Delusional Tech Bros (Forever 404): Soul Not Found

"Telomeres calling Rubber Face, come in Rubber Face....are you there Rubber Face, do you copy?"

“The madman is not the man who has lost his reason. The madman is the man who has lost everything except his reason.”

— G.K. Chesterton
Orthodoxy (1908)

Silicon Souls

There’s something uncanny about them—that dry, sterile glow that no LED panel or nutrient infusion can fix. They look like someone tried to 3D-print a face from memory and halfway through ran out of all the natural wrinkly descriptives that visually define the trying of a man’s soul, and so instead filled them in with elastomers and polymeres.

Bryan Johnson, Silicon Valley’s poster boy for techno-immortality, spends over $2 million a year trying not to die. His daily life is a routine rooted in grotesque levels of vanity and pomp. He takes 100+ pills, follows a 2,250-calorie vegan diet with no joy or necessary healthy animal fats. He uses biometric tracking, blood tests, morning workouts timed to the minute, shockwave therapy to the groin, and plasma infusions from his teenage replicant son—all in service of the belief that aging is optional if you just “optimize” hard enough. He eats sterile bowls of mechanized goo-gruel designed to power a silicon soul.

None of this is farce or pasquinade, but beneath the protocol, we have our punchline—all those millions of dollars and mitochondrial energy obsessing over a singular arrogant mantra and objective—Don’t Die—and yet he looks like a haunted wax figure and smiles like he’s waiting for software to load.

Welcome to the immortality transhumanist theater, where Bryan Johnson isn’t the only actor. The more they try to cheat death, the more the desperation leaks through the cracks. What emerges is a new class of humans. They may indeed live longer, with wealth and riches beyond the ordinary “lesser” humans’ comprehension, but in the end, will they possess the wisdom and self-reflection to ask, How have I lived?

The Mount Rushmore of the Immortality Industrial Complex is a rogues’ gallery of men who fused Dr. Frankenstein with his monster and constantly tweak the product while selling t-shirts, supplements, and tickets to the operating room:

• Bryan Johnson–The Goo-Gruel Messiah
  Biohacks his body like a software startup. Blood boy poster child. Eats like a machine. Behaves like one, too. His cult mantra is the most humour he is capable of A-B testing with other machines: “Don’t Die.”

• Andrew Huberman–The Dopamine Pope
  Stanford neuroscientist turned lifestyle messiah. Preaches self-regulation, sexual discipline, and optimization—while allegedly juggling multiple secret relationships in every time zone and manipulating women under the guise of “neurochemical connection.”

• David Sinclair–The NAD+ Evangelist
  Harvard longevity pimp. Cozied up to Big Pharma. His first scam company advocated synthetic resveratrol (the real thing is found in grapes and wine for cheap) and was acquired by GlaxoSmithKline. His Metro International Biotech develops NAD+ precursors like NMN for “age reversing.” The company advocated for the FDA to classify NMN as a drug, leading to its removal from the supplement market, effectively granting his product a monopoly so he could mark up the price by 2000%.

• Peter Thiel–The Parabiosis Vampire
  Funds blood research. Thinks death is for the poor when capable of thinking without stuttering. Long-term investor in the apocalypse. Has morons who know nothing about Libertarianism believing that he is a Libertarian. Runs the Trump White House behind the scenes along with a coteries of other souless Zionists. All of DOGE grunts are his foot soldiers. Wants to usher in real-time data analytics for the robot (Palantir-sponsored) black mirror apocalypse.

• Ray Kurzweil–The Upload Prophet
  Google’s future ghost was played by Johnny Depp in the dystopian Sci-Fi predictive programming comedy Transcendence (2014). Downs 100+ pills daily and believes death is just a code error waiting for a patch. Plans to merge with AI and resurrect his father, who never loved him, from digital memories. Leads the Singularity cult like a man who’s never touched wet grass.

• Jeff Bezos—The Death Denier in Disguise
  The silent banker of the biotech underworld. Pours billions into Altos Labs’ cellular reprogramming moonshots while LARPing as a humble science enthusiast and dorky everyman. Aging like a turtle with testosterone injections, plotting immortality from inside a $500 million climate-controlled sailing yacht without knowing that wind is free. The sailing yacht has a second diesel-powered yacht in support and a third coal-powered Thunberg-class steamer in support of the diesel support yacht. Got his first proper blowjob at age 55, by having an affair with a Latina botox replicant who now has a $2 million engagement diamond and unlimited access to his Amex black card.

The more they try to cheat death, the more their struggle to cheat death seeps in through the cracks, defining a new class of humans with no conceptualization of the human experience.

When men with unimaginable money surround themselves with sycophants too cowardly to speak and too addicted to access to ever defy (or bound by ironclad NDAs), they stop being men. They become projects. And when these men lack myth but crave meaning, they begin to write their own gospel rooted in fantasy and science fiction.

Without the language of soul, they reach for what they know—metrics, molecules, mirrors, data certainty. The result? Plasma from their sons. Smoothies that look like melted action figures. They think they've found the Cup of Christ, but it's a $17 bowl of activated chia paste topped with cordyceps, NMN, and blueberries hand-picked by deloused immigrants in hazmat suits.

They do not build cathedrals or cultural artifices to be respected by future generations. They "optimize" and evangelize what they know to be true based on the wonders of the cult of Scientism. In their theology, the transcendence of human experience and consciousness is just a higher bandwidth tier to be coded.

The Tech Bro is a self-product manager with a god complex. His commandments are tasks and sprints.

Before the white, milky death haze of ubiquitous chemtrails, a child learning about mortality upon the passing of a family pet might inquire with their mother or father who then would point to the sky above filled with puffy white clouds and mention words like peace and heaven.

The tech bro billionaire's understanding of the human experience is that if anything can be hacked—processes, routines, people, and machines—then so too can aging and biological decay. The body is a container, but not for our soul or consciousness, or energy aura, or whatever the assemblage of biological, chemical, and physical reactions comprise our individuality and uniqueness. To them, all this can be reduced to binary and, therefore, algorithmic certainty that one day will be extracted and uploaded to different clouds.

But the soul cannot be versioned. Death is not a bug. And the dread of endings is not wisdom—it is the scream of men who are rightly fearful that they have never truly lived. They poke death with biohacks and shortcuts, taunting its mythology and power and provoking nature. They fight bleached tooth implants and manicured nails to delay nature’s poetry. With every injection, every lab-examined bowel movement, every sterile meal prepared in clinical silence, they drift further from the thing they claim to be preserving: life itself.

Their god is themselves.

Salvation is not necessary when you believe you can engineer eternity—one biomarker at a time. They were borne (more likely selected) by the powerful system of invisibles that control the world for their sociopathic tendencies. If mortality can be hacked, then morality is optional, and that’s never been a problem for them. It’s just another inefficiency to be debugged, another relic of the unoptimized past that will only become a hindrance to their grand schemas.

They aren’t interested in peace, heaven, joy, harmony, or salvation.

It’s a strange paradox—to spend your life weaving and dodging death, without ever touching life.

---

Bryan Johnson: From partial techbro human to Laura Croft replicant in six years. Cost? Only $12 million.

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To Cheat Death Is To Betray Life

Gilgamesh, the Mesopotamian king who, after the death of his closest friend Enkidu, wandered the earth in grief seeking eternal life, eventually learned the hard way that immortality was reserved for the gods and that the beauty of life was in its brevity. By the time this lesson was imparted, it was too late.

Qin Shi Huang, the first emperor of China, sent expeditions to find the elixir of life and consumed mercury pills prepared by alchemists, dying painfully from the very thing he hoped would preserve him. From alchemists in medieval Europe grinding metals and herbs into gold and concoctions that promised to halt decay, to Ponce de León, the Spanish explorer who searched for the Fountain of Youth and found only fever, swamps, and his end.

Scientific certainty has always been the downfall of scientism's disciples—those cloaked in credentials, whose arrogance and hubris as "experts" in their fields betray any semblance of common sense. Marie Curie and her husband Pierre bathed themselves in the holy glow of radium, a substance so wondrous it seemed divine—until it began to rot them from the inside. Despite this folly, there are still institutes named after her.

In early 20th-century New York, doctors at Memorial Sloan Kettering Hospital experimented on themselves with radium therapy, convinced of its miracle potential. They died shortly thereafter, martyrs to unchecked foolishness dressed as enlightenment. Rockefeller indoctrination books in public schooling omit these chapters of our history so the folly can be repeated on the “lesser” humans.

Herein lies another great contradiction, demeaning as it is diabolical: The billionaire tech bros seeking to hack everything start from a historicity that has already been hacked so that their disciples will always be tethered to ignorance, no matter how clean their blood panels appear or how much their biological age is lowered.

The disciples of Jesus had the Last Supper.

The disciples of Bryan Johnson, Elon Musk, and David Sinclair had the Last Booster.

If you believe he was injected with anything, I have a “Don’t Die” T-Shirt to sell you for $149.00, along with a “healthy” Vegan diet.

Hermione Granger all grown up. Center: One year post-veganism. Right: one year and two months post-veganism.

---

No bullshit time.
Speaking of decay and finality, this substack is dying a slow, measurable death. If it’s to survive into 2026, new patrons are needed to make up for the flock lost so far this year. At the current pace, I’ll be shutting down by year’s end and/or going 100% pawalled for one final year.

Mathematically, or in tech bro terms, it’s a time-input vs income-output dilemma. There is an increasing urgency to escape the Palantir-Anduril MIC black mirror robot dog apocalypse by securing an off-grid solar-powered sailboat with an automatic water maker by 2027.

I love this work. I love the community here. I still wake up early to write a few hours every morning, of which half the posts never see light outside of my drafts folder, but at least one weekly essay creeps to the surface. Obviously, there are more efficient ways for me to secure this bluewater future than self-defiling cyber begging pleas every few months.

I didn’t set out to make money doing this. It happened by accident. But things have changed. The world has changed. I’ve changed.

I’ll keep going as long as I can—though every year, I lose a third of the flock just to maintain a below-minimum-wage operation. If I can’t make it to sailboat heaven, I’ve already scouted a quiet plot in West Kansas where I could raise hogs, count chemtrails, play my Gretsch Jim Dandy, and tell stories to the wind. There are worse fates.

Shutting down or putting up a full-time paywall are a last resort and not up to me, but if you’d rather see words still flowing here next year, now’s the time to help keep this strange fire lit.

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At least the ancients had poetry, and though they feared death, they honored it first. They understood that to name the end was to give shape to the middle and the beginning, as context requires continuity. Their myths never promised escape from mortality or what it means to be human.

The tragedy of Tithonus—granted eternal life by the gods but not eternal youth—was that he aged endlessly, his body decaying beyond recognition until he was reduced to a withered husk, locked in eternal deterioration. Part of the myth was that he was transformed into a cicada, doomed to chirp through the ages, so he was eternally trapped between life and death.

Will Peter Thiel become more valuable to humanity as a chirping cicada? Would we hardly recognize the difference?

Sisyphus, cursed by the gods to roll a boulder uphill for eternity, wasn’t condemned for his arrogance—thinking he could outsmart death. His eternal lesson was clever and a useful metaphor still utilized today.

Prometheus, who gave fire to humanity, was chained to a rock to have his liver eaten daily. These imprinted warnings about the price of hubris and the sacred terms of life have creeping poetic consequences for the men of our time who never learned them. Great wealth can buy a lot of things, but wisdom and self-reflection aren’t stocked at the techno-haberdashery.

The ancients crafted beautiful stories and myths to carry wisdom across generations.

The modern immortalist files for trademarks and IPOs, hoping to live forever in the names of public buildings where he can have his name etched.

But immortality is narrative and poetic death, and construction standards are so piss poor that buildings don’t last but a few decades.

“What we call Man’s power over Nature turns out to be a power exercised by some men over other men with Nature as its instrument.”

— C.S. Lewis
The Abolition of Man (1943)

Longevity For Me, Not For Thee

If I’ve failed to expose these techno-biohackers as grifters, frauds, and silicon charlatans, then permit me, Good Citizens, a few necessary excesses to drive the stake in fully. We wouldn’t want these parasites lingering in a halfway state of suffering for too long—that’s just cruel.

The snake oil they sell isn’t for the everyman, not just because of its obscene price tag, but because the obsession itself is a kind of emotional poverty. It’s a self-consuming ritual of mirrors, metrics, and meal replacements. Behind the curtain, behind the glow of filtered reels and bloodwork charts, is a century-old criminal syndicate we know today as Rockefeller Medicine and the “I can’t believe it’s not food!” industry of Big Agra.

These false prophets possess both the wealth and access to sidestep the Silent War on Humanity—but they don’t bother to tell their flock how. Because they profit from it. Through venture capital portfolios, patent holdings, and IPO windfalls from shit companies, they’re conscience is bought. They’ll never reveal to their digital congregations how they’re being poisoned, sterilized, inflamed, and mentally fogged—nor convey how they cripple their own children in the name of “science.”

They never mention azodicarbonamide—the chemical used to make yoga mats that’s still baked into American bread. They never mention natamycin—an antifungal eye medication now repurposed as a mold inhibitor sprayed on shredded cheese in pretty much every supermarket because it’s easier to profit from drugged-up food than to question the system that makes people rot.

There are no warnings about rBGH, the artificial growth hormone injected into cows so U.S. milk can appear extra white, while triggering dermatological conditions in children already burdened by the Child Death Cult’s (CDC) “recommended” vaccine schedule.

Bryan Johnson never utters a word about how this same CDC playbook has delivered three generations of Americans into chronic inflammation, autoimmune disorders, and brain fog via a toxic cocktail of shots containing: aluminum salts, thimerosal (mercury), polysorbate 80, formaldehyde, sodium borate, squalene, phenoxyethanol, monkey kidney cells, aborted fetal tissue lines, and polyethylene glycol.

There are no tirades against Yellow 5 and Red 40—petroleum-based dyes in processed snacks that give kids ADHD and maybe a tumor—because some of these prophets hold quiet equity in biotech startups promising to “hack” ADHD out of children.

Brominated vegetable oil (BVO) in Mountain Dew, which is banned in Europe and Japan for damaging the nervous system, is never discussed. No longevity guru calls for the immediate ban of these toxins. Not a whisper of protest over the industrial engine lubricants rebranded as “cooking oils” and stocked proudly on grocery shelves across the red, white, and bruised empire.

Humans were never meant to metabolize engine grease.

Seed oils can linger in body fat for up to 700 days.

They’ll never speak of citric acid-washed pink slime, the “lean, finely textured beef” pumped into cheap ground meat.

Processed death is for the poor, and there are tremendous profits to be gleaned from this process.

They never mention that Kraft Mac & Cheese in the U.S. still uses Yellow 6, while the same box in Europe is colored with paprika and beta-carotene. Chemical dust for the human pig trough in the empire of lies, eternal life for the enlightened replicant.

There’s no commentary on hydrogenated oils in Coffee-Mate—a disgusting powder creamer laced with trans fats and linked directly to heart disease.

Ractopamine in U.S. pork—a toxin banned in over 160 countries—still slips into breakfast plates across the country. It’s unlikely to appear in Brian Johnson’s lab-rat omelet or inside an IV bag of children’s blood during Peter Thiel’s breakfast.

No one’s posting reels about maraschino cherries, soaked in high-fructose corn syrup and FD&C Red 4, packaged and sold directly to children.

The story of Alcoa Steel paying off the American Dental Association to promote sodium fluoride—a neurotoxic byproduct of aluminum smelting—as “tooth protection” remains scrubbed from the mainstream record. Cavity prevention was never proven yet they still spike the water supply with this neurotoxin. The brain fog and pineal gland deactivation, however, are thoroughly documented. Just look around at the state of people.

And still, nothing is said about the chemical weathering operations painting the skies—military geoengineering experiments, visible from any sidewalk, executed without consent. In some places, it’s a daily skyfall—a mist of metallic haze, drifting through lungs and calcifying pineal glands, rendering millions of humans into zombies.

And vaccines? They never talk about vaccines. And when they do, it’s a textbook lesson in psychopathic gashlighting.

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Laugh, Damn Fools

Maybe each wrinkle that shows up year after year past middle age is a marker, a time stamp, an expression of a past life filled with laughter, joy, and love for life. Maybe the wrinkles exhibit a past of worry and regret, stress and grief, but each marker, no matter what they communicate, it’s all part of the human experience.

Maybe the point isn’t to preserve youth endlessly. Maybe the point is to feel one’s age and embrace it—fully, foolishly, fleetingly, without the tempest of struggle.

To laugh with friends until your sides hurt. To age beside someone you love deeply, whose face you’ve memorized like scripture. To make art that fails, to err and falter, and fall and then endeavor to get back up again even stronger. To hold a child’s hand and let go. To be terrified. To be tender. To try. To cry.

The Greek gods envied mortals for all of these reasons. For the fragility. The weight. The risk. The bittersweet pain.

The stakes!

They watched humans stumble through life with no guarantees and saw a kind of courage that Olympus could never replicate.

“You get to love like it matters. Because it ends.”

What these men are doing is not transcendence, but rather a sterile war against nature and a meticulous, heavily-lubed-up stroking of massive egos. It’s another grift and fraud inside an empire founded on grift and fraud since the untamed West opened its doors (and native reservations) to host all of the psychotic snake oil salesmen of the world.

It cannot endure as a rejection of the very condition that makes life luminous.

By stripping away death in this battle for longevity, they strip away meaning. By reducing life to a measurable string of optimized functions, they forfeit the essence that made it worth extending in the first place. They don’t seek to understand life while engulfed with such obsessions.

They seek to dominate it, sterilize it, version it, and re-version it until a present optimization status no longer needs to verify with a click, a solved puzzle, or a blood panel, “Are you human?” They answer this question with their robotic fetish.

Love cannot be uploaded. Laughter cannot be preserved in a blood panel. Grief cannot be skipped like a software update. Empathy cannot be run on a subroutine.

And beauty—real, trembling, unrepeatable beauty—only exists because it embraces all that it means to human and then decays gracefully before it all ends.

That’s the tragedy. That’s the joke. That’s the joy.

All the promises of biotech, the overpriced pills, blood extraction, fecal swabs, creams and lotions, tinctures and potions, and status dashboards for protocols mean nothing.

Death holds the final key. And the time of its unlocking can never be known.

It’s the feature that makes the system of human existence so exquisite.

And to all the silicon-souled rubber-faced ghouls cheating themselves, to all the amateur biohackers, or acolytes of the latest human “upgrade” proselytized by someone who was permitted to become a billionaire by snake oil, or Vivek Ramaswamy-IPO-fraud, you can bet on one thing, and only one thing, in this life:

You. Will. Die.

And so will I.

Soit.

The difference is that when I die, nature won’t even notice. Some energy might dissipate somewhere in a remote part of the South Pacific or small hog farm in West Kansas.

When you die, nature will erupt with laughter—cackling through the trees, roaring in the rivers, howling with the wind that peels the silicone mask off your legacy.

Because while I lived fully, you optimized emptily.

While I danced with death and never feared her, you denied her at every turn.

And she hates to be ignored.

So while you obsess about defying nature, we, “the unoptimized,” laugh at you—not in malice, or envy, or jealousy, but in that sad and shallow emotion rooted in perpetual disappointment—pity.

You could have been a contender.

You could have been somebody.

You could have secured a worthy legacy beyond empty material wealth had you ever summoned the courage and dared to be beautiful, to be human by serving others instead of yourselves and the rotten, diabolical system that has you by whatever those things are that used to be called testicles.

It’s never too late to accept the bittersweet poetic and ancient wisdom of other mortals who existed thousands of years before you.

They may have died prematurely of scurvy or bad teeth, but their legacies live on for a reason.

“They lose the day in expectation of the night, and the night in fear of the dawn.”

— Seneca
On the Shortness of Life

In the year 3535
Ain't gonna need to tell the truth, tell no lie
Everything you think, do and say
Is in the pill you took today

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