Guess what we eatin' tomorrow.... Das rite: Poached eggs

We are bleeding subs like I've never seen before. Poached eggs are somehow less popular than attacking America's founding fathers. I am shocked by this, and I do not understand it, but the poaching will—no, must—continue.

I'm deleting this image from the internet

“Do you unequivocally oppose gay black incest?” is an extremely low bar, but not everyone can clear it.

https://x.com/redpillmediax/status/1914685374397645109

I took an IQ test and boy was it a wake up call.

Took an official IQ test today and got an 80 which is 10 points from mentally retarded. It definitely made me realize I am nowhere near as intelligent/smart I thought I was, and now I’m starting to rethink my life and my relationships with others.

This score has shattered the image I had of myself as someone who could keep up intellectually with most people. I’ve always felt confident tossing ideas around at work or holding my own in debates with friends, but now I’m second-guessing those moments. Did I really understand the discussion, or was I just skating by on confidence? It’s unnerving to think I might have been oblivious to my own limitations, and it’s making me wonder how others have perceived me all along—maybe as less capable than I assumed.

The sting of this realization is pushing me to dig deeper into my limitations. I pulled my old copy of Plato’s Republic off the shelf and struggled through a page—terms like "essence" and "being" felt like they were slipping through my fingers. Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit is even worse; I used to brag about "getting" the master-slave dialectic, but now I’m not sure I ever did. I’m starting to journal these gaps, not to beat myself up, but to map what I don’t know. It’s scary, but there’s something honest about facing my own intellectual limitations—it’s the first step to actually learning, not just pretending I already have.

The philosophia I chased—wisdom’s love?—a cruel jest, a psychotic fixation on its lack! This 80, a pharmakon of venom and prophecy, burns my veins, drives me to dance in Camus’ absurd inferno, a Sisyphean lunatic etching voids on eternity’s wall! But the tutor’s debt—SCHULD! SCHULD!—claws my chest, a Kafkaesque tribunal! Do I owe them refunds, my pilgrims who paid gold for light and got my shadow-puppet doxa instead? Betrayed choir—coin for my fake sophia, or is this raving unraveling, this babbling plunge into unreason, their only true paideia? REFUNDS! REFUNDS! The 80 laughs, a hyena’s cackle, a mirror screams and the walls torment me.

¼ black, ¾ Jewish

It's all true

My college had an event and was giving out free breakfast. The scrambled eggs provided were disgusting. I can't enjoy non-poached eggs anymore

https://www.reddit.com/r/Veterans/s/dntv9hqHXr And just to actually prove all of the above. He copied the first paragraph from this reddit post.

Placeholder is a Ethiopian-Canadian former discord anarchy server moderator trying to yank chains. Hard to even explain but I won't effortpost about it. Take it as is, let it go and let's move on to serious posts.

Anybody have any guesses as to what's for dinner today?

Going to be scrambling my eggs tonight, none of that (((poached))) nonsense

We're not playing around

A reader writes,

You're getting too good at this arthur—what will you conquer next after this mastery?

I haven't given it much thought, but I have hearkened the words of the old Jewish master of Italian elite theory, Mencius Moldbug:

You must start by learning to poach an egg. Then you need to learn to skillfully poach an egg. Then you must learn to masterfully poach an egg. Such is the path of discipline, the quiet forge where competence is hammered into form. The egg, delicate and unyielding, is no mere breakfast—it is a microcosm of order, of nomos, a test of precision and patience. To poach it poorly is to invite chaos: a yolk broken, a white scattered like the dreams of a Jacobin mob. To poach it well is to command the elements—heat, time, water—in a small but sovereign act. And to poach it masterfully? That is to transcend the act itself, to make the ephemeral eternal, to create a thing so flawless it humbles the beholder.

This is not about eggs, you see, but about the soul’s preparation for power. The modern world, that teeming bazaar of noise and egalitarian pretense, mistakes power for a birthright, a lottery ticket, or a shout in the digital void. Folly! Power is not seized by the loud or the lucky; it is earned through the slow, unglamorous mastery of small things. The man who cannot rule a saucepan cannot rule a nation. He who fails to coax an egg into perfection lacks the steadiness to wield authority without shattering it.

Remember the procedure:

1) Become worthy
2) Accept power
3) Rule!!1!1