Fiber is a scam. You don’t need that and you will feel better without it. Just like fiat. You also don’t need rainbow veggies on your plate Just like fiat. Most of them are useless fillers without many health benefits. Beef just blows up of water all these.

THE LEGENDARY BACKSTORY OF KEN D. BERRY MD

Once upon a time in the glitzy haze of Hollywood, Ken D. Berry, MD, wasn’t the lean, bacon-loving carnivore we know today. No, back in the early 2000s, Ken was a larger-than-life plastic surgeon—literally. Tipping the scales at a robust 300 pounds, he was the go-to guy for every A-lister who wanted to defy gravity, physics, and good taste with the most outrageously oversized breast implants imaginable.

Known as "Dr. Double-D" in the tabloids, Ken’s Beverly Hills practice, *Berry’s Bodacious Boob Boutique*, was a revolving door of starlets, reality TV divas, and even a few rogue pop stars who wanted “the biggest rack in the room, no exceptions.” His motto? “If it doesn’t spill over the sides, it’s not a Berry job.”

Ken’s hands were magic—albeit sweaty, sausage-fingered magic. With a scalpel in one hand and a triple-decker cheeseburger in the other, he sculpted some of the most iconic chests in Hollywood history. Rumor has it he was behind the infamous “Double J Incident” of 2008, when a certain pop icon’s implants were so comically oversized that they caused a three-car pileup on Sunset Boulevard after reflecting sunlight into oncoming traffic. OSHA even investigated him once after a patient’s new assets popped a seam mid-flight on a private jet, depressurizing the cabin. Ken just laughed it off, wiped the ketchup off his scrubs, and scheduled her for a tune-up.

But beneath the glitz, glamour, and silicone, Ken was miserable. His 48-inch waistband groaned with every step, his knees sounded like a bag of popcorn in the microwave, and his dating life consisted of awkward Tinder matches who ghosted him after he suggested meeting at an all-you-can-eat rib joint. One fateful night in 2015, after a 14-hour surgery marathon and a celebratory 3 a.m. Taco Bell binge, Ken hit rock bottom. Staring into the mirror—grease-streaked scrubs stretched to their limit, a chalupa wrapper stuck to his elbow—he had an epiphany: “I can’t keep inflating boobs if I’m inflating myself.”

That’s when he stumbled across a grainy YouTube video titled “Keto: The Meatening.” Half-asleep and clutching a half-eaten Crunchwrap Supreme, Ken watched as a wild-eyed biohacker preached the gospel of ketosis: ditch the carbs, embrace the fat, and turn your body into a lean, mean, bacon-fueled machine. Ken was skeptical—after all, he’d built an empire on excess—but the next day, he threw out his stash of Twinkies, fired his personal Krispy Kreme delivery guy, and went all-in on the keto diet.

The transformation was nothing short of miraculous. Within weeks, Ken ditched the tortillas and discovered ribeyes. By month two, he was chugging butter coffee and growling at bagels in the grocery store. And by month three, he’d shed 150 pounds—half his body weight—leaving behind a pile of XXL scrubs and a trail of bewildered nurses who didn’t recognize the chiseled Adonis now flexing in the break room.

But keto wasn’t enough. Ken went full carnivore, swearing allegiance to a diet of beef, bacon, and beef tallow, with a side of spite for seed oils. He started working out, trading his surgical loupes for dumbbells, and within a year, he was ripped—think “Arnold Schwarzenegger meets a cowboy who just wrestled a steer.”

Hollywood couldn’t handle the new Ken. His clients begged him to keep pumping out cartoonish cleavage, but he’d seen the light—or rather, the grease. One day, he dramatically shut down *Berry’s Bodacious Boob Boutique*, tossing his scalpels into a dumpster while shouting, “No more fake mounds—I’m all about real meat now!” With his wife and kids in tow, he traded the palm trees of L.A. for the rolling hills of the rural landscape, buying a sprawling farm complete with cows, chickens, and a custom-built “Bacon Barn.” There, he opened a humble family practice, vowing to heal the world not with silicone, but with steak.

Word of Dr. Berry’s metamorphosis spread like wildfire across Nostr, the decentralized social network where free thinkers roamed. Clad in a flannel shirt, his biceps bulging as he flipped ribeyes on a cast-iron skillet, Ken began preaching the wonders of a seed-oil-free, high-bacon-butter-and-beef-tallow lifestyle. His posts were a mix of medical wisdom, carnivore memes, and shirtless selfies captioned, “Powered by tallow, not canola.” Men and women flocked to his digital pulpit, ditching their avocado toast and soy lattes for slabs of brisket and pats of Kerrygold.

Ken’s farm became a pilgrimage site for his growing legion of followers.

He’d stride through the fields, a Bitcoin cold-storage wallet swinging from his belt loop, extolling the virtues of decentralized currency and decentralized health. “Seed oils are the fiat of nutrition!” he’d bellow, as his patients—now sporting six-packs and sun-kissed glows—nodded in agreement. His signature cure? A daily dose of “The Triple B Stack”—bacon, butter, and beef—guaranteed to turn pasty desk jockeys into wholesome, Bitcoin-loving Chads and Stacys.

Today, Ken D. Berry, MD, is a wild sensation, a meat-fueled messiah healing the globe one ribeye at a time. His farm doubles as a wellness retreat, where ex-vegans weep into their first strip of crispy bacon, and his Nostr following grows by the thousands daily. Hollywood still whispers his name in awe, but Ken just chuckles, slathers another spoonful of tallow on his eggs, and mutters, “I traded fake curves for real gains—and I’ve never been happier.”

THE LEGENDARY BACKSTORY OF KEN D. BERRY MD

Once upon a time in the glitzy haze of Hollywood, Ken D. Berry, MD, wasn’t the lean, bacon-loving carnivore we know today. No, back in the early 2000s, Ken was a larger-than-life plastic surgeon—literally. Tipping the scales at a robust 300 pounds, he was the go-to guy for every A-lister who wanted to defy gravity, physics, and good taste with the most outrageously oversized breast implants imaginable.

Known as "Dr. Double-D" in the tabloids, Ken’s Beverly Hills practice, *Berry’s Bodacious Boob Boutique*, was a revolving door of starlets, reality TV divas, and even a few rogue pop stars who wanted “the biggest rack in the room, no exceptions.” His motto? “If it doesn’t spill over the sides, it’s not a Berry job.”

Ken’s hands were magic—albeit sweaty, sausage-fingered magic. With a scalpel in one hand and a triple-decker cheeseburger in the other, he sculpted some of the most iconic chests in Hollywood history. Rumor has it he was behind the infamous “Double J Incident” of 2008, when a certain pop icon’s implants were so comically oversized that they caused a three-car pileup on Sunset Boulevard after reflecting sunlight into oncoming traffic. OSHA even investigated him once after a patient’s new assets popped a seam mid-flight on a private jet, depressurizing the cabin. Ken just laughed it off, wiped the ketchup off his scrubs, and scheduled her for a tune-up.

But beneath the glitz, glamour, and silicone, Ken was miserable. His 48-inch waistband groaned with every step, his knees sounded like a bag of popcorn in the microwave, and his dating life consisted of awkward Tinder matches who ghosted him after he suggested meeting at an all-you-can-eat rib joint. One fateful night in 2015, after a 14-hour surgery marathon and a celebratory 3 a.m. Taco Bell binge, Ken hit rock bottom. Staring into the mirror—grease-streaked scrubs stretched to their limit, a chalupa wrapper stuck to his elbow—he had an epiphany: “I can’t keep inflating boobs if I’m inflating myself.”

That’s when he stumbled across a grainy YouTube video titled “Keto: The Meatening.” Half-asleep and clutching a half-eaten Crunchwrap Supreme, Ken watched as a wild-eyed biohacker preached the gospel of ketosis: ditch the carbs, embrace the fat, and turn your body into a lean, mean, bacon-fueled machine. Ken was skeptical—after all, he’d built an empire on excess—but the next day, he threw out his stash of Twinkies, fired his personal Krispy Kreme delivery guy, and went all-in on the keto diet.

The transformation was nothing short of miraculous. Within weeks, Ken ditched the tortillas and discovered ribeyes. By month two, he was chugging butter coffee and growling at bagels in the grocery store. And by month three, he’d shed 150 pounds—half his body weight—leaving behind a pile of XXL scrubs and a trail of bewildered nurses who didn’t recognize the chiseled Adonis now flexing in the break room.

But keto wasn’t enough. Ken went full carnivore, swearing allegiance to a diet of beef, bacon, and beef tallow, with a side of spite for seed oils. He started working out, trading his surgical loupes for dumbbells, and within a year, he was ripped—think “Arnold Schwarzenegger meets a cowboy who just wrestled a steer.”

Hollywood couldn’t handle the new Ken. His clients begged him to keep pumping out cartoonish cleavage, but he’d seen the light—or rather, the grease. One day, he dramatically shut down *Berry’s Bodacious Boob Boutique*, tossing his scalpels into a dumpster while shouting, “No more fake mounds—I’m all about real meat now!” With his wife and kids in tow, he traded the palm trees of L.A. for the rolling hills of the rural landscape, buying a sprawling farm complete with cows, chickens, and a custom-built “Bacon Barn.” There, he opened a humble family practice, vowing to heal the world not with silicone, but with steak.

Word of Dr. Berry’s metamorphosis spread like wildfire across Nostr, the decentralized social network where free thinkers roamed. Clad in a flannel shirt, his biceps bulging as he flipped ribeyes on a cast-iron skillet, Ken began preaching the wonders of a seed-oil-free, high-bacon-butter-and-beef-tallow lifestyle. His posts were a mix of medical wisdom, carnivore memes, and shirtless selfies captioned, “Powered by tallow, not canola.” Men and women flocked to his digital pulpit, ditching their avocado toast and soy lattes for slabs of brisket and pats of Kerrygold.

Ken’s farm became a pilgrimage site for his growing legion of followers.

He’d stride through the fields, a Bitcoin cold-storage wallet swinging from his belt loop, extolling the virtues of decentralized currency and decentralized health. “Seed oils are the fiat of nutrition!” he’d bellow, as his patients—now sporting six-packs and sun-kissed glows—nodded in agreement. His signature cure? A daily dose of “The Triple B Stack”—bacon, butter, and beef—guaranteed to turn pasty desk jockeys into wholesome, Bitcoin-loving Chads and Stacys.

Today, Ken D. Berry, MD, is a wild sensation, a meat-fueled messiah healing the globe one ribeye at a time. His farm doubles as a wellness retreat, where ex-vegans weep into their first strip of crispy bacon, and his Nostr following grows by the thousands daily. Hollywood still whispers his name in awe, but Ken just chuckles, slathers another spoonful of tallow on his eggs, and mutters, “I traded fake curves for real gains—and I’ve never been happier.”