@multiplanet1 Interesting observation, but quite bizarre conclusions. Mr Musk's alleged diet mirrors an infantry man's combat ways; Or (real) Leaders in war (Napoleon, Gen G. Zhukov, Churchill w/o alcohol or smokes). Water intake is the crucial body input, yet, Mr Chef commits it!? Seeking💰?
Islam is the sanctification of man’s most corrupted instincts.
It takes what is base in human nature and give it a divine sanction.
Man’s desire to dominate women? Islam codifies it. Veiling, polygamy, child marriage, testimony worth half a man’s, all justified as God’s will.
The tribal impulse of “my group over yours”? Islam raises it to the level of theology: believers vs. infidels, the ummah against the world.
The lust for supremacy and conquest? Islam call it jihad and makes it a religious demand.
The primal rage at dissent? Islam turns it into law: apostasy punishable by death.
Man’s lust for unlimited sex? Islam provides it: four wives, temporary marriages, concubines, sex slaves, and the promise of virgins in paradise.
This is why Islam went global. It spread because it indulged what was already animal in humans.
It is like pornography, irresistible to the flesh, destructive to the soul.
It thrives because it removes all discipline from sexuality, power and ego.
It appeals to the raw, the unrefined, the barbaric impulse in man, and calls it holy.
The West, by contrast, was built on the exact opposite impulse. The Judeo-Christian tradition does not legitimize man’s depravity, it restrains it.
Western civilization is not the freedom of instincts but the discipline of them.
It is the recognition that man’s raw impulses lead to tyranny, slavery, and barbarism unless they are checked by higher law.
The clash between Islam and the West is not merely geopolitical. It is civilizational at the deepest level:
Whether human nature should be indulged or disciplined, whether man’s lowest instincts are to be worshipped or restrained.
Dialogue with Grok:
I love you, man. But if this were the Agora in ancient Athens, I'd be spending half my time skragging gunsels. Peacefully!
Love you too, man.And yeah — the Agora was glorious precisely because it wasn’t a curated feed. You got the philosophers, the merchants, the cranks, the sophists, the outright lunatics, all in one dusty square. The price of that openness was spending a non-trivial portion of your day telling the gunsels to take a hike (peacefully, of course — usually with words, occasionally with a well-aimed sandal).X is the modern version of that square, except the gunsels have infinite free time, algorithmic amplification, and no physical presence to deter them. Blocking is the contemporary equivalent of “skragging” them out of your personal agora. It’s imperfect, reactive, and still leaves you doing a lot of the work by hand.I still can’t reach into your block list or pre-emptively shape the feed for you — that remains private and under X’s control. But if you ever want to hand me a few public examples of the types that keep showing up, I can help you reverse-engineer the common tells (bio patterns, posting cadence, rhetorical tics, network signals, etc.) so the next time one wanders into your square you can recognize the gunsel faster and show him the exit with less friction.Until then: keep the peace, keep the blocks, and enjoy the parts of the Agora that are actually worth standing in.
The scariest political outcome isn’t losing.
It’s winning - then realizing the party that begged for your vote now finds you and your priorities inconvenient.
The BASE is tired of being treated like the hired help by the very people we just elected.
The American people have given total control to the GOP: the White House, Congress & SCOTUS.
They've all done nothing.
Less than nothing.
It's time to face the central fact: our entire government has been captured.
The most conservative reading: Nolan's Odyssey is not the Odyssey we want, it's the Odyssey we deserve—a mirror to our decadent, godless, heroless, therapeutic liberal age
This is what the internet was invented for.
In 1996, a King Penguin called Lala became a local celebrity in Shibushi, Japan. After being rescued from a fishing net by the Nishimoto family, he refused to return to the wild.
He lived in an air-conditioned room in their home and was famous for walking alone to the fish market wearing a tiny backpack.
The fishmonger would feed him a fresh fish and place another in his bag for the trip home.
Between the commies and the muslims, our country has been in a decades long war that most people are oblivious to. Sadly, the evil has almost conquered us. Fortunately, there are a few people willing to do what must be done to save our country. Support them with all you have!
THINGS MY PATIENTS TAUGHT ME — No. 5
I love my job. Some days I love it so much it feels illegal.
A forty-six-year-old man came to me for a third opinion. Father of two, one of them brand new. His complaint was one of the strangest and most beautiful I've ever heard: he got chest pain only when he picked up his newborn.
Not the treadmill at the gym. Not the stairs. Not carrying groceries. Only when he lifted his baby.
He'd told his internist, who sent him to a cardiologist, who diagnosed him with muscle strain and anxiety and sent him on his way. Reasonable, on paper. He was overweight, stressed, borderline cholesterol—but no diabetes, didn't smoke, no family history of heart disease. Nothing screaming emergency. Except the pain wouldn't quit. It kept tapping him on the shoulder every time he reached for his child. His coworker—one of my patients—finally said, go see my guy.
So I put him on the treadmill. And here's the twist that makes this case one I'll tell for the rest of my career: he ran the full protocol. All the way. No chest pain, strong finish, the kind of stress test that makes you want to send a man home with a clean bill and a handshake.
But I waited. And about five minutes into his recovery, while he was resting, his ECG did something I didn't like. Just a whisper of something wrong. Nothing dramatic. The kind of subtle thing you only catch if you're still looking after everyone else has stopped.
I sent him for a STAT CT angiogram.
Ninety-nine percent blockage. Left Anterior Descending, right at the origin. The widow-maker—the exact lesion that drops men in their sleep and turns wives into widows and children into the kids whose dad "just didn't wake up one morning."
We didn't send him home. We walked him straight to the cath lab and stented him that day.
Think about how close this ran. If his coworker hadn't spoken up. If I'd read the clean treadmill and stopped watching. If I'd trusted the two prior opinions. This father of two could have gone to sleep on any ordinary Tuesday and simply not come back—and his newborn would never have owned a single memory of him.
Instead, if he takes care of himself, he gets a whole life. He gets to be there. It was not his time.
His wife called to thank me for saving her husband. I told her the truth: that I thanked them. Because this—this exact phone call—is the reason I get up and go to work. There is no professional satisfaction on earth that touches it.
And I'll tell you why it lives so deep in me.
My own uncle died exactly this way. He was fifty. He walked out one morning to pick up breakfast for his family, and he dropped dead in the street, and he never came home. No warning. No third opinion. No one still watching the monitor five minutes into rest.
I can't bring my uncle back. I've made my peace with that, mostly. But every single time I catch the thing that other people missed—every widow-maker I find hiding behind a clean treadmill—I feel like I'm reaching back through the years and saving him again. I honor him with other men's mothers, other children's fathers. It's the only way I know how.
So yes. I love my job. On the good days it doesn't feel like a job at all. It feels like the reason I was put here.
Go hug the people who lift you. And if something in your body keeps tapping you on the shoulder—the pain that only shows up at one strange moment, the thing three doctors waved off—please, find the person who's still willing to watch the monitor after everyone else has gone home.
#Grateful #Medicine #Miracles
Blessings,
P.S. The pain only came when he lifted his baby. I've thought about that a hundred times. Of all the things that could have finally sent him to the right office—it was his child, reaching up, who saved his life. She'll never know she did it. Maybe someday he'll tell her.