@ShotTakingTime Monticello is still the King. It’s always trotters. The slowest, most poorly gaited in central New York. The track is like the surface of the moon. And the 80 year-old head of horsemen’s association races. Somehow there’s betting.
Swift got nuked for this post. (I can’t post the photo but I can describe it as what a Swedish 10 is doing to @john_rallis tonight in a Stockholm hotel room)
@FanSince09 They’re petty. The offense underperformed. He called it out. They’re shipping him off and are bringing in another “offensive coordinator” to run Nicks offense and get fired if and when it underperforms so Nick can kept his job. Eagles OC is just a scapegoat position.
@graybrigade Honestly you were in 11-15. The only thing that kept you out of the top 5 was like 11 people on here care about harness racing. You wear a weenie suit to Presque Isle on their big day you’re toast.
I regret to inform everyone Swift has been nuked again. He posted a ton of insane stuff today so it’s hard to even pinpoint which one did it. Let’s just hope he rises again before Saturday otherwise who’s going to release all the gorillas that run 6th on Belmont day.
I have a 101 degree fever from the raw milk and I want to be very clear that this is the system working exactly as designed.
I drink raw milk now. Unpasteurized. I get it through a herdshare, which is a legal structure my farmer Cliff and I use because the government does not want me to have access to my own cow, and the fact that they have made it this hard is the strongest possible signal that it is good for me. 400 dollars a month. Cliff drives it to a gravel lot off the highway in coolers, like a man delivering something illegal, because he is, because milk, in the year 2026, in the country that put a man on the moon, is contraband, and that should tell you everything about who is actually in charge of your body and whether they have your interests at heart.
Pasteurization, they say, kills the bacteria. Yes. Exactly. They are heating the milk to kill the life in it. I do not want dead milk. I want living milk, with the enzymes, with the cultures, with whatever it is Cliff's cows are walking through, because my ancestors did not pasteurize and my ancestors built the pyramids, and yes I know my ancestors also died at 35, but they died strong, they died sovereign, they did not die soft in a hospital bed eating canola.
Canola. Let us talk about the seed oils, because the seed oils are the whole war. Seed oils are industrially processed inflammatory poison and they are in everything, they are the reason for every chronic disease, all of them, simultaneously, and I have removed them from my life entirely. I cook in beef tallow. Everything. Eggs in tallow. Vegetables in tallow. I rendered my own tallow in the kitchen and the smoke alarm went off and Megan asked if this was sustainable and I told her the only thing that is not sustainable is the industrial seed oil lobby, and once, I will admit, I poured warm tallow over cereal, and I want to say that it was not good, but it was real, and real beats good, real always beats good.
My brother-in-law is a gastroenterologist. He looked at me at Easter, my one cheat day where I still did not cheat, and he said, you have lost a lot of weight, are you okay, and I said I have never been more okay, I have shed the inflammation, and he said, that is not inflammation, that is muscle, you are losing muscle, and I told him that is exactly what someone who went to medical school and is funded by Big Pasteurization would say. He works at a hospital. A hospital. The building where they bring you the canola on a tray and call it recovery. I am not taking nutrition advice from a man who is, structurally, the enemy.
Every morning at 6am I stare at the sun. Not near it. At it. I call it retinal charging. The mitochondria need the photons, the unfiltered ones, and sunglasses are just another industrial product designed to put a barrier between you and the source, and yes my vision has a new spot in it, a little gray comma that follows my gaze, but I have reframed the gray comma as proof of contact, a sunspot of my own, a stigmata of compliance with the actual rules, the old rules, the ones Cliff's cows still follow.
Here is the fever. I want to get to the fever because the fever is the confession.
I have had a temperature of 101 for 9 days. Drenching night sweats. Joint pain. My brother-in-law, unprompted, texted me the word "brucellosis" and a link, which is undulant fever, which you get from, and I have read this, raw milk. And I felt, reading his text, not fear, but vindication, because a detox has symptoms, and the stronger the symptoms the deeper the toxins being expelled, and a body that has been eating canola its whole life is going to have a lot to expel, and this fever is just the industrial residue of 38 years finally leaving me, through the sweat, into Cliff's good clean sheets, which I also do not wash in detergent.
Megan wants me to go to the doctor. I have explained that the doctor is the problem. The doctor will give me an antibiotic, which is just a seed oil for your gut flora, and break the detox right when it is working. I have decided to ride it out. Ancestrally. My ancestors did not have urgent care. My ancestors had a fever and a cow and the sun, and I have all 3, and I am, for the first time in my life, in complete alignment with the way a human being is supposed to break down.
They call it brucellosis. I call it the toxins finally admitting defeat.
It is day 9. My fever is 101.4. Cliff is coming Thursday with the milk. The sun comes up at 6:11 and I will be at the window. Megan has stopped arguing, which I have interpreted as her finally understanding, and not, as my brother-in-law texted, "giving up."
And honestly, I have been reading that the next level is the soil itself, that you have to reintroduce the gut bacteria directly, from the ground, the old way, and there is a man in Idaho who sells it, the dirt, by the jar, and the jars are not cheap, and they are not regulated, which is how I know.
I have never been more sovereign over my own body.