Learning Day: Why Die (Patreon)
Content
Still jobbing to death, chumps? Why? Eugene Christian cured dying before McDonald’s invented it. Eat more bread and you’re good. Even if bread poisons you. You were one batch of lockdown sourdough from skipping the whole pandemic.
Immortality starts with his masterpiece.
A simple cover, free of the mystery oils infesting modern books. You don’t touch those, do you? With your hands? Eugene did his best to fix eating, but he can’t follow you everywhere. Inventing orthorexia is a full time job, unless Why Die is mostly double-spaced shopping lists. Then it’s a weekly shift.
While Why Die came out in 1928, Eugene’s still with us. He eats well, so cancer can eat shit. At 164 years young, Eugene’s chilling on an island, enjoying food miracle royalties. Humans are, after all, tropical creatures.
Ignore that text. It’s early, I get too excited sometimes. And while this clip evokes a simple vegan tract, we’re headed somewhere more inspired.
Laymen start studying a book by reading it. We’re above that. Our review begins with advertising–health food for the brain. Constant ads sharpen the American mind, fueling two centuries of wisdom.
There’s a lot here. Focus on this section.
Somehow, that’s even more. Focus on this line.
I’ve praised this elsewhere, so I’ll be brief. You’re looking at genius. The best branding since someone misquoted Marie Antoinette. Coca-Cola hints at filling the void. Eugene promises to make it immortal. With bagels.
Commerce remains the state religion, so this line’s the American Vitruvian Man. Isn’t it beautiful? Could Da Vinci ever move units like this? Without doing a bunch of boring work? I bet he’d balk at a basic crypto dump. Stick with Eugene, and you can retire before the guillotines come out.
The specific book advertised has more words. I love Dr. Christian, but no. As a brand warlock, I’ll stick to Why Die? It’s short and catchy, like Eat, Pray, Love. Or as Dr. Christian fans call it, Pray, Love.
Eugene comes out swinging.
He’s got a point. Dying’s a punk move. What kind of bitch darkling…how many filtered n-bombs do I get a year? It’s January. Maybe I’ll save some acorns for next winter. Anyway, dying’s for Clarences. Don’t be a Clarence.
Why Die? also pegs the normalcy crisis perfectly. How many normal people have you known? How many stay that way? Isn’t that even weirder? The normal ones—if they’re real—are freaks. Making everyone you know abnormal. They all eat food, and none read Eugene. The pattern’s clear.
But I know skeptics. You’re already asking “whose numbers are these?” and “is Eugene even a doctor?” and “is he even a science minor?” I’ve got you.
I trust that’s settled.
Bang! A crank would bury the lede. Eugene tells us he’s cured syphilis with berries. They were good enough for Tolstoy, and they’re good enough for us. Unless you have punch-up notes for War and Peace.
The numbers thin out from here, so don’t run. Data is like affection: blitzed early, then abandoned. Now Eugene has our attention, and we have his syphilis. Along with a healthy fear of wrong eating.
What’s wrong eating? I have no idea. Maybe he’ll explain next.
Right, right. Identifying the enemy comes first.
Here’s where outsiders thrive. A traditional doctor with a traditional license fixates on preventing traditional death. They assume germs are real, and prescribe anything that kills the dragon. Eugene’s imagination finds death sources doctors miss or deny exist. And Eugene answers no oath but mafia debt.
Germ dogma has a dedicated cult, but I’ll defend truth from the mob. It’s me and your aunt against the world. While the germ lie’s spread since 1562, so has the resistance. Eugene knows the real pathogen: women.
Like today’s finest experts on Girl, Eugene has stood near enough women to crack the case. Child mortality springs from the burgers they inhale while you’re yelling. You couldn’t write this today. There’s too much competition. But in 1928, Eugene sticks out.
Anyway, drugs and dames stink. They’re both too expensive for good-hearted food scientists. What’s wrong eating?
Whatever it is, we have a culprit.
After decades of steadfast neutrality, I have an agenda today. I want maids to do better. Not for us, but for me. Every meal outside Eugene’s guidelines—whatever those are—is violence. At the very least, save time and stab us. Eugene and Future left warnings, but mothers should hold each other accountable.
Oh, right. What’s wrong eating?
.
Scratch whatever I was on about. Let’s get paid. I remember wanting other things, but it’s fuzzy. I live to stack dyed linen.
Like all seers, Eugene’s vision makes you rich. Nice of him. Though I’m worried it’ll be redundant with my wealth from pictures of frogs and wealth-attracting crystals and apple wealth cakes and sure sports bets and hot stock tips and pivoting to video and pivoting from video and ecommerce dance clips and a teeny tiny student loan and joining our office family and electing demagogues. But that’s my inner hater. I’ve left him behind with my vision of the future. Let’s skip to the wealth section.
Uh-huh. What if I, an American free thinker, just want money?
Note: hors de combat means unfit to serve. Club feet, landmines, wrong eating, senator’s son, etc. A beautiful gift, depending on the year. It also sounds like slang for impotence. I have no citation for that, but consider my sources reliable.
Running my body like a business? Rock on, consider my doctor fired. I’ll get a machete for layoffs later. For now, the closest thing I can think of to a VC firm is a pimp or pro-wrestling promoter. Either way, I’ve got spandex.
We’ll be rich, after we define wrong eating. Right, fuck. I should’ve asked my doctor before flipping him off. Sorry, this happens when I smell nomad visa money. Let’s head back.
Short fiction! Eugene has a trustworthy style, so I’m still locked in. Megadeth might owe his estate for “I am in the coffin business.” Keep in mind, this is a one-man show. He doesn’t have the coddling of the scientific community. Eugene has to invent and market this field. Leaving no time to define wrong eating.
Whether you’re in or dying, Eugene’s got a voice. The Jesus freaks and race realists could learn a lot about structure from him.
Alright, Eugene’s a bit distracted, so I’ll handle the recap: skirts cause wrong eating causing ebola causing poor. That sucks. No one deserves to be a broke ghost. Once we know what wrong eating is, we should kick its ass.
Oh. Wrong eating causes suicide too. Lots of people struggle with that, it’d be pretty helpful to explain wrong eating soon. Or things could get tense. I know he isn’t trivializing the constant shitrain of human suffering. But the malnourished might get confused. Put down the revolver, answers are coming.
I wonder what grand and glorious meant in 1928? Language drifts, and I can’t parse it now. Science remains wonderful: after all our quibbling over debt and addiction and sad and lovesad and babysad and brain juice, suicides were all just stomach acid. Even if you never learn right eating, you can keep some Tums around like Narcan.
Eugene’s got us. It’s time to lock in, skip the fluff, and explain more benefits.
I’ve run into a remarkable number of anxiety cures. Not fucking, fucking, magic, and now food science all fix fear. Every genius, prophet, and defendant has their own anxiety cure. How’s it persist after so many defeats? The mind boggles. Maybe panic attack fans don’t want to be helped.
Speaking of anxiety: the fear of cancer? Kick the lawyers out of the room, Eugene. They dilute your light. Embrace the miracle.
Finally! Not to be cruel for two thousand words a week, but there are some beat “people” out there. Like me. I recoil from mirrors like a new vampire. Cancer immunity’s cool too, I guess. How many walnuts do I need to deserve love?
Oh. It’s really walnuts.
Behold: basic vegetarianism! Let the Spirit cower. Let the Father weep. Let the Son take another ass-beating. We are GODS. The blood of the Maker’s children will spill like wine. Don’t drink it, that’s wrong eating. But spill it.
Correction: raw vegetarianism. With flesh exceptions for fish and eggs, and canning exceptions for Vegemite. Like everyone that’s lost a playground fight trying the Hundred Crack Fist, I love raw fish. And like everyone that knows the nearest EMT by name, I love raw eggs. Hey Linda. Finally, as an American comedian, I’ll be black-bagged and dumped in Austin if I make a Vegemite joke.
Keep in mind, they’re 1920s eggs. While modern egg flavor is ruined by new fridges, giving only a 1 in 20,000 chance of a cool story, Eugene’s followers enjoyed the good life. Forever.
Anyway, that’s how Eugene reinvented nutrition. Without boring charts and dry titles and nerds that check every keystroke. Eugene kept immortality homework-free.
Game time—we can calculate wrong eating. This food matchmaking table hides eternal youth. And life, if you’re into that. If I stay sober and learn basic math, I can join the Illuminati. Finally, a do-over of Princeton.
Though not an easy one: I was eating Special K and grapefruit when I read this. After a stomach pump, it’s still tough. We all know milk with shellfish is a coward’s suicide— order a White Russian at an oyster bar for a free straightjacket. The surprise is that milk and lemons make cancer. Or that vegetables and salads are distinct categories with distinct scores. You might survive a sugar cube with a carrot, but dice that carrot and you’re sprinting to heaven.
I’ll admit, it’s a lot to remember. And begs the question: why believe Eugene over scientists, doctors, and smart children? Because the honor roll’s a cult. Consider the complete history of disease:
In short, doctors are the real cranks. Plato called this device “no u,” while Lao Tzu named it “drawing myself as the Chad.” Those aren’t tangents, Eugene has thoughts on Athens. Namely, beef and boiling turning their neighbors into Reavers.
If that sounds like sepia racism, you’re overcooking your food. This is a jab at vintage immigration:
The underfed might call this “dumber eugenics.” I’d call them barbarians. Take your grapefruit-poisoned cereal back to your fucking caves. Eugene simply embraces the restraint and moderation that defined Rome, year-round. Show me a horny Roman drunk, and I’ll show you a tribal that stole a toga.
See, dinner shapes ethics. Not because of pig torture or climate whatever. Wrong eating makes your nation look like your colon. Worse yet, it makes your soul look like your nation. Take this cinnamon bear, who I call “Nim Senior.”
What’s left to say? Right eating creates confused children, and wrong eating turns lifelong captives against their hosts.
Unconvinced? You're lost. You’ll die of anxiety, face-down in a plate of cheese-covered shrimp. Hopefully you only strangle a few innocents on the way down. Still, Euguene tries. His 353-page nutrition book even dedicates an entire page to overeating.
Crushed it. The best words are useless in large quantities, so Eugene covers overeating with “don’t.” Can you beat that? Don’t, it’s wasteful. You still have two hundred pages of lunch menus to get to.
Thank you, doctor. Granted, Eugene’s not a doctor. Per carnival tradition, he’s probably not even a Eugene. I’ll still remember him for the first thousand years of my life.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Burrito, which is hilarious to me because burritos are my reason to live forever, and the main thing keeping me from living forever.
You can read this article and every other one on the much better in every way 1900HOTDOG.COM