Sama Hoole X-berichten

[fatsnotbad]

If you're hungry on carnivore, it's one of these, and they come in this order.

- You're eating lean. Swap the 5% for the 20%.
- You trimmed the fat. Stop trimming the fat.
- You didn't add any. Butter, cream, tallow, cheese.
- You served a portion. Serve a plate.
- You stopped when the plate was empty, not when you were.
- You're eating three small meals. Eat two big ones.
- You're drinking water to fill the gap. Eat instead.
- You're counting it. Put the app down.
- You're a week in. Week three fixes week one.

Nine causes, and not one of them is the diet.

A hungry carnivore is a person eating a bodybuilder's cutting diet by accident, because thirty years of low fat taught them that the fat was the bit to leave. Put it back and the hunger goes with it.



Mike

 

[fatsnotbad]

For thirteen summers an American walked unarmed among the grizzlies of the Alaskan coast, gave them names, told the cameras they were his friends, and in October 2003 a bear ate him and his girlfriend while the camera recorded the sound.

Timothy Treadwell had been a failed actor and a drunk in California. The bears, he said, saved him. Every summer from 1990 he flew into Katmai National Park, pitched a tent in the middle of the richest bear ground in the world, and lived among them with a video camera and no gun, no fence, no bear spray. He touched them. He swam with them. He sang to them. He told schoolchildren that bears were misunderstood and that fear of them was a fiction, and he became famous for it, with a book and the chat shows and a foundation.

The park rangers warned him every year. The native people of the region said what they had always said: that a bear is a bear, that their grandfathers kept their distance and kept their rifles, and that a man who forgets what he is looking at has already lost the argument.

In 2003 he stayed late into October, past the time the fat summer bears move off and the hungry old ones arrive before the snow. A twenty-eight-year-old male with worn teeth came into the camp. The camera lens cap was on. The six-minute audio exists and nobody who has heard it describes it.

The rangers shot the bear and found the two of them inside it.

He had spent thirteen years telling the world that the wild was gentle if you loved it enough. The wild had been listening politely the whole time.



Mike

 

[fatsnotbad]

Every summer a patch of the Gulf of Mexico the size of New Jersey goes dead, the fish and shrimp leave or suffocate, and the thing that killed it is the fertiliser running off the corn and soy fields of the Midwest that grow the protein on the plant-based label.

The Mississippi drains forty percent of the United States, and most of that is cropland: a hundred and eighty million acres of corn and soybeans, fed every spring with nitrogen and phosphorus from the bag because the soil under a monoculture has nothing of its own left to give. The rain takes it. It runs off the fields into the ditches, the ditches into the rivers, the rivers into the Gulf, and in the warm shallow water off Louisiana it does what fertiliser does: it grows a bloom of algae that dies, sinks and rots, and the rotting takes the oxygen out of the water from the bottom up. By July there is a layer along the seabed where nothing with gills can live. Six, seven, eight thousand square miles of it. The shrimp boats steam further out every year to find water that is breathing.

It has been measured every summer since 1985 and has never been fixed, because fixing it means putting less on the fields, and the fields are the economy. The plant-based industry's inputs are grown in exactly that basin: the soy for the burger, the pea for the milk, the corn for the syrup and the oil.

A cow on grass puts her fertiliser straight back on the field she took it from, in a form the soil holds, and the water off a pasture runs clear. The dead zone has never once been traced to a hill farm.

The shrimp that were there are the animal protein nobody put on the ledger. The soybeans are what replaced them.



Mike

 

[fatsnotbad]

In 1887 a paediatrician in Newark lost his two-year-old son to diphtheria carried in a bottle of cow's milk, and the thing he spent the rest of his life building was a supply of raw milk clean enough for doctors to prescribe.

Henry Coit knew what had killed his boy. The milk of an American city in the 1880s came from cows kept in sheds behind distilleries, fed on the hot waste mash, milked by men with open sores, carried in open cans through the summer heat. Half the infant deaths in the city came through that can. Pasteurisation existed; Coit and most of the paediatricians of his generation refused it, on the grounds that boiled milk was dead milk and a baby raised on it did not thrive.

So in 1893 he gathered a commission of physicians and wrote a sixty-eight point contract. A farmer who signed it had his cows tested for tuberculosis, his sheds inspected without notice, his milkers' hands examined, his milk counted for bacteria every week, and in return he could sell it as certified: raw, clean, cold, bottled, and prescribed by doctors for infants, invalids and the sick. Certified milk spread to every city in America, with a medical commission in each one, for half a century. Hospitals ran on it. Doctors wrote it on prescriptions. It cost twice the price of ordinary milk and sold out.

Pasteurisation won anyway, because it was cheaper than cleaning the cow, and by the 1950s the commissions had folded and the word certified meant nothing.

The father who had buried a child killed by dirty milk did not want the milk cooked. He wanted it clean, and he spent thirty years proving that a cow could be clean. The industry chose the oven instead and the leaflet has called that safety ever since.



Mike

 

[fatsnotbad]

For thirteen summers an American walked unarmed among the grizzlies of the Alaskan coast, gave them names, told the cameras they were his friends, and in October 2003 a bear ate him and his girlfriend while the camera recorded the sound.

Timothy Treadwell had been a failed actor and a drunk in California. The bears, he said, saved him. Every summer from 1990 he flew into Katmai National Park, pitched a tent in the middle of the richest bear ground in the world, and lived among them with a video camera and no gun, no fence, no bear spray. He touched them. He swam with them. He sang to them. He told schoolchildren that bears were misunderstood and that fear of them was a fiction, and he became famous for it, with a book and the chat shows and a foundation.

The park rangers warned him every year. The native people of the region said what they had always said: that a bear is a bear, that their grandfathers kept their distance and kept their rifles, and that a man who forgets what he is looking at has already lost the argument.

In 2003 he stayed late into October, past the time the fat summer bears move off and the hungry old ones arrive before the snow. A twenty-eight-year-old male with worn teeth came into the camp. The camera lens cap was on. The six-minute audio exists and nobody who has heard it describes it.

The rangers shot the bear and found the two of them inside it.

He had spent thirteen years telling the world that the wild was gentle if you loved it enough. The wild had been listening politely the whole time.



Mike

In December 2003, two months after Timothy Treadwell was eaten in Alaska, a Russian who had spent 33 years photographing the brown bears of Kamchatka was killed by one outside his cabin, and the last frame on his camera is the bear coming through the alders at him.

Vitaly Nikolayenko was the real thing. He had no foundation and no chat shows, just a hut in the South Kamchatka reserve and a quarter of a million photographs taken over three decades of walking into the densest bear country on earth, counting them, naming them, following one old male he called Dobrynya for years. He knew more about the Kamchatka brown bear than any man alive. He also walked up to them with a camera, close enough to touch, year after year, and wrote that a bear would tolerate a man who understood it.

He was 65 and alone at the cabin on the Tikhaya river when the snow came late that year. One bear had not gone to den. It was a big male and it was hungry, and Nikolayenko had been following it on foot through the brush and photographing it at a few metres. On the last day his diary records the bear circling him. The rangers who found him in January found his pepper spray used up and empty, the camera a few feet from the body, and the bear's tracks over everything.

He had every piece of knowledge a man could have about the animal. What he did not have was the thing a Koryak hunter is born with, which is that the knowledge is for staying away.

Two men on two sides of the Bering Sea, the same autumn, the same mistake. One had a camera crew and a cause. The other had the science. The bear made no distinction.



Mike

 

[fatsnotbad]

The entire cholesterol theory began in 1913 by feeding a carnivore's dinner to a vegetarian, and it has never worked on anything else.

Feed cholesterol to a rabbit and its arteries fill with plaque inside weeks.

Feed cholesterol to a dog and nothing happens. The dog eats it for life.

Feed cholesterol to a rat and nothing happens.

Feed cholesterol to a cat and nothing happens. A cat eats nothing else.

Feed cholesterol to a lion, a wolf, a fox, an eagle, a seal, and nothing has ever happened, in the whole history of veterinary medicine.

Feed cholesterol to a human and the liver makes less of its own, and the blood number barely moves.

The rabbit is a herbivore. It has no system for handling a molecule it was never built to eat, so the stuff piles up where it lands.

Every carnivore has the system, because every carnivore has eaten cholesterol at every meal since there were carnivores.

A Russian pathologist proved the rabbit result in 1913. He tried it on dogs and rats and it failed, so the dogs and rats were left out of the story.

A hundred years of heart advice rests on the one animal that reacts the way the theory needs, and that animal eats grass.

They built a diet for a rabbit and prescribed it to an animal with canine teeth.



Mike

 

[Medusa]

Je hebt een galblaas omdat je voorouders vet aten, en het advies op de afdeling nadat ze hem verwijderen is om er minder van te eten.

Een paard heeft geen galblaas. Het graast de hele dag en krijgt nooit een vette maaltijd voor zijn kiezen.

Een rat heeft geen galblaas. Een hert heeft geen galblaas. Een duif heeft geen galblaas.

Een hond heeft er wel een. Een kat heeft er een. Een wolf heeft er een. Een mens heeft er een.

Een galblaas is een opslagtank voor gal, geconcentreerd tot wel tien keer, klaar gehouden voor een maaltijd met genoeg vet om het allemaal tegelijk nodig te hebben.

Eet vet en de galblaas knijpt samen, de gal stroomt de darmen in, en het vet en de vitamines erin komen erdoorheen.

Eet geen vet en de galblaas blijft vol zitten en raakt nooit leeg. Gal die blijft zitten wordt stil, en gal die stilvalt vormt stenen.

Een vetarm dieet is het standaardadvies bij galstenen, en een vetarm dieet staat op de lijst van dingen die ze veroorzaken.

De NHS verwijdert jaarlijks zo'n 70.000 galblazen, de meest voorkomende geplande operatie die ze doen, en stuurt de patiënt naar huis met een dieetlijstje dat zegt: vermijd vet.

Het orgaan is gebouwd voor het vet. Het stopte met werken toen het vet stopte met komen.

Een paard heeft er geen nodig. Jij bent niet gebouwd als een paard, hoe het bordje het ook beweert.

 

[fatsnotbad]

Gisteren reeds geplaatst.

Post in thread 'Sama Hoole X-berichten' https://www.fatsforum.nl/threads/sama-hoole-x-berichten.4841/post-651640

Mike