Allison Borodziuk - OmniBody Founder

@MarioNawfal What terrorist group and corrupt politician am I funding today? Pay up, Americans! Or go to jail. The thieves won’t go to jail for stealing your money, but you will go to jail for not paying the crooks! Red white and blue EXTORTION!

⭐️THIS is a GREAT read ⭐️ I’m worn out hearing people moan, “Our grandparents could buy a house on one paycheck, but now we can’t even afford rent on two!” Yeah, maybe because Grandma wasn’t dropping half her income on $14 iced lattes and avocado toast shaped like art projects. Back then, if they wanted coffee, they boiled it at home in a dented pot. It tasted like burnt rubber and regret — but it woke you up and cleaned your pipes. And Grandma wasn’t “out to brunch.” You think she had time for mimosas and hashtags? She was making something called whatever’s left in the fridge and feeding six people with it. Don’t even start with Uber Eats. You think Grandpa was out here paying $38 to have a burger delivered three blocks away? Please. He grilled mystery meat on a rusted barbecue, and everyone called it dinner. Now people cry about being broke while sitting in a house full of gadgets. Two SUVs in the driveway, six streaming services, three air fryers, and matching tattoos that cost more than their light bill. You think Grandpa had a tattoo? He did. It said “Korea, 1951,” and it came with trauma, not Instagram likes. And the kids—Lord help us. “We can’t make ends meet, but Brayden needs the new iPhone!” No, he doesn’t. You’re handing an $1100 device to a child who still eats crayons and forgets to flush. When we were kids, there was one phone. It hung on the wall like a family relic. The cord stretched just far enough for you to whisper secrets before someone yelled, “Get off, I need to make a call!” And guess what? We lived. The TV? One. In the living room. With three channels and a dial that clicked like a safe. And if Dad wanted to watch bowling, you were a fan of bowling, end of story. Now there’s a flat screen in every room, the baby’s got an iPad, the dog’s got a camera, and everyone’s wondering why they can’t afford rent. Because you’re living like rock stars on retail salaries, that’s why. Grandpa wasn’t leasing Teslas or buying $12 smoothies called “Green Zen Awakening.” He drove a truck that coughed smoke, rattled like a storm, and smelled like oil and hard work. They lived within their means. Whatever Grandpa brought home on Friday — that’s what they had. They weren’t keeping up with the Joneses; they were keeping the lights on. So yeah, Grandpa bought a house on one salary. But he also didn’t have a gym membership, three delivery apps, and emotional support crystals on his nightstand. His only support system was Grandma, who told him to quit whining and mow the yard. Nowadays, everyone’s broke, anxious, and “manifesting abundance” while ordering tacos on DoorDash for the fourth time this week. It’s not the economy — it’s the lifestyle. Wake up, turn off your subscriptions, make your own coffee, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll smell the truth.

Decline was a choice. Not anymore. In just 14 months, @POTUS has restored our nation’s capital, making it SAFE & BEAUTIFUL. 🧵 500+ instances of graffiti cleaned, 153 homeless encampments removed, 22 fountains restored, 28 statues cleaned, & more. Check out some of the wins ⬇️

DID YOU KNOW: Sequoia and redwood trees alive today were already mature when the Roman Empire was at its peak — the oldest living giant sequoias are over 3,000 years old, which means they were standing in California before the Parthenon was built in Athens, before Julius Caesar was born, and before the Roman Empire even existed.

Ok, this is funny 😂🤣😂

🚨 California Passed "The Stop Nick Shirley Act": This week the California Assembly passed AB 2624. This bill will criminalize investigative journalism involving the immigrant population. It would have made it illegal to expose the Somali "Learing" center if it were in California or the Armenian hospice fraud in LA if they claimed "reasonable fear." The bill protects "immigration support services providers," which means services provided to immigrants, including health care. It has been proven that millions, potentially billions, of dollars in fraud has taken place in "immigrant support services” which includes nonprofits and NGOs the state funds. California is trying to make it harder to expose fraud and scare individuals from investigating it as they could be forced and sued to remove the video, forced to pay attorney fees, and ordered to pay a minimum of $4,000 in damages. This bill was created by Mia Bonta (the attorney general's wife). She has made 4 separate versions of this bill because each version violates the 1st Amendment and is extremely unconstitutional. Plain and simple, California politicians need the fraud to continue because they depend on the fraud to push their agendas. END ALL THE FRAUD.

Elon Musk's children don't go to normal school. And the reason why will change how you think about education. He pulled his kids out of one of the most prestigious schools in Los Angeles. Parents were furious. Media called him arrogant. The school had a waitlist of thousands. His response: "They're teaching kids to solve problems that already have answers. I need them to solve problems nobody's thought of yet." So he built a school. Inside SpaceX. Called it Ad Astra. No grades. No tests. No subjects in the traditional sense. A nine year old could take apart a rocket engine and present their findings to actual SpaceX engineers. Students didn't study history. They debated whether they'd make different decisions than historical leaders using the same information available at the time. The school had no grade levels. A seven year old could work alongside a thirteen year old if they were interested in the same problem. When asked why he structured it this way, Elon said something that stuck with me: "I don't care if they know the answer. I care if they know which questions are worth asking." Most people spend their entire education learning how to be right. Elon teaches his children how to be curious. The system rewards answers. Life rewards questions.

🔻OGNI LOTTO DI VACCINO AVEVA UNA FORMULA DIVERSA. I NUMERI DI LOTTO LO PROVAVANO. Non una teoria. Non un'interpretazione. Un set di dati. 12.000 numeri di lotto. Incrociati con i rapporti di eventi avversi del VAERS. La correlazione è assoluta. Un team di ricercatori - 4 statistici, 2 farmacologi, 1 ex regolatore della FDA - ha pubblicato i loro risultati su un server decentralizzato mercoledì. Il documento è di 147 pagine. La revisione paritaria era impossibile perché nessuna rivista l'avrebbe accettata. Così l'hanno rilasciato direttamente al pubblico. La scoperta: specifici numeri di lotto hanno prodotto eventi avversi 4.000% in più rispetto ad altri. Non variazione casuale. Non incoerenza di produzione. Un modello deliberato e sistematico. Numeri di lotto che terminano con 20A fino a 20F: eventi avversi quasi nulli. Soluzione salina. Placebo. Acqua con un'etichetta. Numeri di lotto che terminano con 21K fino a 21X: eventi avversi moderati. Stanchezza. Miocardite. Coaguli di sangue. Tassi di ospedalizzazione del 300% sopra la linea di base. Numeri di lotto che terminano con 22R fino a 22Z: catastrofici. Ictus. Arresto cardiaco. Danni neurologici. Tassi di mortalità dell'8.100% sopra la norma statistica per qualsiasi prodotto farmaceutico nella storia. Tre livelli. Tre formule. Distribuiti in un modello che assicurava che nessun singolo ospedale, nessuna singola città, nessuna singola demografia ricevesse abbastanza dosi catastrofiche da innescare un segnale statistico evidente. Hanno definito i danni come "effetti collaterali rari". Ma non erano rari. Erano mirati. Il modello di distribuzione non era casuale. I lotti catastrofici sono stati inviati in modo sproporzionato a specifici codici postali. Codici postali con alte concentrazioni di veterani militari. Primi soccorritori. Proprietari di imprese indipendenti. Comunità con una conformità storicamente bassa ai mandati federali. Le persone più propense a resistere hanno ricevuto le dosi più pericolose. I lotti moderati sono andati ai centri urbani con un elevato consumo di media - popolazioni che avrebbero segnalato sintomi lievi, avrebbero sentito che era "normale" e sarebbero tornate per i richiami senza esitazioni. I lotti placebo sono andati a politici, personaggi dei media e dirigenti farmaceutici. Le persone che lo promuovevano in televisione. Le persone che ti dicevano che era "sicuro ed efficace" mentre ricevevano la soluzione salina. Hanno preso lo stesso vaccino in televisione. Non hanno preso la stessa formula. I 12.000 numeri di lotto sono ora mappati. Ogni lotto. Ogni destinazione. Ogni risultato. I dati sono sulla blockchain. Non possono essere ritirati. Non possono essere cancellati dalla memoria. Non possono essere verificati fino all'oblio. L'ex regolatore della FDA del team ha presentato il set di dati al tribunale militare con una singola dichiarazione: "Questa non è stata negligenza. Questo era un protocollo di dispiegamento di armi mascherato da sanità pubblica." Il tribunale ha accettato come prova giovedì mattina. Numero di caso: GT-2026-0441. Ogni numero di lotto è un'impronta digitale. Ogni evento avverso è un testimone. Ogni certificato di morte è un'accusa. CODICE: LOT-NUMBERS / 3-TIERS / ZIP-TARGETED / GT-2026-0441 Non hanno dato a tutti la stessa dose. Hanno dato a tutti la dose assegnata. Ora la lista delle assegnazioni è una prova. - M-B Technology

On the Tibetan plateau, three to five thousand metres up, there is a line above which the air thins, the cold turns murderous, and every crop a human has ever sown simply gives up and dies. A lowlander dropped there without warning would be gasping within the hour. Below the line, a little barley clings on. Above it, across the entire roof of the world, one animal reigns. The yak. A miracle of engineering that no laboratory could design and no factory could ever build. Start with the body. It carries a heart around three times the size, for its frame, of a lowland cow's, with lungs to match. Its blood runs thick with red cells and grips oxygen far more tightly than yours, hauling enough of it out of air that holds barely half what you are breathing right now. Its lungs refuse to clamp shut in the thin atmosphere the way an ordinary animal's would, sparing it the fluid and the heart failure that kill lowland cattle dragged up too high. It is sealed inside a shaggy double coat over a dense woolly down, shrugging off forty below as a minor inconvenience, because it scarcely sweats and scarcely needs to. Millions of years of evolution went into an animal that treats the most lethal inhabited ground on earth as home turf. Now watch what it does with all that. It walks out onto a landscape that offers a human being precisely nothing, crops the sparse, frozen, good-for-nothing grass that grows where value goes to die, and converts it, inside the four-chambered furnace of its gut, into the entire material foundation of a civilisation. Milk so rich it is churned into butter that lights the lamps of every monastery and is folded into the tea that keeps a body alive against the wind. Meat, dried iron-hard in the cold to carry a household through a six-month winter. A fine, warm down spun into the clothes on their backs and the black tents over their heads, and a coarse outer hair twisted into the ropes that lash the whole thing down. Hide for leather and for boats. Bone for tools. And dung, dried into bricks, the one and only fuel for heat and cooking in a world with no wood left to burn. For thousands of miles it was the engine too, the single animal strong and sure-footed enough to haul a loaded caravan over passes that sit higher than the summit of Mont Blanc. One animal. Food, fuel, clothing, shelter, fire, transport, and trade, drawn out of frozen grass at an altitude that would put you flat on your back in a hospital. Fourteen million of them still hold up the lives of dozens of mountain peoples today. So take the yak off the plateau and be honest about what remains. A corpse-cold silence where no human has any business standing, and a grass nobody can eat rotting back into the permafrost. There is no vegan Tibet, and there never could have been one. The grass up there is poison to your gut, and the magnificent, grunting, oversized-hearted creature that turns it into life is the only reason a single soul has ever drawn breath on the roof of the world. The mountain sets the cruellest terms on earth. The yak meets every last one of them, and then carries an entire people across the top of the planet on its back.

There is a legend about how the world found coffee, and it begins with a goat. Picture a hillside in the Ethiopian highlands, somewhere around the ninth century, dawn coming up over the forest where the wild coffee shrub had been quietly growing since long before anyone thought to give it a name. A goatherd, remembered as Kaldi, watches his flock wander in among the glossy green bushes and start working through the little red cherries. And then his goats, ordinarily content to chew and doze, refuse point blank to settle. They skip. They butt. They dance about the slope at an hour when every sensible animal should be drowsing, lit up with the unmistakable glow of something that has just changed its mind about the morning. Kaldi, the story goes, tried the cherries himself, felt the same bright lift rise through him, and somewhere in that moment the most consequential beverage in human history opened one eye. It is almost certainly a tidy tale. Nobody wrote it down until 1671, a thousand years too late to check, and the goatherd may never have drawn breath. But it has outlasted a dozen drier accounts for one simple reason. It sounds exactly right. A goat is the most fearless investigator of the edible world that nature ever produced. If there was a bush of stimulant berries glowing red on an Ethiopian hillside, a goat absolutely found it first, ate it without a flicker of hesitation, and stood there gently vibrating on the slope until somebody wandered over to ask what in the world had got into the goats. And what the goat found, humans took and carried to the ends of the earth. The first people to use it crushed the berries and bound them with animal fat into a dense little ball of fuel, food for a long walk before it was ever a drink. Then the Sufi mystics of Yemen learned to roast and steep it, and drank it through the long nights to hold themselves awake and clear at their prayers, and from those quiet monastery cups it spread. To Mocha and Cairo and Damascus. To the coffee houses of Constantinople and London where empires were argued into being over the rim of a cup. To the espresso bar, the campfire tin, the chipped office mug, the flask carried out into the cold. Billions of cups a day, every one of them descended from a curious animal on a hill who simply could not be told. Half of what our species knows about which plants will heal us, feed us, or wake us up, we learned by watching the animals get there first and taking notes. The goat has been our scout for ten thousand years, eating the untested world on our behalf and reporting back through sheer enthusiasm. So tomorrow morning, before the day takes you, lift the first cup an inch off the table toward a hillside in Ethiopia and the small, greedy, fearless creature standing on it. It found this for you. It very probably found it first.

Do you remember when you joined X? I do! #MyXAnniversary

Renowned Oncologist Angus Dalgleish: "The mRNA vaccines are all completely CONTAMINATED...they are all FULL of SV40." "SV40 makes tumors GROW...& we're putting this into HUMANS!" "Pfizer & Moderna are pure evil and MUST be held to account."

British sheep produce around 22,000 tonnes of wool a year. A renewable fibre, sheared from a living animal that regrows it for the next season, used for carpets, insulation, textiles, jumpers, and traditional products that outlast the sofa. The environmental alternative is polyester. Spun from crude oil. Manufactured in a refinery. Non-biodegradable. Sheds microplastics with every spin of the washing machine. Ends up in every river, every ocean, every fish, every lung. A single polyester fleece can shed up to 250,000 microfibres in one wash. But the sheep grazing a Welsh hillside on rainwater is the problem, and we should all be wearing more crude oil instead. The mental gymnastics required to call wool environmentally harmful while promoting polyester is Olympic-level. Wool: renewable, biodegradable, grown on grass, naturally flame-resistant, insulates wet or dry, lasts decades, returns to soil at the end of its life. Polyester: fossil fuel, never biodegrades, sheds microplastics for centuries, needs chemical flame retardants, manufactured in conditions that poison the air for the workers handling them. Yet environmental groups campaign against wool while wearing fleece jackets pumped out of oil rigs in Texas. The sheep is not the problem. The activist in the polyester gilet is.

Alcohol and tobacco are available on every street corner. Cigarettes proven to cause cancer. Alcohol proven to destroy the liver, the brain, the marriage, and the careful plans of an entire weekend. Both legal. Both taxed. Both stocked at the petrol station. Raw milk, on the other hand, sold by a farmer three miles down the road from a cow that has a name, must apparently be regulated as a public health threat. The petrol station sells nicotine pouches, vodka, energy drinks containing seven grams of taurine and a kilogram of sugar, and an entire wall of ultra-processed snacks designed by chemists. The farm gate down the lane sells a glass of milk. The same milk humans have been drinking for ten thousand years. The petrol station is fine. The farm gate is the problem. You can decide which of these your government is actually trying to protect you from.

A quick tour of what's powering the mightiest animals on earth. The gorilla. Slabs of muscle, bends bamboo for fun. Runs on fat, fermented from fibre in a hindgut the size of a bin. The bull. 1,000kg of beef, all grass-fed. Runs on fat, made by rumen bacteria turning cellulose into fatty acids. The bison. Built like a granite outcrop, sprints at 35mph. Same engine. Grass in, fat out. The elephant. Largest land animal walking. Hindgut fermenter. Fat-fuelled. The hippo. A two-tonne block of muscle and menace. Fermenting fat from vegetation. Notice the pattern. Every one of these enormous, powerful animals is running primarily on fat. Not sugar. Not a steady drip of glucose. Fat. Here's the reveal. Fat is the high-density, slow-burning, stable fuel that big bodies are built to run on. These animals just grow it internally from plants we can't digest, because they've got the fermentation hardware and we haven't. We get to the same fuel from the other end. We eat the animal that did the fermenting. The fat was always the point. We're just the species that takes a shortcut to it.

This is Orophirian, a magnificent male Martial Eagle — the largest eagle species in Africa. With the biggest and strongest eyes of any eagle, he can spot prey from over 16,404 feet (5 kilometers) away. His stare is so intense it feels like he’s looking straight into your soul. Just look at how regal and beautiful he is. To give you an idea of just how massive he really is: a male Martial Eagle like Orophirian typically weighs between 6.6–10 lbs (3–4.5 kg), measures about 2.6–3 feet (80–90 cm) in length, and has a wingspan that can reach up to nearly 8 feet (2.4 meters). That’s an incredibly powerful bird of prey. Sadly, Martial Eagles are now classified as Endangered. They’re heavily persecuted in the wild — shot, poisoned, and electrocuted on power lines. That’s why birds like Orophirian play such a vital role as educational ambassadors and as part of a critical captive bloodline to help save the species. What an truly incredible creature. Have you ever seen a Martial Eagle before, or does this make you want to learn more about them?

With everything we are hearing right now about ticks this seems like good information to share. “Here’s what I’ve learned after more ticks than I care to count. First, whatever your uncle told you, forget it. No matches. No nail polish. No Vaseline. No soap on a cotton ball. All of those do the same terrible thing, they stress the tick out, and a stressed tick empties its gut back into the bite before letting go. Which, if you think about what that actually means for a second, is literally how Lyme and the rest get transmitted so you’re not speeding up its exit. You’re making it throw up into you. Fine-tipped tweezers. Grip right where the mouthparts enter the skin, not the body, the head. Pull straight up, steady, no twisting, no jerking. It’ll feel like it’s resisting because it is, the mouthparts are barbed. Just keep the pressure on and it lets go in a few seconds. If a piece breaks off in the skin, leave it alone. Your body pushes splinters out. Digging around with a needle does more damage then the fragment ever would. Clean it with alcohol or soap. Wash your hands. Now here’s the part most people skip: don’t flush the tick. Tape it to an index card. Clear packing tape right over the body, write the date and where on your body it was, and stick the card in a drawer. If you come down with anything weird in the next 30 days, rash, fever, joint pain, that flu-that-isn’t-flu feeling, that tick goes with you to the doctor. Some labs will test the tick itself, which is faster and often more reliable than waiting for antibodies to show up in your own blood. A dated tick taped to a card is one of the most useful things you can hand a doctor who’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with you. The other thing worth saying out loud: if the tick was engorged when you pulled it, and you can’t swear it was off your body within 24 hours, call your doctor that same day. Don’t wait for a rash. Fewer than three out of four Lyme cases even produce the classic bullseye. A single preventive dose of doxycycline within 72 hours of a deer tick bite cuts the Lyme odds way down, and most docs in tick country will write that prescription without giving you a hard time, especially if you walk in with the tick taped to a card and a clear timeline.”

Walk into the hospital café tomorrow. Crisps. Chocolate bars. Coca-Cola. Energy drinks. Costa Coffee with sugar syrups. Muffins the size of a small pillow. Sandwiches on white bread filled with cheap mayonnaise. In a building dedicated to treating heart disease, type 2 diabetes, stroke, fatty liver disease, and obesity. Imagine an alcoholic rehab clinic with a bar in reception. Imagine a smoking cessation hospital with a cigarette vending machine by the lifts. People would lose their jobs. In the hospital café, this is called "patient choice." There is no menu in the world more accurately designed to produce future patients than the menu inside the building that already treats them.