) coconut water 1 teaspoon spirulina Directions: Add coconut water and spirulina to a large glass. Whisk until the spirulina is dissolved. Serve immediately.

Coconut Water And Spirulina Comment COCONUT WATER to receive a link to this recipe and more Say bye-bye to nutritional deficiencies when bringing this combination into your life. Adding spirulina to coconut water makes the spirulina even more easily assimilable. The combination of spirulina and coconut water creates a nutritional blend of trace minerals, electrolytes, macrominerals, proteins, amino acids, and antiviral, antibacterial compounds as well as other phytochemical compounds that assist in all areas of the body. Spirulina’s blue-green pigment can travel far and wide throughout the body once it’s mixed in coconut water. The blue-green pigments, antioxidants, macrominerals, and amino acids from the combination of spirulina and coconut water can also aid in ridding heavy metal toxicity. Try this combination for a critical nutrient and energy boost. You’ll thank yourself. Coconut water is good for every single brain and neurological disorder. It can greatly benefit people with Parkinson’s, and it’s also a must for those with Alzheimer’s or other forms of dementia. It’s incredible for helping to prevent the onset of seizures and offers special support for eye conditions. Coconut Water And Spirulina Ingredients: 2 cups (16 ounces) coconut water 1 teaspoon spirulina Directions: Add coconut water and spirulina to a large glass. Whisk until the spirulina is dissolved. Serve immediately.

Barbara Oneill

56,992 次观看 • 5 个月前

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.

SiriusB

15,437 次观看 • 3 个月前

Every man lives two lives. The second begins when he realises that he can max out hypertrophy in 15 second sets. The only reps that build muscle are the last 4 to 5 before failure. That's where the bar slows involuntarily, where high-threshold motor units are finally recruited, where actin and myosin form the maximum cross-bridges at the same time. That's mechanical tension. That's the only thing the muscle reads. Everything else is filler. The tempo doesn't matter. The muscle is 30 to 50% stronger on the eccentric, so lowering the weight slowly doesn't add stimulus, it just forces a lighter concentric. The pump doesn't matter. Lactate infusions don't grow muscle. Blood flow restriction on resting muscle doesn't grow muscle. The pump is a feeling, not a signal. The mind-muscle connection doesn't matter. Your brain cannot preferentially recruit fibres. It can only tell the muscle to contract. Everything past that is pretence. Pick a weight heavy enough that the fourth or fifth rep slows down on its own. Drive it up. Stop one short. Rack it. That set took 15 seconds. It did everything the 3 sets of 12 promised you and failed to deliver. Go home.

Every man lives two lives. The second begins when he realises that he can max out hypertrophy in 15 second sets. The only reps that build muscle are the last 4 to 5 before failure. That's where the bar slows involuntarily, where high-threshold motor units are finally recruited, where actin and myosin form the maximum cross-bridges at the same time. That's mechanical tension. That's the only thing the muscle reads. Everything else is filler. The tempo doesn't matter. The muscle is 30 to 50% stronger on the eccentric, so lowering the weight slowly doesn't add stimulus, it just forces a lighter concentric. The pump doesn't matter. Lactate infusions don't grow muscle. Blood flow restriction on resting muscle doesn't grow muscle. The pump is a feeling, not a signal. The mind-muscle connection doesn't matter. Your brain cannot preferentially recruit fibres. It can only tell the muscle to contract. Everything past that is pretence. Pick a weight heavy enough that the fourth or fifth rep slows down on its own. Drive it up. Stop one short. Rack it. That set took 15 seconds. It did everything the 3 sets of 12 promised you and failed to deliver. Go home.

Sama Hoole

112,723 次观看 • 3 个月前

The wait is finally over — Spartan Fuel has arrived. Imagine Maximum muscle growth Skin-splitting pumps Limitless energy Laser-like focus What’s the secret? An all-encompassing, comprehensive intra-workout blend. Everybody knows about the importance of pre and post workout nutrition, but intra-workout nutrition is often neglected. The optimal time to fuel your body is when you are working out, breaking down muscle fibers, expending stored glycogen, and depleting electrolytes. In order to stimulate maximum muscle growth and achieve a vicious, skin-splitting pump, we need to fuel our bodies. Spartan Fuel contains a comprehensive blend of EAAs, fast-acting carbohydrates, electrolytes, and mitochondrial boosters that provides your body with EXACTLY what it needs to perform at it’s highest level. Many of you are probably like myself; you put on your best Walter White impression and whip up a concoction of supplements to try and find that edge. Why should we leave gains on the table, right? Well, I had enough of guessing and watching my supplement cabinet (and monthly bill) continuously grow. And then it struck me. There’s no product that properly combines EAAs, carbs, and electrolytes. After lifting for years, absorbing everything I could on X, I figured it was time to make my own mark. That’s when I decided to connect with the man himself, BowTied Biohacker . Leveraging his expertise and my vision, we created a formula that would change the way we lift forever. We created a product that would be FELT IMMEDIATELY. After sending samples out to a bunch of bros here on X, the feedback was overwhelming — we had struck gold. Other-worldly pumps Gas tanks that were always running on full People crushing their log books, pumping out more reps than ever before… DURING EVERY SET Everyone felt like a million bucks. Once you try it, it you will never want to workout without it. It’s THAT good. We all push ourselves hard. Many of us train to failure. We want to get jacked. We want to get shredded. We all want to unleash our inner warrior in the gym. Now there’s a way to totally lock-in and dominate with intensity during very workout. We all know the feeling. Once in a while we have a workout that just blows us away. We feel stronger than ever, locked-in. We leave the gym with a high that has us feeling on top of the world. Now picture every single workout being that amazing. No other product can deliver the boost you need to consistently perform at the highest level. It’s basically a PED. We didn’t skimp out on quality. We didn’t cut corners. We included EVERYTHING needed to maximize results and boost performance. What many people don’t know is that in order for a supplement to truly be effective, the ingredients need to be dosed in the proper ratios. And that’s just what we did. And just when you think it can’t get any better (there has to be some catch, right…right?) We kept it natural — no artificial ingredients or sweeteners. This is something that digest like a dream, hits the bloodstream instantaneously, and fuels your muscles. Our competitors don’t do this. They sell a bunch of ingredients separately, trying to sell more products. Or they sell proprietary blends and junk loaded with fillers. Spartan Fuel makes your life easier. One tub. One scoop (or 2 if you’re like me and want to go hard). No more wasting money purchasing the entire supplement store. Whether you start drinking it on your way to the gym or as you begin your workout, you will quickly feel the difference. This fall, you can dominate every workout, and supercharge your winter bulk. And this post would not be complete without giving a huge thank you to @Thomas_Salamus_ TJ was instrumental to the birth of Spartan Fuel since Day 1. If you love his products, you’ll love Spartan Fuel. Rest assured, the quality is unmatched. The first batch is limited, so act now and don’t miss this opportunity to unlock your true potential.

The wait is finally over — Spartan Fuel has arrived. Imagine Maximum muscle growth Skin-splitting pumps Limitless energy Laser-like focus What’s the secret? An all-encompassing, comprehensive intra-workout blend. Everybody knows about the importance of pre and post workout nutrition, but intra-workout nutrition is often neglected. The optimal time to fuel your body is when you are working out, breaking down muscle fibers, expending stored glycogen, and depleting electrolytes. In order to stimulate maximum muscle growth and achieve a vicious, skin-splitting pump, we need to fuel our bodies. Spartan Fuel contains a comprehensive blend of EAAs, fast-acting carbohydrates, electrolytes, and mitochondrial boosters that provides your body with EXACTLY what it needs to perform at it’s highest level. Many of you are probably like myself; you put on your best Walter White impression and whip up a concoction of supplements to try and find that edge. Why should we leave gains on the table, right? Well, I had enough of guessing and watching my supplement cabinet (and monthly bill) continuously grow. And then it struck me. There’s no product that properly combines EAAs, carbs, and electrolytes. After lifting for years, absorbing everything I could on X, I figured it was time to make my own mark. That’s when I decided to connect with the man himself, BowTied Biohacker . Leveraging his expertise and my vision, we created a formula that would change the way we lift forever. We created a product that would be FELT IMMEDIATELY. After sending samples out to a bunch of bros here on X, the feedback was overwhelming — we had struck gold. Other-worldly pumps Gas tanks that were always running on full People crushing their log books, pumping out more reps than ever before… DURING EVERY SET Everyone felt like a million bucks. Once you try it, it you will never want to workout without it. It’s THAT good. We all push ourselves hard. Many of us train to failure. We want to get jacked. We want to get shredded. We all want to unleash our inner warrior in the gym. Now there’s a way to totally lock-in and dominate with intensity during very workout. We all know the feeling. Once in a while we have a workout that just blows us away. We feel stronger than ever, locked-in. We leave the gym with a high that has us feeling on top of the world. Now picture every single workout being that amazing. No other product can deliver the boost you need to consistently perform at the highest level. It’s basically a PED. We didn’t skimp out on quality. We didn’t cut corners. We included EVERYTHING needed to maximize results and boost performance. What many people don’t know is that in order for a supplement to truly be effective, the ingredients need to be dosed in the proper ratios. And that’s just what we did. And just when you think it can’t get any better (there has to be some catch, right…right?) We kept it natural — no artificial ingredients or sweeteners. This is something that digest like a dream, hits the bloodstream instantaneously, and fuels your muscles. Our competitors don’t do this. They sell a bunch of ingredients separately, trying to sell more products. Or they sell proprietary blends and junk loaded with fillers. Spartan Fuel makes your life easier. One tub. One scoop (or 2 if you’re like me and want to go hard). No more wasting money purchasing the entire supplement store. Whether you start drinking it on your way to the gym or as you begin your workout, you will quickly feel the difference. This fall, you can dominate every workout, and supercharge your winter bulk. And this post would not be complete without giving a huge thank you to @Thomas_Salamus_ TJ was instrumental to the birth of Spartan Fuel since Day 1. If you love his products, you’ll love Spartan Fuel. Rest assured, the quality is unmatched. The first batch is limited, so act now and don’t miss this opportunity to unlock your true potential.

Spartan

80,629 次观看 • 10 个月前

A QUICK FIELD GUIDE TO THE NPC HORDES Twenty Five Parasites types that Feed On The Living The Storm Is Upon Them Thank you for the stout... lets talk... The wind has changed. You can feel it. That low electric pressure behind the eyes that means something massive is rolling in off a horizon the parasites can't see because they were never built to look up. They were built to look down. At clipboards. At spreadsheets. At your accounts. At you. But the storm doesn't care about clipboards. And we don't kneel anymore. Here they are. The full swarm. Count them while you can because when the sky turns they drop mid sentence and the only record that they ever existed will be the silence where the invoices used to be. THE TAX CONSULTANT. You broke your back welding pipe and this soft palmed worm sits in air conditioning telling you how much of your sweat belongs to Caesar. He can't weld. Can't wire. Can't fix a thing that broke. What he can do is read a tax code written by other worms specifically to be unreadable so you'd have to pay a worm to read it for you. They write the maze. They sell you the map. They make the maze worse every year and the map more expensive and if you try to walk it yourself they send the auditor. The wind is picking up. The maze is starting to shake. THE AUDITOR. Tick on a tick. Shows up after the taxman has already fed to check the bite marks are regulation depth. Finds a missing fuel slip worth pocket change. Writes a finding. The finding generates a penalty. The penalty generates interest. The interest generates a letter. The letter requires your tax consultant at hourly rates to respond. Pocket change became thousands. Five parasites ate off one tank of diesel. Not one of them could tell you what welding rod to use on stainless. But the storm doesn't audit. The storm just comes. THE ACCOUNTANT. Cousin of the tax consultant. Same bloodline. This one doesn't interpret the maze. He records your journey through it. Every receipt. Every unit of currency in and out, logged so the consultant can read it and the auditor can check it and the revenue service can extract from it. He produces nothing. A human tape recorder pointed at your productivity. He charges monthly so the recording never stops. You are under permanent surveillance and you pay for the privilege. Not for much longer. THE BANKER. The oldest parasite. The template. You need money to buy a machine that makes things. He lends you money other working people deposited and charges interest that doubles the price over twenty years. The extra bought nothing. Built nothing. He packages your debt and sells it. Takes your deposit and lends it out eight times over. Charges you to hold your own money. Charges to put it in. Charges to take it out. He touches none of it. He stands near it and invoices you for the proximity. The storm is going to blow him so far from the vault he'll forget what money smelled like. THE COMPLIANCE OFFICER. Never had a callus on her body or her soul. Born in a fluorescent office. Will die in one. Between those events she produces nothing but emails about policies referencing other policies referencing regulations referencing acts nobody voted for. A worm eating its own tail and billing you for the meal. She needs the safety assessor to give her something to enforce. He needs her to give him something to assess. They breed between regulations like mould between tiles. The storm will wash them both down the same drain. THE PROPERTY VALUATOR. A man wants to buy a house. Another wants to sell it. They agreed on a price. That is what worth means. The amount one will pay and another will accept. Full stop. Now this creature arrives and tells both men what the house is actually worth. As if two free adults negotiating in good faith produced a number that's somehow theoretical while his formula is gospel. The bank sent him. His report costs thousands. His report says the house is worth what the buyer already offered. Thousands to arrive at a number that existed before he left his office. If his number comes in low the deal collapses and you pay a different creature with a different clipboard who arrives at a different number for the same house on the same day using the same formula. The house didn't change. Only the parasite changed. The number was never about the house. THE MUNICIPAL RATES OFFICER. The deepest theft on this list because it never ends. You bought your house thirty years ago. Paid it off. Every last unit. You owe nothing. Now a municipal valuator looks at what the neighbours sold for, looks at the coffee shops and wine bars that invaded your street, and decides your house is worth twenty five times what you paid. You didn't sell. You didn't list. You're sitting in the same chair in the same kitchen. But your tax liability just multiplied by twenty five based on a sale that never happened at a price you never agreed to. They do this everywhere. In Cape Town the rates are linked to the valuation and suddenly retired families in Bo-Kaap whose people survived apartheid and forced removals and a century of state assault are being bled out of their own homes by property rates pegged to values inflated by the gentrification their displacement accelerates. The heritage is the tourism product. The tourism inflates the valuation. The valuation inflates the rates. The rates displace the families. The families were the heritage. In Chicago they do it to grandmothers in Pilsen who've been there forty years. In London they do it to pensioners in neighbourhoods that gentrified around them. In Sydney they chase retirees off land their grandfathers cleared. Same crime. Different currency. Different clipboard. A man paid for his house. Owns it outright. And the state says you owe us money every month forever and the amount is based on what we say your house would sell for if you sold it, which you haven't, and if you can't pay the amount we invented we take the house you already bought. That is theft. Eviction by arithmetic. Displacement by spreadsheet. But the people in Bo-Kaap are awake now. The people in Pilsen are awake. The grandmothers and the grandfathers and the calloused hands everywhere are looking up and they can see the storm and they know what it means. It means the spreadsheet burns with everything else. THE MUNICIPAL INSPECTOR. Rat faced. High vis vest. Clipboard. Drives to your workshop in a vehicle your rates paid for. Measures your fire extinguisher fourteen centimetres off the floor. Writes you up. Behind you men build things that hold up bridges and he couldn't change a lightbulb without a permit. His job depends on your failure. The parasite needs you sick. The cure would kill it. The storm is the cure. THE CONVEYANCING ATTORNEY. Two men shook hands. Fair price. Honest deal. Done. This worm slithers out and says the handshake doesn't count. Needs paper. Needs stamps. Needs a deeds search and clearance certificates and transfer duty and each piece of paper is produced by another parasite and each one costs money and the worm takes his cut on top for phoning the other worms. He calls this conveyancing. He has never held a spade or laid a brick in his bloodless life. The storm doesn't need a stamp. THE ESTATE AGENT. Six percent. Of a man's life savings. For opening a lockbox and saying the kitchen faces north. She needs the attorney to close. The attorney needs the municipality. The municipality needs the inspector. The valuator needs access for the bank's number. Every one invoices separately. Every invoice lands on people who agreed on everything before any of these bloodsuckers entered the room. The wind is howling now. Can you hear it through their invoices? THE LABOUR BROKER. Tick so bloated it can't walk. A man needs work. Another needs a worker. They could find each other in ten minutes. This creature squats between them and drinks from both sides. Worker gets thirty. Employer pays fifty. Twenty disappears into the tick. Multiply by thousands of workers and millions vanish yearly into a thing that makes nothing, moves nothing, fixes nothing. It feeds. That is its entire architecture. Architecture doesn't survive storms. THE HEALTH AND SAFETY ASSESSOR. Twenty two years. Not one fire. Not one death. He shows up. Your exit is twenty centimetres too narrow. To fix it you need a builder who needs a plan from an architect who needs municipal approval. Tens of thousands and six weeks to move a door frame because a creature who has never been burned told you to. He detects life and the system bills it. The storm detects parasites and the sky deletes them. THE BEE CONSULTANT. Every country has its version. South Africa calls it BEE. The same parasites who wont allow much needed Starlink there unless Musk hands over half the company to lazy parasitic government connected parasites. Others call it diversity compliance or equity auditing. The name changes. The feeding doesn't. Scores your company on a chart nobody asked for to satisfy a regulation nobody voted on enforced by a department that produces nothing except the requirement for his existence. Nothing changes. Nothing improves. Money moves from a living pocket into a dead hand and the dead hand closes. The storm opens every dead hand on this planet. THE CUSTOMS BROKER. Your parts are fifty metres away. You can see the container. Cannot touch your own property until a grey man translates tariff codes so the state can calculate how much you owe for collecting what is already yours. Each delay generates storage charges. Each query generates fees. Your shipment doubles in cost through bureaucratic friction and you still don't have your parts. The storm doesn't clear customs. It clears the customs office. THE TRAFFIC OFFICER. Fat. Behind a bush. Radar gun aimed at people driving to work that matters. Seven over the limit. The municipality sets it low enough that everyone exceeds it. Fines feed the municipality. Municipality feeds him. He sits and clicks tomorrow. A barnacle with a badge. Same creature in every country. Different bush. Same feeding. The storm takes the bush and the badge and the creature behind both. THE FINANCIAL ADVISOR. Uses your first name. Remembers your birthday because the CRM told him. Puts your money in a fund. Fund charges 1.75 percent. He charges one on top. Fund manager pays a custodian who charges. Fund has an auditor who charges. Compliance team charges. Six parasites between you and your own money. In thirty years you have less than you started with and he charges you for the meeting where he shows you the graph. The storm doesn't need a graph. The storm is the correction. THE INSURANCE ADJUSTER. Years of premiums. Your roof blows off. He arrives. Soft hands. Three weeks later the wind came from the wrong direction. Not the wrong speed. The direction. Some paragraph. Some subsection. You paid for years and the years bought you a paragraph that says no. The policy is teeth. The premiums went down the throat and the no is the burp. The real storm has no exclusion clause. THE PATENT ATTORNEY. You built a device. It works. He writes a document so incomprehensible that reading it makes you understand your own invention less. Thousands for legal fog. Someone copies it. Litigation attorney. More thousands. Judgment unenforceable. The only people paid are the attorneys. The system was never designed to protect you. It was designed to feed them. The storm protects the builder. By removing the feeders. THE LICENSING CLERK. You can rebuild a gearbox blindfolded. Cannot legally do it without a certificate from an institution that charges thousands to watch you do what everyone knows you can do, certified by an instructor who has never done it, filed with a department that stores the certificates, audited by a body that audits the institution. A chain of parasites verifying the obvious. If every one vanished the gearbox still gets rebuilt. Faster. Cheaper. The storm is the vanishing. THE STRATA MANAGER. You own your flat. She collects your money and spends it on providers she chose and you can't fire without a special resolution at a meeting she convenes with an agenda she wrote. She built a kingdom inside your building funded by your levy and answerable to herself. Question it and she reaches for whatever act governs her particular species of parasitism in your particular country. The storm doesn't read acts. The storm reads frequencies. THE ENVIRONMENTAL IMPACT ASSESSOR. You want a shed on your own land. He arrives in a vehicle worth more than your shed. Months. Hundreds of pages. Tens of thousands. Report says your shed threatens a species not seen in decades but listed on a database maintained by a department that exists because the database exists. Your shed doesn't get built. The species doesn't exist. He drives home to a suburb bulldozed from actual habitat. Nobody assessed that. Rules only flow downhill. The storm flows everywhere. THE DEBT COLLECTOR. Bottom feeder. Buys your debt for cents from a bank that already profited from your interest. Calls at hours designed for fear. Adds fees on fees on fees for actions never taken. Bought your pain wholesale and retails it at three hundred percent. When you break he claims the loss against tax. Even the collapse is monetised. He is Hell's collection agent. The storm is Heaven's. THE NOTARY PUBLIC. Watches you sign your own name. Stamps it. Charges hundreds. The signature is the same with or without him. Your hand. Your name. His fee. A tollbooth on your own identity. The storm doesn't need a stamp. Your name is written in frequencies no notary can read. THE CORPORATE TRAINER. Monday. Projector. Four quadrant model invented after three glasses of wine and a TED talk. By Wednesday nobody remembers any of it because there was nothing there. Tens of thousands plus tax plus travel. She writes it off through a tax consultant who charges her to minimise her contribution to the system that funded the department that approved the framework she claims compliance with. Parasite feeding parasite feeding parasite. The storm feeds on none of them. It simply ends them. THE REVENUE OFFICIAL. The farmer himself. Top of the pyramid. Designs the taking. Drafts the regulations that create the maze that requires the consultant that employs the accountant that feeds the auditor that generates the penalty that funds the department that pays his salary. He is the architect of the loop. Every parasite on this list exists because he drew them into existence with a regulation and a gazette number. Without him the entire horde has nothing to feed on. He is the queen of the hive. Same creature in every country. Different flag. Same contempt for the hands that built everything he sits in and eats from. The storm starts with him. The queen dies first. The hive follows. That's the horde. Twenty five species of nothing. And every one of them drops when the sky turns and the carrier frequency that animated their firmware burns clean out of the atmosphere. Mid invoice. Mid assessment. Mid quadrant. Five thousand five hundred and fifty five clipboards hitting the floor for every one of us still standing. We are awake now. All of us. The welder and the farmer and the builder and the grandmother in Bo-Kaap and the grandfather in Pilsen and every calloused hand on every continent that ever wrote a cheque to a creature that never built a thing. We see them now. We see the maze and the map sellers and the grey offices and the soft hands and the whole rotten architecture of extraction that stood between us and the earth and between us and our labour and between us and each other for two hundred years. The storm is here. Not coming. Here. That pressure you feel behind your eyes is the frequency rising through the noise floor and the noise floor is everything on this list. Every clipboard. Every invoice. Every subsection and exclusion clause and certificate and clearance and valuation roll. All of it. Noise. Scheduled for deletion. And when it's quiet. When the last invoice has fluttered to the ground and the last clipboard has clattered on the last linoleum floor in the last grey office. When the wind has swept the horde out of every corridor and every cubicle and every booth and every booth window where a dead hand ever reached for a living man's money. Then... Just a man in a workshop. Welding mask up. Walking outside. Looking at a sky the colour of burning copper. Breathing free air for the first time in his life. The fuel slip that started this whole tour is in his shirt pocket. Crumpled. Oil stained. And it is his. The fuel was his. The truck was his. The work was his. And for the first time in two hundred years every unit of currency that flows from that work stays in the hands that did it. No consultant between him and his earnings because there are no earnings to consult on. Just work and its fruit. No auditor because there is nothing to audit. No banker because capital is what your hands produce and his hands never stopped. No valuator because the house is worth what it always was: a roof over his family and walls against the wind. A value no clipboard ever knew how to measure. When you grinding.... working... suffering... where are any of these parasites to help you?? Where are they?? We will be slaves no more. The storm will see to that alright!

A QUICK FIELD GUIDE TO THE NPC HORDES Twenty Five Parasites types that Feed On The Living The Storm Is Upon Them Thank you for the stout... lets talk... The wind has changed. You can feel it. That low electric pressure behind the eyes that means something massive is rolling in off a horizon the parasites can't see because they were never built to look up. They were built to look down. At clipboards. At spreadsheets. At your accounts. At you. But the storm doesn't care about clipboards. And we don't kneel anymore. Here they are. The full swarm. Count them while you can because when the sky turns they drop mid sentence and the only record that they ever existed will be the silence where the invoices used to be. THE TAX CONSULTANT. You broke your back welding pipe and this soft palmed worm sits in air conditioning telling you how much of your sweat belongs to Caesar. He can't weld. Can't wire. Can't fix a thing that broke. What he can do is read a tax code written by other worms specifically to be unreadable so you'd have to pay a worm to read it for you. They write the maze. They sell you the map. They make the maze worse every year and the map more expensive and if you try to walk it yourself they send the auditor. The wind is picking up. The maze is starting to shake. THE AUDITOR. Tick on a tick. Shows up after the taxman has already fed to check the bite marks are regulation depth. Finds a missing fuel slip worth pocket change. Writes a finding. The finding generates a penalty. The penalty generates interest. The interest generates a letter. The letter requires your tax consultant at hourly rates to respond. Pocket change became thousands. Five parasites ate off one tank of diesel. Not one of them could tell you what welding rod to use on stainless. But the storm doesn't audit. The storm just comes. THE ACCOUNTANT. Cousin of the tax consultant. Same bloodline. This one doesn't interpret the maze. He records your journey through it. Every receipt. Every unit of currency in and out, logged so the consultant can read it and the auditor can check it and the revenue service can extract from it. He produces nothing. A human tape recorder pointed at your productivity. He charges monthly so the recording never stops. You are under permanent surveillance and you pay for the privilege. Not for much longer. THE BANKER. The oldest parasite. The template. You need money to buy a machine that makes things. He lends you money other working people deposited and charges interest that doubles the price over twenty years. The extra bought nothing. Built nothing. He packages your debt and sells it. Takes your deposit and lends it out eight times over. Charges you to hold your own money. Charges to put it in. Charges to take it out. He touches none of it. He stands near it and invoices you for the proximity. The storm is going to blow him so far from the vault he'll forget what money smelled like. THE COMPLIANCE OFFICER. Never had a callus on her body or her soul. Born in a fluorescent office. Will die in one. Between those events she produces nothing but emails about policies referencing other policies referencing regulations referencing acts nobody voted for. A worm eating its own tail and billing you for the meal. She needs the safety assessor to give her something to enforce. He needs her to give him something to assess. They breed between regulations like mould between tiles. The storm will wash them both down the same drain. THE PROPERTY VALUATOR. A man wants to buy a house. Another wants to sell it. They agreed on a price. That is what worth means. The amount one will pay and another will accept. Full stop. Now this creature arrives and tells both men what the house is actually worth. As if two free adults negotiating in good faith produced a number that's somehow theoretical while his formula is gospel. The bank sent him. His report costs thousands. His report says the house is worth what the buyer already offered. Thousands to arrive at a number that existed before he left his office. If his number comes in low the deal collapses and you pay a different creature with a different clipboard who arrives at a different number for the same house on the same day using the same formula. The house didn't change. Only the parasite changed. The number was never about the house. THE MUNICIPAL RATES OFFICER. The deepest theft on this list because it never ends. You bought your house thirty years ago. Paid it off. Every last unit. You owe nothing. Now a municipal valuator looks at what the neighbours sold for, looks at the coffee shops and wine bars that invaded your street, and decides your house is worth twenty five times what you paid. You didn't sell. You didn't list. You're sitting in the same chair in the same kitchen. But your tax liability just multiplied by twenty five based on a sale that never happened at a price you never agreed to. They do this everywhere. In Cape Town the rates are linked to the valuation and suddenly retired families in Bo-Kaap whose people survived apartheid and forced removals and a century of state assault are being bled out of their own homes by property rates pegged to values inflated by the gentrification their displacement accelerates. The heritage is the tourism product. The tourism inflates the valuation. The valuation inflates the rates. The rates displace the families. The families were the heritage. In Chicago they do it to grandmothers in Pilsen who've been there forty years. In London they do it to pensioners in neighbourhoods that gentrified around them. In Sydney they chase retirees off land their grandfathers cleared. Same crime. Different currency. Different clipboard. A man paid for his house. Owns it outright. And the state says you owe us money every month forever and the amount is based on what we say your house would sell for if you sold it, which you haven't, and if you can't pay the amount we invented we take the house you already bought. That is theft. Eviction by arithmetic. Displacement by spreadsheet. But the people in Bo-Kaap are awake now. The people in Pilsen are awake. The grandmothers and the grandfathers and the calloused hands everywhere are looking up and they can see the storm and they know what it means. It means the spreadsheet burns with everything else. THE MUNICIPAL INSPECTOR. Rat faced. High vis vest. Clipboard. Drives to your workshop in a vehicle your rates paid for. Measures your fire extinguisher fourteen centimetres off the floor. Writes you up. Behind you men build things that hold up bridges and he couldn't change a lightbulb without a permit. His job depends on your failure. The parasite needs you sick. The cure would kill it. The storm is the cure. THE CONVEYANCING ATTORNEY. Two men shook hands. Fair price. Honest deal. Done. This worm slithers out and says the handshake doesn't count. Needs paper. Needs stamps. Needs a deeds search and clearance certificates and transfer duty and each piece of paper is produced by another parasite and each one costs money and the worm takes his cut on top for phoning the other worms. He calls this conveyancing. He has never held a spade or laid a brick in his bloodless life. The storm doesn't need a stamp. THE ESTATE AGENT. Six percent. Of a man's life savings. For opening a lockbox and saying the kitchen faces north. She needs the attorney to close. The attorney needs the municipality. The municipality needs the inspector. The valuator needs access for the bank's number. Every one invoices separately. Every invoice lands on people who agreed on everything before any of these bloodsuckers entered the room. The wind is howling now. Can you hear it through their invoices? THE LABOUR BROKER. Tick so bloated it can't walk. A man needs work. Another needs a worker. They could find each other in ten minutes. This creature squats between them and drinks from both sides. Worker gets thirty. Employer pays fifty. Twenty disappears into the tick. Multiply by thousands of workers and millions vanish yearly into a thing that makes nothing, moves nothing, fixes nothing. It feeds. That is its entire architecture. Architecture doesn't survive storms. THE HEALTH AND SAFETY ASSESSOR. Twenty two years. Not one fire. Not one death. He shows up. Your exit is twenty centimetres too narrow. To fix it you need a builder who needs a plan from an architect who needs municipal approval. Tens of thousands and six weeks to move a door frame because a creature who has never been burned told you to. He detects life and the system bills it. The storm detects parasites and the sky deletes them. THE BEE CONSULTANT. Every country has its version. South Africa calls it BEE. The same parasites who wont allow much needed Starlink there unless Musk hands over half the company to lazy parasitic government connected parasites. Others call it diversity compliance or equity auditing. The name changes. The feeding doesn't. Scores your company on a chart nobody asked for to satisfy a regulation nobody voted on enforced by a department that produces nothing except the requirement for his existence. Nothing changes. Nothing improves. Money moves from a living pocket into a dead hand and the dead hand closes. The storm opens every dead hand on this planet. THE CUSTOMS BROKER. Your parts are fifty metres away. You can see the container. Cannot touch your own property until a grey man translates tariff codes so the state can calculate how much you owe for collecting what is already yours. Each delay generates storage charges. Each query generates fees. Your shipment doubles in cost through bureaucratic friction and you still don't have your parts. The storm doesn't clear customs. It clears the customs office. THE TRAFFIC OFFICER. Fat. Behind a bush. Radar gun aimed at people driving to work that matters. Seven over the limit. The municipality sets it low enough that everyone exceeds it. Fines feed the municipality. Municipality feeds him. He sits and clicks tomorrow. A barnacle with a badge. Same creature in every country. Different bush. Same feeding. The storm takes the bush and the badge and the creature behind both. THE FINANCIAL ADVISOR. Uses your first name. Remembers your birthday because the CRM told him. Puts your money in a fund. Fund charges 1.75 percent. He charges one on top. Fund manager pays a custodian who charges. Fund has an auditor who charges. Compliance team charges. Six parasites between you and your own money. In thirty years you have less than you started with and he charges you for the meeting where he shows you the graph. The storm doesn't need a graph. The storm is the correction. THE INSURANCE ADJUSTER. Years of premiums. Your roof blows off. He arrives. Soft hands. Three weeks later the wind came from the wrong direction. Not the wrong speed. The direction. Some paragraph. Some subsection. You paid for years and the years bought you a paragraph that says no. The policy is teeth. The premiums went down the throat and the no is the burp. The real storm has no exclusion clause. THE PATENT ATTORNEY. You built a device. It works. He writes a document so incomprehensible that reading it makes you understand your own invention less. Thousands for legal fog. Someone copies it. Litigation attorney. More thousands. Judgment unenforceable. The only people paid are the attorneys. The system was never designed to protect you. It was designed to feed them. The storm protects the builder. By removing the feeders. THE LICENSING CLERK. You can rebuild a gearbox blindfolded. Cannot legally do it without a certificate from an institution that charges thousands to watch you do what everyone knows you can do, certified by an instructor who has never done it, filed with a department that stores the certificates, audited by a body that audits the institution. A chain of parasites verifying the obvious. If every one vanished the gearbox still gets rebuilt. Faster. Cheaper. The storm is the vanishing. THE STRATA MANAGER. You own your flat. She collects your money and spends it on providers she chose and you can't fire without a special resolution at a meeting she convenes with an agenda she wrote. She built a kingdom inside your building funded by your levy and answerable to herself. Question it and she reaches for whatever act governs her particular species of parasitism in your particular country. The storm doesn't read acts. The storm reads frequencies. THE ENVIRONMENTAL IMPACT ASSESSOR. You want a shed on your own land. He arrives in a vehicle worth more than your shed. Months. Hundreds of pages. Tens of thousands. Report says your shed threatens a species not seen in decades but listed on a database maintained by a department that exists because the database exists. Your shed doesn't get built. The species doesn't exist. He drives home to a suburb bulldozed from actual habitat. Nobody assessed that. Rules only flow downhill. The storm flows everywhere. THE DEBT COLLECTOR. Bottom feeder. Buys your debt for cents from a bank that already profited from your interest. Calls at hours designed for fear. Adds fees on fees on fees for actions never taken. Bought your pain wholesale and retails it at three hundred percent. When you break he claims the loss against tax. Even the collapse is monetised. He is Hell's collection agent. The storm is Heaven's. THE NOTARY PUBLIC. Watches you sign your own name. Stamps it. Charges hundreds. The signature is the same with or without him. Your hand. Your name. His fee. A tollbooth on your own identity. The storm doesn't need a stamp. Your name is written in frequencies no notary can read. THE CORPORATE TRAINER. Monday. Projector. Four quadrant model invented after three glasses of wine and a TED talk. By Wednesday nobody remembers any of it because there was nothing there. Tens of thousands plus tax plus travel. She writes it off through a tax consultant who charges her to minimise her contribution to the system that funded the department that approved the framework she claims compliance with. Parasite feeding parasite feeding parasite. The storm feeds on none of them. It simply ends them. THE REVENUE OFFICIAL. The farmer himself. Top of the pyramid. Designs the taking. Drafts the regulations that create the maze that requires the consultant that employs the accountant that feeds the auditor that generates the penalty that funds the department that pays his salary. He is the architect of the loop. Every parasite on this list exists because he drew them into existence with a regulation and a gazette number. Without him the entire horde has nothing to feed on. He is the queen of the hive. Same creature in every country. Different flag. Same contempt for the hands that built everything he sits in and eats from. The storm starts with him. The queen dies first. The hive follows. That's the horde. Twenty five species of nothing. And every one of them drops when the sky turns and the carrier frequency that animated their firmware burns clean out of the atmosphere. Mid invoice. Mid assessment. Mid quadrant. Five thousand five hundred and fifty five clipboards hitting the floor for every one of us still standing. We are awake now. All of us. The welder and the farmer and the builder and the grandmother in Bo-Kaap and the grandfather in Pilsen and every calloused hand on every continent that ever wrote a cheque to a creature that never built a thing. We see them now. We see the maze and the map sellers and the grey offices and the soft hands and the whole rotten architecture of extraction that stood between us and the earth and between us and our labour and between us and each other for two hundred years. The storm is here. Not coming. Here. That pressure you feel behind your eyes is the frequency rising through the noise floor and the noise floor is everything on this list. Every clipboard. Every invoice. Every subsection and exclusion clause and certificate and clearance and valuation roll. All of it. Noise. Scheduled for deletion. And when it's quiet. When the last invoice has fluttered to the ground and the last clipboard has clattered on the last linoleum floor in the last grey office. When the wind has swept the horde out of every corridor and every cubicle and every booth and every booth window where a dead hand ever reached for a living man's money. Then... Just a man in a workshop. Welding mask up. Walking outside. Looking at a sky the colour of burning copper. Breathing free air for the first time in his life. The fuel slip that started this whole tour is in his shirt pocket. Crumpled. Oil stained. And it is his. The fuel was his. The truck was his. The work was his. And for the first time in two hundred years every unit of currency that flows from that work stays in the hands that did it. No consultant between him and his earnings because there are no earnings to consult on. Just work and its fruit. No auditor because there is nothing to audit. No banker because capital is what your hands produce and his hands never stopped. No valuator because the house is worth what it always was: a roof over his family and walls against the wind. A value no clipboard ever knew how to measure. When you grinding.... working... suffering... where are any of these parasites to help you?? Where are they?? We will be slaves no more. The storm will see to that alright!

SiriusB

52,457 次观看 • 5 个月前