This could have been you.

nostr:nevent1qqs8nulyy4jhahx9aaenlux5wkutmdyu70kq6xnf53c8zhwyc0jq0gcpz9mhxue69uhkummnw3ezuamfdejj7q3qr0d8u8mnj6769500nypnm28a9hpk9qg8jr0ehe30tygr3wuhcnvsxpqqqqqqzd7vugv

That scene inspired first ever Python script.

https://github.com/brandenespinoza/gilfoyle

I know this guy's type, convinced the world is falling apart because of some grand, disciplined scheme to destabilize society and hand power to a chosen few.

He has it totally backwards. Chaos doesn’t need a mastermind. It’s woven into the human story, like weeds through cracked stone. Entropy doesn’t plan. It just happens. Effortless and constant. The urge to tear down, to rebel, to destroy... it comes as naturally as breathing.

But holding civilization together—that’s where the real struggle lies. It’s the uphill fight, the push against the tide. It takes grit, determination, and the stubborn will to resist the pull of disorder. It takes planning. It takes convincing and pleading and leading and doing. Civilization endures because enough people choose discipline over decay, pushing back against the easy slide into chaos. Real order doesn’t come from the top down. It grows from men who purposefully cling to old ways that kept the world upright, forged not by force, but by the hard-won wisdom of generations. You want to see planners, look to civilization.

I'm calling BS on the Giza pyramids story. I can't find the alleged "March 15th press release" anywhere.

We are still feeling the adverse consequences of the cash for clunkers program.

Look up to see stars. Look in to see constellations.

Forgot to pick up chocolate gold coins last night, so the leprechaun had to improvise this year. Gold bars it is (Snickers painted with edible gold paint.)

Notice the glitter footprints?

Same.

It's tough to feel seen, even here.

By formalizing the asset forfeiture-to-cold-storage pipeline via the Strategic Bitcoin Reserve, the state is laying the groundwork for a legal 6102-style confiscation—targeting banks, ETFs, and corporate custodians.

Austrian economics doesn’t offer a model for society or a set of policies to implement. It’s not prescriptive; it’s descriptive. It explains how markets function, how prices emerge, and how individuals act—it doesn’t tell anyone what should be done.

You can’t advocate for ‘Austrian policies’ any more than you can advocate for ‘gravity policies.’ Austrian economics isn’t a plan for governance; it’s a framework for understanding economic reality. The market isn’t something to be designed or controlled—it’s something to be understood.

nostr:naddr1qqxnzden8y6nqwpjx56nxd3kqy0hwumn8ghj7er9wckhyetvv9uju6m4vfjjuc3ddch8xurpvdjj7q3qczjh5y554ycs0s7k299qsdt3se4g33n67ygdpargduk6mzerpaaqxpqqqp65wd9t99f

nostr:nprofile1qqsgs0l2fsr3lkjyqmftv6lzrjc7mt6950s9spgdvgq7euwnt94mcwgprpmhxue69uhhqun9d45h2mfwwpexjmtpdshxuet5qy08wue69uhhw6tvd3jk6tnrw4e8y7trv9ekstnwv46r5dpcxsuqz9nhwden5te0v96xcctn9ehx7um5wghxcctwvspktsq2 Your comments about the cussing trend inspired me to write a thing. Hope you enjoy it.

https://njump.me/naddr1qqxnzden8y6nqwpjx56nxd3kqgsvpft6z222jvg8c0t9zjsgx4ccv65gcea0zyxs735x7tdd3v3s77srqsqqqa28zjjqxw

There is a tide in the affairs of men.

Not unless your mom made the gnocchi.

Husbands, busy yourself so entirely with the task of becoming excellent that you have no inclination to meddle with the failings of those you love and lead. Be too grand for petty fears, too great for grudges, and so full of noble purpose that anger, finding no room within you, must wander elsewhere in search of a home.

My wife’s minor traffic ticket landed her 16 hours of forced "community service." I’ve nicknamed her 24601.

You probably cuss badly.

nostr:naddr1qqxnzden8y6nqwpjx56nxd3kqythwumn8ghj7un9d3shjtnswf5k6ctv9ehx2ap0qgsvpft6z222jvg8c0t9zjsgx4ccv65gcea0zyxs735x7tdd3v3s77srqsqqqa28s79tv2

There are men who win power, and there are men who win minds. The former we call politicians, the latter we call prophets. Ron Paul was never meant to be the former, but it is to him that we owe the latter. He did not merely run for office; he ran a revolution. He did not merely campaign; he catechized. And though the world, in its usual dullness, dismissed him as a curiosity, it is his ideas that now stand at the very center of the public square, roaring where once they only whispered.

Before Ron Paul, the state was an inevitability, its sprawling presence accepted like the weather. After Ron Paul, it became a question—a suspicion—a problem to be solved. Before Ron Paul, the only political argument was how best to manage the machine. After Ron Paul, men began to ask whether the machine should exist at all. It was not a matter of electoral success, but of intellectual conquest. He did not seize the presidency, but he shook the very ground upon which presidents stand.

And now, in the great and bizarre theater of history, it is Trump—not the philosopher, not the scholar, not the man of letters—who finds himself wielding the wrecking ball that Paul first hoisted into the air. The appetite for upheaval, the rage against the ruling class, the righteous impatience with bureaucracy—all of it was first kindled by a quiet doctor from Texas, before it was ever shouted by a tycoon from Manhattan. The former planted the flag, the latter carries it forward. And though I am, by habit, skeptical of all things governmental, I cannot deny the fact that we are closer now to the fulfillment of Paul’s vision than at any moment in modern memory.

Governments are still prone to tyranny, power is still prone to corruption, and I have no illusions that this grand movement cannot itself be swallowed by the very forces it opposes. But if the walls of Leviathan are to crumble, let us at least give due thanks to the man who first pointed out that they were made of sand. Thank you, Dr. Paul.

The Man Who Counted True

In days of kings and cloistered scribes,

Where wealth was weight and debt was bribes,

A man stood up with steady hand,

And counted true, despite command.

He was no lord, nor prince, nor knight,

No keeper of the ledger’s right,

Yet numbers danced beneath his gaze,

Unmoved by courts, untouched by praise.

His father taught, as fathers do,

That wealth is not what men construe,

Not writ in ink on royal scrolls,

Nor sealed within the banker’s folds.

A coin is true when hands agree,

A weight is right when scales are free.

No edict makes the tally grow,

No scepter tells the grain to flow.

Yet law had learned a darker art—

To weave the world with paper’s heart.

The king decreed, the bishops swore,

That worth was theirs, and theirs alone.

They taxed the poor, they clipped the scales,

They turned the debts to iron jails,

And any man who dared protest,

Would find his name and home possessed.

But still he counted, still he weighed,

Through shifting laws and debts delayed.

He whispered sums in tavern halls,

And scratched his mark on cellar walls.

They mocked him first, then called him mad,

Then struck him down with verdicts clad.

They took his home, they seized his land,

Yet numbers slipped through every hand.

For in the dark, his work took flight,

It flickered through the silent night.

And every man who held it fast,

Knew wealth was free, and free at last.

The lords declared, "This cannot stand!

The world must kneel to our command!"

But still it moved, from hand to hand,

Beyond the reach of law and land.

They sent their spies, they burned their fires,

They drowned dissent in dungeons dire.

Yet every torch that scorched his name

Lit up a hundred more the same.

And though he fell, as martyrs do,

His numbers lived, his ledgers grew.

No king could break, no thief undo—

The man had taught the world what’s true.