njstacked2

Yeah...OU812....Good Looks my friend...Always helping the Iron Brothers out...! 6'2 185 What? Ya hear? What?...Your Boyfriend is a fucking stick bitch...Why not let him juice...if anything all that test will make him want to bang your ugly ass...whore!

Listen up all you bitches...I better not see any Construction Hats this weekend...or kids will get tossed. Ya hear?

Stacked is always down for something new...he just needs to watch the heart, liver and kidneys...!

Wow...and I thought Sunnie Hunnie had the best breakfast....guess I was wrong.

Wow...Tigga..I back that daily routine HARD! To be honest the Stacked is feeling a little run down...I didn't leave work until 9 last night...I need a little Iron Sister Love tonight...Yup Fill up the bath tub...I am jumping in head first! I will probably watch re runs of Miami Vice ...you know that one episode where Phil Collins is ripping lines and everyone is geting tweaked....Yeah...That will make the Stacked rage

Just like Lil' Kim says "We're doing it way big!"

Yeah...Tigga! Thats the spirit...My girl cannot wait either...all pumped up...oh wait Could she be an Iron Sister too? Bus...put the Tiger Leash on this one...can't let her get away!

Tigga...whats up? Sorry for not giving you a shout out...."10 Bumps, 2 tricep injections and 6 caps for TIGGA!"

Yeah...Bus...The Stacked is all "geared" up and ready to take the stage...Oh yeah Bus...before I forget the cookies have been ordered... Pregame will begin at my Ortley Beach Mansion...around 6.... I expect all Iron Brothers to show face...Bigtime...battled some hardcore depression yesterday and was ready to throw in the IRON GAME...after a 2 hour stand on the 40th floor...the Bigtime backed away from the ledge and shed a tear....hit a double bicep pose and walked away like a man.... Bus...& Diezel....the weather report for tomorrow is Cloudy with a chance of Testosterone....

120.....Pretty good.

Fury...What I ate today 6:15am- Egg Beaters 1cup 6oz. Steak 1/4 Cup Cottage Cheese 7am- Balance Bar 10am- 10oz Steak Top Round...extra extra lean 12:30- 12oz Steak Top Round 1/4 Cup Cottage Cheese 2:30- Protein Shake 50g Protein 1 tbsp. Natural Peanut Butter That is what I ate so far today.

Winny is not an "easy" route...that is a huge misconception....People it takes years of anabolic use to reach goals...and you need a good diet and training routine as well.... Yes...Vitamin C will remove excess water...Quickly...I take 6grams which is 6,000mgs....on Friday- Saturday -Sunday!

"Just One Of The Guys"

Great Article for any MATRIX fan! THE UNREAL THING by ADAM GOPNIK What’s wrong with the Matrix? Issue of 2003-05-19 Posted 2003-05-12 For the past four years, a lot of people have been obsessed with the movie “The Matrix.†As the sequel, “The Matrix Reloaded,†arrived in theatres this week, it was obvious that the strange, violent science-fiction film, by the previously more or less unknown Wachowski brothers, had already inspired both a cult and a craze. (And had made a lot of money into the bargain, enough to fuel two sequels; “Matrix Revolutions†is supposed to be out in November.) There hasn’t been anything quite like it since “2001: A Space Odyssey,†which had a similar mix of mysticism, solemnity, and mega-effects. Shortly after its mostly unheralded release, in 1999, “The Matrix†became an egghead extase. The Slovenian philosopher Slavoj Zizek’s latest work, “Welcome to the Desert of the Real,†took its title from a bit of dialogue in the film; college courses on epistemology have used “The Matrix†as a chief point of reference; and there are at least three books devoted to teasing out its meanings. (“Taking the Red Pill: Science, Philosophy and Religion in ‘The Matrix’†is a typical title.) If the French philosopher Jean Baudrillard, whose books—“The Gulf War Did Not Take Place†is one—popularized the view that reality itself has become a simulation, has not yet embraced the film it may be because he is thinking of suing for a screen credit. (The “desert of the real†line came from him.) The movie, it seemed, dramatized a host of doubts and fears and fascinations, some half as old as time, some with a decent claim to be postmodern. To a lot of people, it looked like a fable: our fable. The first “Matrixâ€â€”for anyone who has been living in Antarctica for the past four years—depended on a neatly knotted marriage between a spectacle and a speculation. The spectacle has by now become part of the common language of action movies: the amazing “balletic†fight scenes and the slow-motion aerial display of destruction. The speculation, more peculiar, and even, in its way, esoteric, is that reality is a fiction, programmed into the heads of sleeping millions by evil computers. When we meet the hero of the “Matrix†saga, he’s a computer programmer—online name Neo—who works in a generic office building in a present-day, Chicago-like metropolis. Revelation arrives when he’s recruited by a mysterious guerrilla figure named Morpheus, played by Laurence Fishburne with a baritone aplomb worthy of Orson Welles. Morpheus offers Neo a choice between two pills, one blue and one red: “You take the blue pill, the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill . . . and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.†Neo takes the red pill and wakes up as he really is: a comatose body in a cocoon, his brain penetrated by a cable that inserts the Matrix, an interactive virtual-reality program, directly into his consciousness. All the people he has ever known, he realizes, are recumbent in incubators, stacks of identical clear pods, piled in high towers; the cocooned sleepers have the simulation piped into their heads by the machines as music is piped into headphones. What they take to be experiences is simply the effect of brain impulses interacting with the virtual-reality program. Guerrilla warriors who have been unplugged from the Matrix survive in an underground city called Zion, and travel in hovercraft to unplug promising humans. Morpheus has chosen to unplug Neo, it turns out, because he believes Neo is the One—the Messiah figure who will see through the Matrix and help free mankind. The first film, which told of Neo’s education by Morpheus and his pursuit of the awesomely cute and Matrix-defying Trinity (the rubber-suited Carrie-Anne Moss), ends with Neo seeing the Matrix for what it is: a row of green digits, which he has learned to alter as easily as a skilled player can alter the levels of a video game. What made the spectacle work was the ingenuity and the attention to detail with which it was rendered. The faintly greenish cast and the curious sterility of life within the Matrix; the reddish grungy reality of Morpheus’ s ship; the bizarre and convincing interlude with the elderly Oracle; and, of course, those action sequences, the weightless midair battles—few movies have had so much faith in their own mythology. And the actors rose to it, Laurence Fishburne managing to anchor the whole thing in a grandiloquent theatricality. Even Keanu Reeves, bless him, played his part with a stolidity that made him the only possible hero of the film, so slow in his reactions that he seemed perfect for virtual reality, his expressions changing with the finger-drumming time lag of a digital image loading online. If it was the spectacle that made the movie work, though, it was the speculations that made it last in people’s heads. It spoke to an old nightmare. The basic conceit of “The Matrixâ€â€”the notion that the material world is a malevolent delusion, designed by the forces of evil with the purpose of keeping people in a state of slavery, has a history. It is most famous as the belief for which the medieval Christian sect known as the Cathars fought and died, and in great numbers, too. The Cathars were sure that the material world was a phantasm created by Satan, and that Jesus of Nazareth—their Neo—had shown mankind a way beyond that matrix by standing outside it and seeing through it. The Cathars were fighting a losing battle, but the interesting thing was that they were fighting at all. It is not unusual to take up a sword and die for a belief. It is unusual to take up a sword to die for the belief that swords do not exist. The Cathars, like the heroes of “The Matrix,†had an especially handy rationale for violence: if it ain’t real, it can’t really bleed. One reason that the violence in “The Matrixâ€â€”those floating fistfights, the annihilation of entire squads of soldiers by cartwheeling guerrillas—can fairly be called balletic is that, according to the rules of the movie, what is being destroyed is not real in the first place: the action has the safety of play and the excitement of the apocalyptic. Of course, the destruction of a blank, featureless, mirrored skyscraper by a helicopter, and the massacre of the soldiers who protect it, has a different resonance now than it did in 1999. The notion that some human beings are not really human but, rather, mere slaves, nonhuman ciphers, and therefore expendable, is exactly the vision of the revolutionary hero—and also of the mass terrorist. The Matrix is where all violent fanatics insist that they are living, even when they are not. It would have been nice if some of that complexity, or any complexity, had made its way into the sequel. But—to get to the bad news—“Matrix Reloaded†is, unlike the first film, a conventional comic-book movie, in places a campy conventional comic-book movie, and in places a ludicrously campy conventional comic-book movie. It feels not so much like “Matrix II†as like “Matrix XIVâ€â€”a franchise film made after a decade of increasing grosses and thinning material. The thing that made the Matrix so creepy—the idea of a sleeping human population with a secondary life in a simulated world—is barely referred to in the new movie; in fact, if you hadn’t seen the first film, not just the action but the basic premise would be pretty much unintelligible. The first forty-five minutes—set mainly in Zion, that human city buried deep in the earth—are particularly excruciating. Zion seems to be modelled on the parking garage of a giant indoor mall, with nested levels clustered around an atrium. Like every good-guy citadel in every science-fiction movie ever made, Zion is peopled by stern-jawed uniformed men who say things like “And what if you’re wrong, God damn it, what then?†and “Are you doubting my command, Captain?†and by short-haired and surprisingly powerful women whose eyes moisten but don’t overflow as they watch the men prepare to go off to war. Everybody wears earth tones and burlap and silk, and there are craggy perches from which speeches can be made while the courageous citizens hold torches. (The stuccoed, soft-contour interiors of Zion look like the most interesting fusion restaurant in Santa Fe.) The only thing setting Zion apart from the good-guy planets in “The Phantom Menace†or “Star Trek†is that it seems to have been redlined at some moment in the mythic past and is heavily populated by people of color. They are all, like Morpheus, grave, orotund, and articulate to the point of prosiness, so that official exchanges in Zion put one in mind of what it must have been like at a meeting at the Afro-American Studies department at Harvard before Larry Summers got to it. (And no sooner has this thought crossed one’s mind when—lo! there is Professor Cornel West himself, playing one of the Councillors.) Morpheus, winningly laconic in the first film, here tends to speechify, and, in a sequence that passes so far into the mystically absurd that it is almost witty, leads the inhabitants of Zion in a torchlit orgy, presumably meant to show the machines what humans can do that they can’t; the humans heave and slam well-toned bodies in a giant rave—Plato’s Retreat to the last leaping shadow. Neo and Trinity make love while this is going on, and we can see the cable holes up and down Neo’s back, like a fashion-forward appliqué. (Soon, everyone will want them.) No cliché goes unresisted; there is an annoying street kid who wants Neo’s attention, and a wise Councillor with swept-back silver hair (he is played by Anthony Zerbe, Hal Holbrook presumably having been unavailable) who twinkles benignly and creases up his eyes as he wanders the city at night by Neo’s side. Smiles gather at the corner of his mouth. He’s that kind of wise. More damagingly, once Zion has been realized and mundanely inhabited, most of the magic disappears from the fable; it becomes a cartoon battle between more or less equally opposed forces, and the sense of a desperately uneven contest between man and machine is gone. The Matrix, far from being a rigorously imposed program, turns out to be as porous as good old-fashioned reality, letting in all kinds of James Bond villains. (They are explained as defunct programs that refused to die, but they seem more like character ideas that refused to be edited.) Lambert Wilson appears as a sort of digital Dominique de Villepin—even virtual Frenchmen are now amoral, the mark of Cain imprinted on their foreheads, so to speak, like a spot of chocolate mousse. He is called the Merovingian (“Holy Blood, Holy Grail†having apparently been added to the reading list) and announces that “choice is an illusion created between zose wis power and zose wisout†as he constructs a virtual dessert with which he inflames the passion of a virtual woman. The stunning Monica Bellucci appears as his wife, who sells out his secrets in exchange for a remarkably chaste kiss from Neo, while Trinity looks on, smoldering like Betty in an “Archie†comic. (But then Monica is Italian, a member of the coalition of the willing.) Then, there are his twin dreadlocked henchmen, dressed entirely in white, who have all the smirking conviction of Siegfried and Roy. Even the action sequences, which must have been quite hard to make, remind one of those in the later Bond films; interesting to describe, they are so unbound by any rules except the rule of Now He’ll Jump Off That Fast-Moving Thing Onto the Next Fast-Moving Thing that they are tedious to watch. A long freeway sequence has the buzzing predictability of the video game it will doubtless become. In the first film, the rules of reality were bendable, and that was what gave the action its surprises; in the new one there are hardly any rules at all. The idea of a fight between Neo and a hundred identical evil “agents†sounds cool but is unintentionally comic. Dressed in identical black suits and ties, like the staff of MCA in the Lew Wasserman era (is that why they’re called agents?), they simultaneously rush Neo and leap on him in a giant scrum; it’s like watching a football team made up of ten-year-olds attempt to tackle Bronko Nagurski—you know he’s going to rise up and shake them off. Neo has become a superhuman power within the Matrix and nothing threatens him. He fights the identical agents for fifteen minutes, practically yawning while he does, and then flies away, and you wonder—why didn’t he fly away to start with? As he chops and jabs at his enemies, there isn’t the slightest doubt about the outcome, and Keanu Reeves seems merely preoccupied, as though ready to get on his cell phone for a few sage words with Slavoj Zizek. There are a few arresting moments at the conclusion when Neo meets the architect of the Matrix. But by then the spectacle has swept right over the speculation, leaving a lot of vinyl and rubber shreds on the incoming tide. For anyone who was transfixed by the first movie, watching the new one is a little like being unplugged from the Matrix: What was I experiencing all that time? Could it have been . . . all a dream? A reassuring viewing of the old movie suggests that its appeal had less to do with its accessories than with its premise. Could it be that what you took to be your life was merely piped into your brain like experiential Muzak? The question casts a spell even when the spell casters turn out to be more merchandisers than magi. Long before the first “Matrix†was released, of course, there was a lot of fictional life in the idea that life is a fiction. The finest of American speculators, Philip K. Dick, whose writing has served as the basis of some of the more ambitious science-fiction movies of the past couple of decades (“Blade Runner,†“Total Recall,†“Minority Reportâ€), was preoccupied with two questions: how do we know that a robot doesn’t have consciousness, and how do we know that we can trust our own memories and perceptions? “Blade Runner†dramatized the first of these two problems, and “The Matrix†was an extremely and probably self-consciously Dickian dramatization of the second. In one of Dick’s most famous novels, for instance, “The Three Stigmata of Palmer Erdrich,†a colony of earth-men on Mars, trapped in a miserable life, take an illegal drug that transports them into “Perky Pat Layoutsâ€â€”miniature Ken and Barbie doll houses, where they live out their lives in an idealized Southern California. Like Poe, Dick took the science of his time, gave it a paranoid twist, and then became truly paranoid himself. In a long, half-crazy book called “Valis,†he proposed that the world we live in is a weird scramble of information, that a wicked empire has produced thousands of years of fake history, and that the fabric of reality is being ripped by a battle between good and evil. The Dick scholar Erik Davis points out that, in a sequel to “Valis,†Dick even used the term “matrix†in something like a Wachowskian context. In the academy, too, the age-old topic of radical doubt has acquired renewed life in recent years. In fact, what’s often called the “brain-in-the-vat problem†has practically become its own academic discipline. The philosopher Daniel Dennett invoked it to probe the paradoxes of identity. Robert Nozick, famous as a theorist of the minimal state, used it to ask whether you would agree to plug into an “experience machine†that would give you any experience you desired—writing a great book, making a friend—even though you ’d really just be floating in a vat with electrodes attached to your brain. Nozick’s perhaps too hasty assumption was that you wouldn’t want to plug in. His point was that usually something has to happen in the world, not just in our heads, for our desires to be satisfied. The guerrilla warriors in “The Matrix,†confirming the point, are persuaded that the Matrix is wrong because it isn’t “real,†and we intuitively side with them. Yet, unlike Nozick, we also recognize that it might be a lot more comfortable to remain within the virtual universe. That’s the decision made by a turncoat among the guerrillas, Cypher. (Agents of the “machine world†seal the pact with him over dinner at a posh restaurant: “I know this steak doesn’t exist,†Cypher tells them, enjoying every calorie-free bite. “I know that when I put it in my mouth the Matrix is telling my brain that it is juicy and delicious. After nine years, you know what I realize? Ignorance is bliss.â€) A key feature of “The Matrix†is that all those brains are wired together—that they really can interact with one another. And it was, improbably, the Harvard philosopher and mathematician Hilary Putnam who, a couple of decades back, proposed the essential Matrixian setup: a bunch of brains in a vat hooked up to a machine that was “programmed to give [them] all a collective hallucination, rather than a number of separate unrelated hallucinations.†Putnam used his Matrix to make a tricky argument about meaning: since words mean what they normally refer to within a community, a member of the vatted-brain community might be telling the truth if it said it was looking at a tree, or, for that matter, at Monica Bellucci. That’s because the brains in that vat aren’t really speaking our language. What they are speaking, he said, is “vat-English,†because by “a tree†they don’t mean a tree; they mean, roughly, a tree image. Presumably, by “Monica Bellucci†they mean “the image of Monica Bellucci in ‘Malèna,’†rather than the image of Monica Bellucci in “Matrix Reloaded,†brains-in-vats having taste and large DVD collections. Like most thought experiments, the brain-in-the-vat scenario was intended to sharpen our intuitions. But recurrent philosophical examples tend to have a little symbolic halo around them, a touch of their time—those angels dancing on the head of a pin were dancing to a thirteenth-century rhythm. The fact that the brain-in-a-vat literature has grown so abundant, the vat so vast, suggests that it has a grip on our imagination as a story in itself. And there, in retrospect, might lie the secret of the first “Matrixâ€: beyond the balletic violence, beyond the cool stunts, the idea that the world we live in isn’t real is one that speaks right now to a general condition. For the curious thing about the movie was that everybody could grasp the basic setup instantly. Whether it occurs in cult science fiction or academic philosophy, we seem to be fascinated by the possibility that our world might not exist. We’re not strangers to the feeling that, for much of our lives, we might just as well be brains-in-vats, floating in an amniotic fluid of simulations. It doesn’t just strike us as plausibly weird. It strikes us as weirdly plausible. When, in the first film, Neo sees the Matrix for what it is, a stream of green glowing digits, and thus is able to stop bullets by looking at them, the moment of vision is not simply liberating. It is also spooky and, in a Dickian way, chilling. This moment is the opposite of the equivalent scene in “Star Wars,†a quarter century ago, when Luke Skywalker refuses to wear the helmet that will put him in contact with his targeting machinery, and decides instead to bliss out and trust the Force, the benevolent vital energy of the universe. Neo’s epiphany is the reverse: the world around him is a cascade of cold digital algorithms, unfeeling and lifeless. His charge is not to turn on and tune in but to turn off and tune out. This moment of discovery—that the world is not merely evil but fake—has become a familiar turn in American entertainment. (“The Truman Show†does it with stage sets, but the virtual-reality versions are played out in “Dark City†and “eXistenZ†and, especially, the fine, frightening film noir “The Thirteenth Floor,†in which the hero drives to the edge of Los Angeles and discovers that the landscape beyond is made of the glowing green lines and honeycombs of a computer graphic—that he has been living his life within someone else’s program.) Even if we don’t remotely buy the notion that reality has been drowned by its simulations, we accept it as the melodramatic expression of a kind of truth. The Grand Guignol is possible only because the Petit Guignol exists. There are so many brains in vats around, in fact, that we need to remind ourselves why we don’t want to be one. In a long article on the first “Matrix†film, the Princeton philosopher James Pryor posed the question “What’s so bad about living in the Matrix?,†and, after sorting through some possible answers, he concluded that the real problem probably has to do with freedom, or the lack of it. “If your ambitions in the Matrix are relatively small-scale, like opening a restaurant or becoming a famous actor, then you may very well be able to achieve them,†Pryor says. “But if your ambitions are larger—e.g., introducing some long-term social change—then whatever progress you make toward that goal will be wiped out when the simulation gets reset. . . . One thing we place a lot of value on is being in charge of our own lives, not being someone else’s slave or plaything. We want to be politically free.†Here’s where the first “Matrix†pushed beyond the fun of seeing a richly painted dystopia. Although the movie was made in 1999, its strength as a metaphor has only increased in the years since. The monopolization of information by vast corporations; the substitution of an agreed-on fiction, imposed from above, for anything that corresponds to our own reality; the sense that we have lost control not only of our fate but of our small sense of what’s real—all these things can seem part of ordinary life now. (“More Like ‘The Matrix’ Every Day†was the title of a recent political column by Farai Chideya.) In a mood of Dickian paranoia, one can even start to wonder whether the language we hear constantly on television and talk radio (“the war on terror,†“homeland security,†etc.) is a sort of vat-English—a language from which all earthly reference has been bled away.This isn’t to say that any of us yet exist within an entirely fictive universe created by the forces of evil for the purpose of deluding a benumbed population—not unless you work for Fox News, anyway. But we know what it’s like to be captive to representations of the world that have, well, a faintly greenish cast. Especially in view of the conventionality of the second film, it’s clear that the first film struck so deep not because it showed us a new world but because it reminded us of this one, and dramatized a simple, memorable choice between the plugged and the unplugged life. It reminded us that the idea of free lives is inseparable from the idea of the real thing. Apparently, we needed the reminder. “Free your mind!,†the sixties-ish slogan of the new film, is too ambitious to be convincing, and betrays the darkness that made the first film so unusual. “Unplug thy neighbor!,†though, still sounds just possible.

Thought I would take the liberty to begin a new post to try and sort out any questions you have...You asked about calories and preserving lean body mass....Well if you are not operating on any type of chemicals...then you should stick to Bodyweight x 12...then subtract 400-500 calories...coupled with morning cardio and clean macro nutrients...this should allow you to drop sufficient weight. Seriously stay clear of any GNC type supplements...waste of money and almost as hard on your kidneys and liver.... To reduce bloat...and water retention Pros..take about 4-6 grams of Vitamin C....this works...better than any Taraxatone I have ever taken...... Go TANNING....it helps reduce water retention and makes th eskin tough....as well as prevents acne. Once you figure what diet you are going to use I will help with the Macro Breakdown.

Wow...this gets better and better...this bitch wil not stop...Actually sweetie...I have to much on the line to be fooling with people I don't know. Do you really think Rod will get his ass kicked? I will sell that short and write naked puts on it...I am sure you do not understand what I just said...quick do a google search you dumb bitch.... Billy...ignore this slut...She is insanely jealous....

BITCH...WHERE DO I BEGIN... I was an ALL SHORE FOOTBALL player in high school...Captain my senior year...played both ways...I was the Strongest Kid in my high school...I was also Class President for all 4 years...as well as an A student....Always pulling the best looking women...In fact I am engaged to my High School Sweetheart....She was a Home Coming Queen....Freshman Year....whoops...were you? Then I played 4 years of COLLEGE FOOTBALL.... In college I was 5'10 230 Now I am 5'10 205 -------------------------------------- I am telling you I am tough and smart...Who are you? Is my question....

Like I said before it is one of the most creative and inspiring messages I have ever heard.

I agree Carguy...Probelms have been created.

Rod...PM me this guys address.

Rod...Great Message...very well thought out....I give it the Iron Brother Stamp of Approval.

Billy...take another bump and edit that last reply. Rod I assure you this is not me...I do not have time to be so creative...and i do not know your past....ya hear?

JY04...Tools? An obvious sign of jealousy....I wish I was not in the middle of trading billions of dollars...I would make you cry.

Dancing is cool and all to a point...but when guys are dancing with guys it is fucking stupid...this so called "battling"...too funny...I need to walk away when this is taking place....No offense PhillyB but the Crowd at Space Sucks....I am a Surf Club guy and will always stick to my roots....Nikki Beach was sick...no "Battling" there....

Oscar G is sick...but Space sucks...Fucking Glow Stick Ravers!