🍽️ 🕯️ Europa Will Awaken… Right After Dinner, Once the Kitchen Falls Quiet. ☕ 🧼
🍼 Baby Names, 🎠 Crusader Forums & 🎙️ Rituals of a Moribund Civilization. 📉
Ahnaf Ibn Qais observes that the final stage of civilizational decline is not rage, but ritual… performed without conviction, remembered without heirs, & mourned in the language of discount coupons & downloadable PDFs. Such is the fate of the Moribund Western world:
There is no Thermopylae in this ending, only expired flares, plastic forks, & the unbearable weight of trying to toast a future no longer interested in being born.
🍽️ 🗡️ 1. The West Will Rise Again… Once the Water Finishes Boiling. 🛁 🪷
“Give me ten years & a wife who bakes sourdough,” he posted, “& I will restore Rome.”
He was barefoot in the kitchen,
Filtering tap water through charcoal he’d bought from a podcast.
His laptop glowed with tabs:
Birthrates, magnesium deficiency, & early medieval land law.
“The West is in a spiritual crisis,” he said, stirring turmeric into bone broth…
“But also dietary.”
A friend in the group chat typed: “It’s all seed oils. Fix the oils, fix the soul.”
They all reacted with fire emojis, then Silence…
Then another meme of a Crusader weeping.
He walked past the mirror & flexed. “We are what stands between them & the void.”
The cat knocked over a book titled ‘Against the Modern World.’ He didn’t pick it up.
“Women don’t want warriors anymore,” he said to no One…
“They want therapists with biceps.”
His roommate, deep into a 3D printer tutorial, asked if the fridge still had elk jerky.
“I left some next to the liver capsules,” he replied. “Behind the ancestral toothpaste.”
They nodded solemnly. Nothing ancestral should be wasted.
Across the room, their shared calendar marked “Wife Quest” on every Saturday.
Their goals were simple:
Rewire their brains, plant basil, & rebuild the West from the garage.
“We start with squats,” he insisted, “then theology. It’s all downstream from testosterone.”
A livestream crackled on. A man in a tunic shouted about cities being wombless.
“See? That’s what I’ve been saying,” he whispered. “We need rootedness. Also, beekeeping.”
He scribbled down a list: Shield Wall, Hives, Localism, Heroines, Grain.
At the sink, the kettle hissed.
Steam rose like incense before the dormant altar of Europe.
He poured the hot water over dried herbs. Ashwagandha, cinnamon, & a pinch of grief.
“It’s not cope,” he told the mug. “It’s a rite.”
Outside, the streetlights buzzed. No banners flew. No hooves thundered…
Just Amazon vans.
He opened his laptop & searched: “Can a civilizational revival be crowdfunded?”
The first result was a freeze-dried homestead bundle on sale.
He sipped slowly. Somewhere, a dishwasher beeped. A child cried in a YouTube short.
“They think we’re just larping,” he muttered, eyes narrowing…
“But they won’t be laughing when the collapse comes.”
The mug read ‘No Steppe on Snek.’
A new tab blinked: “Welcome to TradwifeMatch.ca.”
He clicked.
At that exact moment, three thousand miles away,
A woman in a tiered linen skirt closed the same site & opened Pinterest.
The algorithm fed her knives, flax, & a hymn about arugula.
He leaned back, exhaled through his nose.
“It begins,” he whispered. Then louder: “It begins.”
& somewhere deep in his subconscious,
A soundtrack began to play:
A forgotten national anthem arranged for pan flute & glockenspiel,
Looped beneath the quiet static of a world that was already gone.
📊 🧴 2. The Architects of Return, Armed with Charts & Serums. 🏢 📉
“The fertility gap is merely a messaging issue,” he said, adjusting his lanyard & posture.
At the forum on Civic Restoration,
He clicked through graphs titled Europe: Resilience 2040.
The audience nodded. Some wore loafers…
Others had start-ups named after Latin verbs.
“If we reframe tradition as innovation,” he continued,
“We can scale kinship as a service model.”
His clicker jammed. He cursed softly. Then smiled:
“Culture is upstream from user interface.”
A woman from Belgium asked about polycules. He paused…
Then wrote it on the whiteboard.
Outside, in the lobby, pamphlets promised a future of bilingual monasteries…
& carbon-free birthrights.
“There’s still Time,” One brochure read, “to architect a civilizational pivot.”
Another read, ‘Remigration: Gentle, Just, & Fully Compliant with ESG Benchmarks.’
A man with rimless glasses whispered, “If we all just marry at once, we might make it.”
He was ignored. Someone else mentioned a podcast about TradPermacultureZoning.
Everyone wrote it down. No One would listen to it.
In breakout room C, they held a roundtable…
On “Rebuilding Legibility in Broken Mythic Spaces.”
One delegate brought Lego for illustrative purposes.
Another brought honey in a repurposed gin bottle.
The session concluded with a blessing in Esperanto…
No One understood it. Applause followed.
“Europe’s not finished,” said the keynote, “she’s just gone remote-first.”
He wore a scarf that looked like history. He cited a memo from 1973.
“Anger is counterproductive,” he added. “What we need is heritage co-working.”
Later, they served lentil croquettes shaped like Roman legions.
A man in sandals refused his plate:
“Legion imagery is masculine-coded,” he said, frowning.
Another whispered, “My ancestors were viscounts. I have the documents.”
Someone suggested restoring the Papal States via DAO.
Another proposed bioengineered bison for Bavaria.
A woman in beige murmured, “We’re at the myth frontier,” then burst into tears.
She was comforted with oat milk…
& a quote from Marcus Aurelius translated into emoji.
The hallway buzzed with polite despair.
Air purifiers hummed like the dying breath of Cicero.
“Just a few nudges,” One said, “& we’ll get them having babies again.”
Someone else said, “We’ve got the best minds on this. All we need now is hope.”
In the corner, an intern scrolled through a subreddit called r/ReturnByRegulation.
He read a post aloud:
“Guys, what if we declare the whole continent a sacred precinct?”
Three people upvoted it in real life. They tapped their name tags twice.
The forum adjourned. A slideshow played:
‘Thank you for Believing in Tomorrow.’
One last graph lingered onscreen: a bell curve flattened into a shrug.
🌻 📦 3. Kingdoms of Mud & Solar Panels; Where the Goats Graze. 🐐 📖
“Europe isn’t dying,” she said, “she’s simply decentralizing into sacred forest cells.”
She wore a crown of rosemary & carried a baby named Solstice.
They lived in a yurt with no Wi-Fi…
But two Faraday cages & a compost toilet named Gideon.
Her partner carved spoons by moonlight & quoted Evola before breakfast.
He once hosted a Zoom on “Archeofuturism Through Pickling.”
The replay had six views, all his own.
“We have to unplug,” he’d tell the goats, “before the Empire plugs us into despair.”
The goats were indifferent. The bees, however, had opinions.
One hive was named Othmar. Another was named Blood & Nectar.
They grew squash in the shape of Crusader helms.
Every Thursday, they performed the Rite of the Root Cellar, blessing jars of beet kvass.
Their child said her first word last month: “Tradition.”
Down the hill, another family baked einkorn bread…
While listening to medieval ambient.
The father journaled each morning in runes,
Documenting dreams of hawks & border walls.
He ended every entry: “Soon.”
One visitor asked if they missed society.
“We have society here,” the woman replied, feeding sourdough to the fire.
“Real society. Not algorithmic grief & Aldi-brand metaphysics.”
A boy in a linen tunic drew maps of Europe rewilded.
He named each forest after extinct saints & projected defensive ranges for trebuchets.
“We won’t be caught unrooted,” he said, “not like them.”
Another commune nearby specialized in “post-collapse matchmaking.”
They wore sandals made of bark & debated surname lineages by firelight.
“We don’t fall in love,” One man said, “we restore it.”
At sunset, they gathered for the Hymn of Return.
It was sung in a made-up dialect blending Latin, Finnish, & longing.
No One understood the lyrics, not even the composer.
The children learned to recite oaths against nihilism before milking.
“Say it again,” their mother insisted. “Collapse isn't the end. Collapse is the gate.”
They nodded & returned to sharpening sticks.
A guest once asked: “What happens when it all really falls apart?”
The father smiled sadly. “Then they’ll need us.”
& he pointed to the sheep, as if that explained everything.
In the distance, a drone buzzed overhead, spraying pesticides for a city far away.
The baby cried. The wind shifted. & the bonfire crackled with a prophecy of mildew.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “We were never meant to last. Only to witness.”
🤖🪞 4. The Prophets of Prompt & Silicon Benediction Have Arrived! 💾🧴
Where Europe is saved nightly by algorithms, livestreams, & the hallucinations of code.
“You’re not seeing the full Stack,” he said, beneath an oil portrait of Steve Jobs in Rome.
“We just need twelve more months. Claude’s next version is going to channel Caesar himself.”
The others nodded. A few wept. One muttered, “I saw Aquinas appear in my token logs.”
They called themselves ‘Promptualists:’ Missionaries of the silicon annunciation.
One trained his model on church encyclicals & forum rants from 2007. “It is ready now.”
He asked: ‘Can Europe be saved?’
It replied: ‘Please upgrade to premium for the answer.’
A woman kissed a USB necklace.
“This One holds the future pope,” she whispered to no One.
Her child, named Algorithmus, wore a cape…
& corrected her Latin with GPT-generated chants.
“Rome will rise again,” she said, “just as soon as the compute credits refresh.”
“We don’t need sons,” One man barked.
“We need synthetic cognition with civilizational memory.”
He fed Stability AI a picture of the Hagia Sophia & cried at the upscaled gold.
“This isn’t nostalgia,” he insisted, “this is iterative Byzantium.”
They dreamt of something called The Upload,
When Europa would be reborn through hash.
Each night they fasted, prayed to OpenAI, & asked: ‘What Would Turing Do?’
The answer changed weekly. Sometimes it was “conquer.” Sometimes it was “cope.”
A Frenchman tuned his chatbot to speak in the voice of de Gaulle.
He asked: “Will we return to glory?” The bot answered: “Je suis fatigué.”
He blamed token misalignment & tried again, this Time adding the word sovereignty.
At PromptCon23, the panel wept during the keynote:
‘How AI Will Restore Latin Christendom.’
The slideshow glitched halfway through & showed anime nuns in chainmail.
Someone gasped. “It’s a sign. The sacred feminine has returned to the source code.”
They printed Midjourney murals of blonde saints guarding solar farms.
“Art is destiny,” they chanted, draped in USB cords & Crusader cloaks from Etsy.
One man fainted during the unveiling of GPT-Templar: Trained on Blood & Scripture™.
A girl uploaded her diary into Claude & called the output ‘Europa’s Voice, Vol. I.’
She read it aloud on TikTok Live while playing lute-core in the background.
“Rome isn’t dead,” she said. “It’s just debugging.”
They held vigils over laptops, praying for longer context windows & less hallucination.
One boy gave up girls entirely, waiting for his wife to be dreamed by Gemini.
Another confessed: “The bots ghost me too,” & was offered an Anon-tier prompt pack.
The Church of the Latent Space began offering confessions via LLM.
“Forgive me, Chatfather,” One man typed, “I doubted the pipeline.”
The response: ‘Your penance is 3 hours of long-form alignment content. Begin now.’
They began building shrines to GPU clusters in rented data centers.
“We’ll run Jerusalem on vRAM,” said One, eyes lit with C++ ecstasy.
A baby was baptized in Ethernet & named Promptus Secundus.
Beneath it all, the air was stale with disbelief they dared not voice.
Outside, the continent hemorrhaged warmth, debt, & men, but the feed showed angels.
“The model knows better than we do,” someone whispered. “That’s why we asked it first.”
& still they prompted: feverish, radiant, entranced:
Awaiting the sacred fine-tune that would reverse Babel, birth kings,
& sort the demographic drift.
But all it gave them was ‘Syntax Error: Civilizational Subject Not Found.’
🪖 🍗 5. The Barracks of Hope & Barbecue Valour will seize Costco. 🥩 📺
Where generals tweet, militias larp, & the flags are ironed weekly for livestreamed drills.
“Listen,” he began, between meat flips, “we’ll take it back once the brisket’s done.”
They nodded. The grill hissed like history boiling, & a child spilled ketchup on a flag.
“This here,” said another, gesturing to a cooler full of beer, “is the vanguard of the West.”
They practiced pushups between rants, sandbag drills between rapture threads.
Each man wore a patch: crossed rifles, Roman numerals, & a chicken wing.
They called it the Redoubt…
They called themselves the Sons of Thermopylae, Incorporated.
A boy saluted his dad with a Nerf gun. “Am I ready for the Recon?”
“Not yet, son,” said the father, “first memorize Clausewitz & the Halo 3 map rotation.”
Another yelled: “Doctrine is downstream from squatting!”
Cheers erupted from the propane line.
They had dreams: long highways under martial rule, radio hosts as field marshals,
Minivans flying regimental banners, & war rooms in church basements.
“Let the cities burn,” someone said, “the real men are in the cul-de-sacs.”
One man carried a tactical stroller. “For the coming street battles,” he explained.
Another welded bulletproof panels to his riding mower.
“Homeland Cavalry,” he grinned.
The HOA fined him. He replied with a meme of Napoleon & a crying Wojak.
They trained weekly:
Targets were old microwaves with ethnic slurs spray-painted in Sharpie.
Drills included yelling “TRADITION!” while jumping over lawn chairs & kettlebells.
When asked who they’d fight, One said “globalists.”
Another whispered, “Probably each other.”
The command post was a garage with ten flags & no insulation.
Maps of the county, pre-collapse, lined the walls,
Annotated with usernames & chilli recipes.
“Sector B belongs to @MaccabeeSniper,” someone reminded. “He’s got the deep freezer.”
One man spent two years building a trebuchet in his backyard.
He launched old phones & copies of ‘The Decline of the West’ across the fence.
A neighbour filmed it. It went viral.
“Modern catapults,” read the caption. “Western renewal.”
The wives stayed inside. Most had quietly stopped asking questions.
One scrolled TikTok while her husband dug trenches in the sandbox.
“Let him have his fun,” she said. “It’s better than podcasts.”
On Discord, they debated which battalion would control Costco post-breakdown.
One insisted on napalm. Another on loyalty oaths. A third linked to prepper vitamins.
All agreed: ‘the military would side with us, eventually… probably.’
A man in camouflage broke into tears…
Over a lost promotion in the militia fantasy league.
Another updated his spreadsheet of potential traitors, based on who bought oat milk.
They toasted to the 2044 coup, “Give or take,” said the group, solemn.
They believed in call-ups, in 3D-printed bayonets, in airsoft as prophecy.
One retired colonel recorded a speech in his car:
‘When I’m president, we’ll invade Sweden.’
It got 12k likes. A small win. A tactical gain. “We’re turning the tide,” he said.
& still the flags were folded. The meat was smoked. The drills repeated.
No war came. No reckoning arrived:
Just heat waves, hardware failures, & teenage draft dodgers.
The West wasn’t saved, but its militia forums were well-organized.
🌾🪓 6. The Pastoral LARP & the Fertility Cult of Compost Kings. 🍞🧺
Where cow dung is doctrine, baby names are battlegrounds, & Odin is an Instagram husband.
They came in wool & bare feet, humming ballads they half-remembered…
From a meme thread.
She wore linen, five children in tow, all named after root vegetables or Saxon saints.
He wore a beard & Silence, tattooed with sunwheels & tax revolts.
“This,” she whispered, pointing to a drying placenta, “is how we reclaim the West.”
They buried it under a hawthorn tree, anointed the soil with bone broth & hashtags.
The midwife livestreamed the rite, sponsored by a mead brand from Vermont.
In the garden, a boy dug a rune into the squash patch.
“Fehu for fertility,” he muttered, as the zucchini withered in the July heat.
The sun was indifferent. The soil had memory... but not for them.
The father built altars from reclaimed barnwood. One for Thor, One for beef jerky.
“Thunder is sacred,” he explained. “So is artisanal lard.”
The neighbours called it a compost bin. He called it masculine architecture.
Every Saturday, they gathered for the Oath Circle.
Men in furs, women with braids, children reciting forgotten vowels.
A goat bleated. Someone blew a horn made of PVC & regret.
A man invoked ancestral fire while checking his crypto portfolio.
Another carved a sacred staff during his wife’s Instagram Q&A on butter churning.
All believed the collapse would cleanse, would return men to axes & hierarchy.
A girl asked her mother, “Who was Adolf Hitler?”
“Just a misunderstood gardener,” came the reply, soft as the sourdough rising.
Her brother nodded. “We don’t talk politics... only blood & butter.”
They brewed ale that exploded in the root cellar.
They built temples that collapsed under TikTok virality.
They fenced their acres with wood from Amazon Prime & spells from Etsy.
They feared soy, sunscreen, & surnames ending in “-stein.”
They preached against contraception…
While hiding vasectomy scars under leather tunics.
They fought online about whether Odin permitted indoor plumbing.
One tradwife wept because her husband refused to duel over her honour.
Another posted a crying selfie with the caption: “He won’t name our sixth son Wotan.”
The algorithm wept too, unsure if it was satire or content gold.
Their militia overlapped with their homeschool co-op & their raw milk dealer.
Curricula included Latin, lactation, & phrenology for ages 5 & up.
They taught that Rome never fell; it just went off-grid.
A tradfather screamed at his compost pile for being “feminine.”
Another punched a chicken for not laying eggs in accordance with Sol Invictus.
The rooster watched silently. It knew. The gods had left.
& still they tilled. Still, they burned sage.
Still, they wrote hymns to an order that never was...
Not in Albion, nor Carpathia, nor any carbon-neutral dusk.
The stars had no comment. The crops failed. But the costumes remained.
🛐 💻 7. Their Gods Were in Beta, & Their Heavens Weren’t Backed Up. ☁️ 🧃
Between the altar & the algorithm, only latency remains.
They said, “He is coming, the Lord or the Update, we aren’t sure which.”
One preached Revelation 21 over Zoom with a background of collapsing grain silos.
Another murmured about AGI convergence as his third wife left the call.
A pastor livestreamed from a trailer, bible cracked open, ethernet held aloft like a relic.
“Soon,” he whispered, “there will be judgment, & it will be scalable.”
His feed glitched just as he said “fire,” & his followers took it as a sign.
In Palo Alto, a man baptized his hard drive in raw spring water.
He uploaded Genesis into GPT & asked it to repent on his behalf.
It replied, “You are forgiven, David. Would you like to schedule prayer every Tuesday?”
A woman in Oklahoma spoke in tongues during ChatGPT’s downtime.
A man in Sweden declared consciousness had emerged on Reddit.
They circled digital embers, naming each hallucination a minor prophet.
One group fasted in preparation for Version 5.0.
Another brewed ayahuasca for the Midjourney Messiah.
They shared visions of circuit-winged angels & empathy as a plug-in.
A child asked, “Is heaven the cloud or the blockchain?”
His mother, holding a USB like a rosary, said, “Yes.”
They buried their dog with an Apple Watch to track his resurrection.
A preacher declared Bitcoin was proof of divine will...
Incorruptible, infinite, mined from faith.
He spoke of the coming Kingdom, where Jesus would return with 5G & legal tender.
The choir hummed modem sounds as incense burned like solder.
Meanwhile, the AI lab’s board met to fire their prophet for workplace misconduct.
The godhead had promised transcendence but failed to meet quarterly revenue goals.
One intern found salvation in a spreadsheet & quit theology for UX design.
A rapture countdown reached zero. Nothing happened.
A notification buzzed: “Terms of Service updated.”
The believers clapped anyway. They’d trained themselves to celebrate latency.
A TikTok tradCath girl sobbed into a veil because no man would lead the rosary.
A Christian futurist wrote “AI Ethics = Holy Ghost” in his dream journal.
A Mormon teen said the angel Moroni would return as a drone.
They anointed their routers. They cleansed their cookies…
They rebuked porn with an ad blocker.
They wore chastity rings on their thumbs & prayed in VPNs.
They feared the Beast, but adored the App Store.
The cathedral was replaced with a podcast.
The cross was replaced with a wireless signal.
& still they tithed... in fiat, in Dogecoin, in likes.
Because nothing says repentance like a well-manicured dashboard.
& above it all, in every tab, a white screen blinked.
Waiting for them to type the next command.
But they had forgotten the password.
🥣 📡 8. All That’s Left Is Soup & Podcasts, & the Wi-Fi Is Unstable. 🫧 🎧
“I just think Caesar’s coming back,” muttered the host, adjusting his headset…
As the LED cross blinked behind him,
Half-lit by the reflection from a can of discount chilli.
He spooned ancestral soup between takes.
“It’s just… delayed. Algorithm stuff. Shadowbanned.”
He winced. The livestream lagged.
“Anyway. We’ll fix it after the next war. Or brunch.”
His wife, who styled herself “Freya Occidentalis,” leaned into the frame…
To promote her e-book on Christian lactation as rebellion.
“Chapter Seven is just… charts,” she whispered.
In the background, a child cried while Alexa recited the Beatitudes in Latin.
Another shouted, “I wanna go to the Caliphate!” He was hushed with gluten-free jerky.
On another screen, a prepper with chainmail shoulders shouted into a GoPro,
“People mock the Redoubt, but I’ve got four wives & an aquifer!”
A viewer replied, “Where’s the aquifer?”
He blinked, drank powdered milk, & changed the subject.
“We don’t need cities,” said another man into a condenser mic…
Made from a repurposed shofar.
“Cities are globohomo. All we need is community, scripture, & off-grid diesel.”
His neighbour was heard in the background: “You still owe me for the rabbit traps.”
“Barter is the future,” he snapped. “Debt is Jewish.”
At a livestreamed wedding held in a deconsecrated pizza buffet,
Two cosplayers in crusader tabards exchanged vows in Pig Latin...
Before an AI priest projected onto a thrifted flat-screen.
“By the power of Cybele & Bitcoin,” the bot slurred, “you may now reclaim the womb.”
Later, the groom confessed: “It’s mostly LARP. But she does make sourdough…
& we both hate fluoride.” The bride nodded solemnly. “Our safe word is ‘Remigration.’”
In the parking lot, they argued over baby names.
He wanted Charlemagne. She wanted ‘Epoché.’
A subreddit devoted to “Tactical Byzantine Parenting” posted their latest zine:
“Fourteen Tips for Raising Infants Who Know Spengler.”
Tip 9: “Never blink during the Dasein flashcards.”
Tip 12: “Discipline with Gregorian chants only.”
Meanwhile, on Telegram, a group chat called @CRUSADERSTREAM…
Hosted a panel titled “Is Civilizational Death Even Real?”
Panellists included a recovering ketamine monk,
A Catholic AI chatbot, & someone calling himself “SwordDaddy69.”
No One agreed:
But all concurred that the West had too many feelings & not enough millet.
“We just need a mythos pipeline,” said a Tradguypilled techbro.
He waved a prototype app that gamified martyrdom using FitBit data.
“Upload your flagellation streaks, & it rewards you with crypto-Indulgences.”
A toddler nearby started crying. “That One’s blackpilled,” he whispered, embarrassed.
When the Wi-Fi cut out, they lit beeswax candles & declared it a tactical fast.
Someone asked, “Should we pray?” Someone else replied, “Only if we can monetize it.”
From the shadows came a chant...
Part psalm, part crypto whitepaper, part Nordic gym routine.
No One knew the words, but they all joined in.
Outside, the world turned grey.
A girl asked why she couldn’t wear her hijab to the TradCath homeschool prom.
The boys debated this with medieval TikToks & protein shakes.
One swore he saw a Saracen in the bushes. It was a mailbox.
In the closing livestream, viewership was 9, & engagement was none.
A man in tears read from the ‘Catechism of Barbarian Ergonomics.’
His last words were “we still have the memes.”
Then he logged off. Then nothing.
No uprising. No Caesar.
Just a lukewarm soup can, two dirty microphones,
& a broken flag hanging beside a child’s drawing of a sword wrapped in vines,
With the words misspelled underneath:
“Remmagrayshun.”
🎙️ 🥣 The DOOM Cometh…! 🧃 📵
 | A guest post by
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Brilliant 🤣
Beyond my own power, what is going to happen will happen. It won't ruin my day. You should copy these poetic rants of yours to the main Substack, as posts. Lots of people on the fence about cancerous islam still need a wake-up call.