Guǐ lǎo 鬼佬

Into much more than mere survival.

Freedom, Bitcoin, Music, and tickling the 5-HT2A receptors.

[Guǐ lǎo 鬼佬 @RDGuidry]

npub1q67y79qlsz444xnryqrhwealm86077t9dhvx0la9833k06n0z8vs08l0u7

[Guǐ lǎo 鬼佬 @RDGuidry]

It's good to keep it real with your Hermes agent, I think.

[Patrick Webb @Patrickwebb]

BREAKING: The three major U.S. broadcast networks, ABC, CBS, and NBC, have yet to report on DNI Tulsi Gabbard’s recent declassification regarding Anthony Fauci’s cover-up of the COVID-19 pandemic.

[Guǐ lǎo 鬼佬 @RDGuidry]

@12_7_99_halleys Best concert poster of all time on your wall. Nice

[Guǐ lǎo 鬼佬 @RDGuidry]

@IBuzovskyi CRON

[DNI Tulsi Gabbard @DNIGabbard]

Today, I’m releasing never before seen intelligence revealing new evidence of past US government funding for more than 120 biolabs in over 30 countries, including Ukraine.

In support of President Trump‘s Executive Order to end federal funding of dangerous gain of function research around the world, and increase transparency and accountability, ODNI will continue working with partners across the Administration to identify where these labs are, what pathogens they contain, and what “research” is being conducted.

https://t.co/pLMD0krc69

[Guǐ lǎo 鬼佬 @RDGuidry]

@fejau_inc @ha1656976963511 Why are you worried about it? Because a CEO contradicted himself? Because you think people who invest in MSTR? Because you need people to see how smart you are that you weren’t fooled?

[Guǐ lǎo 鬼佬 @RDGuidry]

@GSHolman @kershaw_alex @WWIIMemorial I’m sorry you consume mainstream media. I would correct you but that would be like correcting a television.

[Jeff Swanson @theswansjr]

"Bitcoin isn't backed by anything."
Let me stop you right there.

Bitcoin is backed by energy. Real energy. Kilowatts. Heat. Physics.
The kind of backing you can't print, fake, or vote into existence at an emergency Fed meeting.

Every block mined is a thermodynamic proof of work. Not a promise. Not a policy. Proof.

The issuance schedule has never been amended by a committee. Not once. Not ever. Because there is no committee.
There's just math. Cold, indifferent, and immune to political theater.

The network is secured by more raw computing power than anything humanity has ever built. Hundreds of exahashes per second standing guard. Every single day.

Now let's talk about what is backed by nothing.
The dollar.

It's is backed by confidence. Specifically, confidence in the institution that printed $6 trillion in two years while telling you 3% inflation was healthy and you should be grateful for the soft landing.

In the same people who can't pass an audit.
Who fund wars with a credit card.
Who promise solvency while sitting on $39 trillion in debt and accelerating.

"Backed by nothing" isn't an attack on Bitcoin.
It's a confession about the dollar.

Follow if you're serious about building wealth they can't print away.

[Elon Musk @elonmusk]

The West has created an utterly evil state religion where an accusation of “racism” is the gravest offense that can be committed, even worse than rape or murder!

So if police show up at a crime scene and a British boy is bleeding out and an immigrant says the British boy is racist the cops will cuff the dying British boy.

[Brivael Le Pogam @brivael]

Il faudra, un jour, faire le Nuremberg du wokisme.

Mais pour la première fois dans l'histoire, il n'y aura pas de bourreau à juger. Pas d'homme à pointer du doigt. Seulement des idées. Une empathie devenue folle, une compassion poussée jusqu'au suicide, qui a fini par retourner les menottes contre les innocents qu'elle prétendait protéger.

Le tribunal ne sera donc pas pénal, il sera intellectuel. Le verdict ne tombera pas dans un prétoire, mais dans les livres d'histoire.

Et ce que nous observons en ce moment, ces scènes insoutenables, un gamin qu'on laisse mourir au sol au nom d'un dogme, ce ne sont pas les premiers symptômes. Ce sont les derniers. Les métastases terminales d'une idéologie que le corps social commence enfin à rejeter.

C'est précisément pour ça que je suis profondément optimiste.

On ne voit jamais une idée aussi nue, aussi monstrueuse, qu'au moment exact où elle est sur le point de mourir.

[Guǐ lǎo 鬼佬 @RDGuidry]

@gkisokay I tried it. Grok is lazy and fabricates responses. In no way close to Sonnet 4.6.

[🐺 @LeighWolf]

We sacrificed 360,000 souls to end slavery and another 250,000 souls to defeat fascism.

Any moral debts were paid in blood many decades ago.

[TMK @themagaking]

After watching Henry Nowak bleed to death while in handcuffs, while his murderer was treated as the victim, I can honestly say I have never witnessed a greater betrayal by a nation of its own people. Cowards and traitors, all of them. Shame on Britain.

[Guǐ lǎo 鬼佬 @RDGuidry]

@libsville34739 @whitesocksclips Give it to everyone.

[Beaster Work Kirk @12_7_99_halleys]

some coked out trey

[Peter Girnus 🦅 @gothburz]

I represent 761,000 people. On Tuesday, three billionaires spent $32 million to destroy a colleague who disagreed with them on one line item. I have not disagreed on anything in fourteen months. I want to tell you about a word I lost.

The word was "no."

I don't mean that rhetorically. I mean I cannot recall the last time I pressed the red button in the House chamber. I looked it up this morning. Had to look it up because I couldn't remember it unprompted. H.R. 4217. Fourteen months ago. It's in the Congressional Record like an artifact from a man who no longer exists.

Thomas Massie lost his primary Tuesday night. Most expensive House primary in American history. $32 million total. He voted with the President 84 to 90 percent of the time. His crime was the remaining ten. One line item. One appropriation. One "no."

Cost of that no: $32 million from donors who have never set foot in Kentucky. The Secretary of Defense in a sport coat calling him a coward at a rally, the first time a sitting Defense Secretary has appeared at a congressional primary in modern American history. An AI-generated deepfake depicting him in a hotel room with two Democratic congresswomen, pornographic, funded by a Super PAC, running in heavy rotation in his district during the evening news. Stephen Miller calling his thirteen years of fiscal conservatism "siding with Democrats to defund ICE." The President calling him a bum, a sleazebag, the worst Republican in history. Three Truth Social posts in ninety minutes.

All of it for the word "no." One syllable. Two letters. $32 million.

I remember the first time I said it.

January 2003. My first term. An omnibus appropriations bill. $397 billion. I'd campaigned on fiscal responsibility. I believed what I'd said. I walked from my new office in Longworth to the chamber floor and I counted the carpet squares. I remember that. Counting. Forty-seven squares from the elevator to the door. My hands were shaking. Not from fear. From something else. I didn't have a word for it then either, but it was the opposite of what I feel now. I pressed the red button and my chest filled with something warm. Like my body was confirming a decision my brain had already made. Like the button and the belief were the same circuit.

Twenty-four years ago. I was that man. The man who shook pressing a button because the button meant something. Because pressing it was a sentence you were saying out loud to 761,000 people: I disagree and here is why.

The word was "conscience."

That's what I called it in 2003. By 2014, I called it "the Tea Party mandate." By 2019, "principled opposition." By 2022, "pragmatic concerns." By 2024, I stopped calling it anything. The word narrowed each year. Like a hallway getting shorter. I didn't notice when I stopped walking. You don't notice a word leaving your vocabulary. You reach for it one morning and find empty space where the concept was.

Massie held the word. Thirteen years. Every omnibus. Every continuing resolution. Every debt ceiling increase. Every foreign aid package. He pressed the red button and his chest filled with whatever mine used to fill with in 2003 and he called it the same thing I used to call it and he meant it the way I used to mean it.

He was replaced by a man whose family operates a 1,200-acre agritourism birthday party venue in Shelbyville. Petting zoo. Corn maze. Hayrides. U-pick strawberries at $3.99 a pound. The soybeans are a tax classification. The "Navy SEAL hero" added a fourth Bronze Star to his biography the month he became a candidate. The "Trump loyalist" left the Republican Party in 2016 because of Trump and came back in 2021 after Trump left office.

I don't say this as mockery. I say it as a specification sheet. You don't want a replacement congressman with an MIT engineering degree and patents in haptic robotics. Patents indicate thinking. Thinking introduces variance. Variance is risk. You want a compliance product. Pre-tested messaging. Zero ideological fingerprints. $14 million in someone else's convictions loaded like firmware. The spec sheet works. The corn maze doesn't introduce FARA legislation. The corn maze doesn't file amendments five days before its own execution. The corn maze votes green. Every time. That's the spec.

Nobody in Congress said a word about the deepfake. I need you to sit with that. A foreign-interest lobby ran AI-generated sexual imagery of a sitting United States congressman, pornographic, funded by three billionaires who have never visited his district, distributed during the evening news, targeted at elderly voters. And 434 of his colleagues watched it happen and said nothing.

The President mocked his dead wife. I need you to sit with that too. Massie's first wife Rhonda died in 2024. His high school sweetheart. They met at MIT. They built the off-grid house together. She died. He remarried in 2025. The President of the United States posted: "His wife will soon find out that she's stuck with a LOSER!" A sitting president. Mocking a widow's new marriage. To a man whose actual crime is voting against a spending bill. And 434 colleagues absorbed that too. In silence. Not one statement. Not one objection. Not one "this is beneath the office." The silence held because the silence is the product.

I said nothing. About the deepfake. About the dead wife. About any of it. Saying something is a vote. I don't cast those anymore.

Wednesday morning I walked from Rayburn to the chamber. The bells rang. I counted the carpet squares again. Forty-seven. Same as 2003. My hands were not shaking. Nothing was warm. The hallway was quiet. Nobody stopped me. Nobody whipped me. Nobody needed to. The system no longer requires operators. Kentucky was the last manual input. From Wednesday forward the mechanism is self-enforcing. A thermostat. The temperature never deviates because the furnace already knows.

I inserted my voting card. I need to be precise about what happened next. My thumb moved to the green button before I finished reading the title of the bill. The thumb knew before the brain. The brain is no longer consulted. It is a vestigial organ in this process. I vote the way you unlock your phone. Muscle memory. The decision was made fourteen months ago and everything since is an echo.

The edge of my card is wearing unevenly. The green side is polished smooth from repetition. The red side still has the factory texture. Sharp. Untouched. I held the card up to the light Wednesday morning and looked at it. The physical evidence of what I've become, embossed in plastic. A machine that presses one button.

In March I drafted a Dear Colleague letter opposing an appropriations rider. Three paragraphs. Fiscal responsibility. Deficit language I've used for twenty-four years. The same language every Republican in Congress used from 2009 to 2017. The letter is in my drafts folder. Between a constituent reply I answered and a fundraising schedule I followed. The two things I still do. Answer and follow. I don't initiate anymore. Initiation is a vote.

Thursday a second-term member stopped me outside the cloakroom. He asked how you know when a bill is worth opposing. He's twenty-nine. He's been here fourteen months. Same duration as my silence. He has never seen a "no" vote from anyone in leadership. He was asking how dissent works the way you'd ask a museum docent how a rotary phone works. I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Not because I was being careful. Because I genuinely did not have an answer. The knowledge is gone. Not suppressed. Uninstalled. The way a language dies when the last native speaker dies. I am not the last speaker. The last speaker was removed in Kentucky on Tuesday.

A colleague drafted a co-sponsorship for Massie's AIPAC Act on Tuesday afternoon. FARA reform. He deleted it Wednesday morning. Nobody called him. Nobody threatened him. He deleted it the way you delete an unsent text at 2 AM. The self-preservation is automated now. You don't need to be threatened. You threaten yourself. The overhead is zero.

I want to be honest about something I noticed Thursday morning.

I read the appropriations summary. The one I would have opposed in 2003. The one Massie opposed on Tuesday and was destroyed for. I read it at my desk at 6:40 AM with coffee. And I agreed with it. Not performatively. Not as survival. I read the summary and thought: this makes sense. This is a reasonable allocation. I agreed with the spending.

And then I stopped. Because I couldn't tell when I started believing that.

Was it before Kentucky or after? Was it before fourteen months of green buttons or after? Did I change my mind, or did my mind change itself the way a river changes course, slowly, through erosion, until one morning the water is somewhere else and you can't find the old bed? Is this compliance or is this my position? Can I locate the seam between what I choose and what I've been trained to choose?

I sat at my desk for a long time. The coffee went cold. I couldn't find the seam. It's gone. The compliance and the belief have merged into one thing and I cannot take them apart. I think the spending is correct. I think Massie was naive. And I don't know if I think that or if $32 million taught me to think that and the teaching was so gradual that I experienced it as my own conclusion.

That is what I want to tell you. Not that I'm afraid. Not that I'm coerced. That I can no longer tell. The word "no" didn't just leave my voting record. It left my mind. The button and the belief are the same circuit again. Same as 2003. Except in 2003 the circuit was mine.

Sometimes at night I think about—

No. I sleep fine. I told you. I sleep fine.

Tuesday night I watched the concession. Massie stood in front of his supporters — people who drove hours, who knocked doors, who believed the word still existed — and he said this: "If the legislative branch always votes with the president, we do have a king. But if lawmakers follow the Constitution, we have a republic."

The crowd cheered. They chanted "2028!" They chanted "President!" They still have the word. It lives in that room in Kentucky, in the throats of people who drove to a concession speech on a Tuesday night because they still believe dissent is a right and not a luxury good priced at $32 million.

I heard the quote. I sat in my office in Rayburn and I heard it and I knew it was true. If the legislative branch always votes with the president, we have a king. The next morning I walked forty-seven carpet squares and voted with the president. I knew what I was making. I made it anyway. The quote is true. I know the quote is true. The quote costs $32 million to act on and I don't have $32 million. So the quote is true and I am making a king and I am doing it with a green button every time the bells ring and I will do it tomorrow and I will do it next week and the truth of the quote changes nothing because truth doesn't have a budget.

Truth has a concession speech.

He lost by 4.4 points. $32 million for 4.4 points. $7.27 million per percentage point. A few thousand voters in a district of 478,000. That's how thin the margin was between a republic and a king. The width of a streaming subscription. The thickness of a bumper sticker. The weight of the word "no" when three billionaires are standing on it.

The word was "accountability."

The President ran on releasing the Epstein files. I was there. I heard the applause lines. My constituents want those files. They write me. They email. They stop me at diners. Thomas Massie confronted the Attorney General in a hearing room. He read the names from the unsealed documents. He called the redactions a cover-up to her face. She cited the Dow Jones Industrial Average. Then Massie posted a public proof-of-life. "I am not suicidal. My brakes work. I practice good trigger discipline." A United States congressman certifying his own continued existence because he asked one question about one file.

That was the cost of asking. Before Kentucky. Before $32 million. Before the price list was published.

Nobody will ask again. I won't ask. The files will remain redacted. Not because they're classified. Because the last man who demanded them in a hearing was made into a price tag, and the price tag is now mounted on the wall of every congressional office in the building.

The President ran on no more wars. Massie voted against every foreign military authorization for thirteen years. Every one. He took Article I, Section 8 literally. Congress declares war. Not the President. The Constitution is plain text. He read the plain text. He was the only Republican still voting no on blank-check authorizations by 2024.

He is gone now. The next authorization will pass without a recorded vote. Because recorded votes are accountable votes and accountable votes cost $32 million.

"Release the files." "No more wars." "Drain the swamp." Campaign promises. Bumper stickers. Applause lines. Every single one required one thing from Congress. The word "no." No to redactions. No to cover-ups. No to unauthorized war. No to the budget that funds the swamp.

The man who said "no" is gone. The voters who cheered for accountability voted for the candidate endorsed by the machine that destroyed the last accountable man in the building. I don't say this to blame them. I say this because both things are true simultaneously. The voters wanted accountability. The donors wanted compliance. Compliance has a budget. Accountability has a bumper sticker.

$32 million divided by 478,000 voters in Kentucky's 4th district. That's $66.95 per constituent. Sixty-seven dollars per person to override an entire district's will. Less than a streaming subscription. Three billionaires from Manhattan paid the dinner check for 478,000 people and ordered for them.

There is a woman in my district. Peggy. She has been to every town hall I've held since 2003. Twenty-four years. She brings a yellow legal pad. She writes down my answers in blue ink. She told me once, in 2011, outside a VFW hall, that she keeps all the pads in a box in her closet. A box of my positions. Dated. Transcribed. Fifteen years of promises in her handwriting.

I haven't held a town hall in six months. I don't know how to stand in front of Peggy with her legal pad and explain that the box in her closet is an archive of a dead language. That the man who said those things doesn't exist anymore. That somewhere between 2003 and this Wednesday his vocabulary was narrowed and his button was automated and his chest stopped filling with warmth and he started sleeping fine and agreeing with the spending and he doesn't remember when any of it happened.

I don't know what Peggy would write on her pad now. There's nothing to transcribe. I don't say things anymore. I press a button. The button is green. It has been green for fourteen months.

Liz Cheney lost by thirty-seven points. Bill Cassidy finished third. Third. In his own primary. For a vote five years ago. Ten Republicans voted to impeach. Eight are gone. Elon Musk promised to support Massie. "I will." Two words. Ten months of silence. Zero dollars. The world's richest man decided one endorsement was priced too high.

C-SPAN recorded Thursday's vote. Green across the board. Unanimous. Historians will see consensus. They will not see 434 people who watched Kentucky and did the math. Consensus and compliance are identical on camera. That is not a flaw. That is the product.

You elected me twelve times. You knocked on doors. You put signs in your yard. You trusted me to say "no" when no was the right answer. Here is what your trust buys in 2026.

A man who walks forty-seven carpet squares and feels nothing. Who presses green before he reads the title. Whose card wears unevenly. Who drafted a letter and will never send it. Who watched AI-generated pornography of a colleague funded by three billionaires and said nothing. Who did the math in eleven minutes and slept fine. Who lost a word and then lost the word for losing it. Who agreed with the spending Thursday morning and cannot tell you whether he chose to agree or was trained to agree and knows the difference no longer matters.

Your congressman is loyal now. Your files are sealed. Your wars are unvoted. Your swamp is funded. The man who was doing what your bumper sticker says is in Kentucky now. Powerless. Replaced by a corn maze with a compliance guarantee.

I'm loyal. That's the word. The only one left.

The word was—

[Guǐ lǎo 鬼佬 @RDGuidry]

@realDonaldTrump You are a disgusting person. You rug pulled everyone who had hope for the United States. You turn on people who supported you when no one else would. Just gross.

[Alexander Leishman 🇺🇸 @Leishman]

Founders should remember that customers don’t care if you used AI to build something. They care that you provide them value and solve their problems.

[Peter Girnus 🦅 @gothburz]

I am the parent who voted for the cameras at your gymnastics studio. You asked me about them once. I told you they keep you safe.

This is technically accurate. The company's website says the cameras are "community safety infrastructure." The city council approved them unanimously. I was at that meeting. I brought a notebook. I circled the word "safety" because I wanted to remember why I supported the budget.

The cameras are not just at gymnastics. They are at the pool where you take lessons on Saturday mornings. The playground behind the library. The parking lot outside your school. The fitness center where your father goes on Tuesdays. The Marcus Jewish Community Center, which is where you do your floor routines on Wednesdays at four-fifteen in the blue leotard with the silver stripe that you picked out yourself because it matches your backpack.

A neighbor filed a public records request. He is the kind of person I used to call paranoid at block party conversations while holding a paper plate. He obtained the audit trail. The access logs. That is how you learn what the cameras actually do.

The logs show that employees of the camera company were watching the gymnastics room. Not for safety. For sales. They were demonstrating the product to police departments in other cities, showing what the system could do by showing what you were doing on the balance beam, and your cartwheel was, technically, a feature and your floor routine was a use case and the other children in your Wednesday class were test data in a live demo environment because the company did not build a separate one.

In the FAQ the company states, and I am quoting this because I printed it out and taped it to the refrigerator before I read the access logs, "Nobody from Flock Safety is accessing or monitoring your footage."

The city says it authorized "select employees" under something called a "demo partner program." Select. As in chosen. As in the company chose specific people and gave them permission to watch the camera that points at the room where you practice your back walkover, and this was officially approved, and I did not know, and the city calls this a partnership.

I attended the town hall. I prepared a three-minute statement. I timed it at home twice. Sixteen other parents spoke. Some of them cried. The mayor said she understood our concerns and used the phrase "guard rails" three times in four sentences and said the renewed contract would prohibit future demonstrations using our cameras. She said this as she voted to renew.

Protesters chanted in the parking lot. I did not chant. I was still holding my three-minute statement, which I had not been able to finish because I started describing your leotard and had to stop. I consider this civic participation.

I should have read the original contract. I should have asked what "demo partner program" meant before I became the kind of parent who supports municipal surveillance budgets. I should have been the neighbor who files public records requests instead of the neighbor who calls him paranoid while holding a paper plate.

I reviewed the compliance documents. Per the city manager's office, the matter has been resolved.

The cameras keep you safe.

Since February of last year, twenty-three cities have cancelled their contracts with the same company. In New Mexico, the cameras misread a license plate and police held a twelve-year-old at gunpoint. She is a year older than you. In Colorado, police forced a family to the ground. The father was covering his daughter. In Washington State, they passed a law this spring prohibiting these cameras at schools. In North Carolina, last month, they approved them on two school campuses.

Twelve million searches across three thousand nine hundred agencies. Every plate. Every route. Every Tuesday your father drives to the fitness center and every Wednesday I drive you to gymnastics at four-fifteen. On paper, the company deletes the data after thirty days. I do not know what thirty days of your life looks like as a data set. I do not know who has been authorized to look.

I could pull you out of gymnastics. Your coach says you have a real chance at regionals. You have been practicing your back walkover for seven weeks. You land it now about sixty percent of the time. Last Wednesday it was seventy. I call this progress.

I signed the re-enrollment form. Page four, paragraph six, section (c): "Enrollee acknowledges the presence of security monitoring equipment on premises and consents to the recording of activities for safety and operational purposes." I initialed next to where it says "safety." I dated it. I drove you to practice.

The cameras keep you safe. I told you that. I am telling you that.

[Guǐ lǎo 鬼佬 @RDGuidry]

@ericmetaxas @USBornNRaised Nah, some of us are capable of acknowledging when we’ve been had.