What part of “You missed the cutoff, schmuck,” do you not understand? You had 24 hours, but you kept procrastinating. You did the dishes, did your laundry, started the drive to work, issued CPR to a crash victim on the side of the road, gave blood, filled out a police report, arrived at work, punched in a dozen hours at the ER during a particularly violent night in the hood—all that but apparently no time for little old me. Not even five seconds to click on one of the FB happy birthday emojis. I like the one with a little cake, thank you.

So what about me? What about how I sat there all day watching , waiting, hoping? And nothing. And then after crushing me like a walnut, squashing me like a tomato, a full two hours into the new diurnal cycle you have the gall to wish me a happy belated birthday? You broke my heart, Fredo.

You think you can just casually wish me a happy birthday on what is actually someone else’s birthday? Think again, asshole. God gave me this day for a reason—not so you could bespoil it with your negligent, cavalier nativity tracking. Not so you could treat it like a Seinfeld rerun. When it comes to my birthday I don’t do sloppy seconds.

Do you even know what I went through on the day of my birth? I squeezed out a tiny hole. I was gasping for air. I was covered in blood. Some dude slapped me on the ass, and a few days later some other dude tried to cut my dick off. And you think you can just waltz in here 120 minutes late like it’s no big deal? I guess it’s all about you. But what about my feelings?

I’ll bet you wished your fentanyl dealer a punctual happy birthday. What am I, chopped liver? Now I have to sit in front of my PC another 364 days hoping you eventually get it right? What does that say about us? Oh sure, you had to take your mom to the oncologist. You had to take your dad to the osteopath. Blah, blah, blah. Does the word “commitment” mean anything at all to you?

Once you’re just a nanosecond belated you might as well be six months delinquent. It’s all the same to me. You’re banished from the Worship Me Club. Let’s be clear—there is no coming back from this. You know what this means, don’t you? You’re out. Leave the keys to the club under the mat. Clean out your locker on the yacht. And no more nookie.

And now I find out you’re not even real. You’re just a bot I picked up when I started fishing for Ukrainian porn on the dark web. This should have been taken care of the right way—with an algorithm utilizing at least three decades of my metadata.

Well, I think this is really it for us. I guess we’ll just go our separate ways—you back to the bot farm at the 6,000 acre data center in Siberia and me back to my man cave with the 14 Megan Fox posters. Don’t hold your breath waiting for me to wish you a timely birthday. Even if you had one.

Loitered at perimeter $200

Selfie with MAGA hat $400

Selfie with Confederate flag $500

Loitered on Capitol steps $750

Went to January 6 riot “on a date” $1,000

Pumped fist to Josh Hawley $1,500

Selfie with missing teeth $2,000

Selfie with white supremacy tattoo $2,500

Selfie with missing teeth and white supremacy tattoo $5,000

Selfie with Thor helmet $7,500

Dangled from Senate chamber balcony $8,000

Texted riot video to spouse $10,000

Texted riot video to mistress $12,500

Texted riot video to Hooters waitress or stripper $15,000

Texted riot video to Marjorie Taylor Greene $20,000

Maced police officer $25,000

Tasered police officer $30,000

Beat police officer with flagpole $40,000

Broke window with baton $50,000

Broke window with fist $55,000

Broke down armored door with battering ram $75,000

Rappelled into Senate chamber $80,000

Got pregnant at January 6 riot $100,000

Erected makeshift gallows $150,000

Defecated in Capitol hallway $200,000

Defecation selfie $250,000

Defecated in Nancy Pelosi’s office $500,000

Defecated on Nancy Pelosi’s desk (solid feces) $750,000

Defecated on Nancy Pelosi’s desk (diarrhea) $1,000,000

Fashioned “Mike Pence size” noose $1,500,000

Joined ICE after January 6 pardon $2,000,000

Worked for DOJ after January 6 pardon $2,500,000

Breaking and entering conviction after January 6 pardon $2,750,000

Arson conviction after January 6 pardon $3,000,000

Armed robbery conviction after January 6 pardon $5,000,000

Child rape conviction after January 6 pardon $10,000,000

I’m happily married and have been for 38 years, so I have absolutely no sexual needs outside of this one relationship. I try to remember that at all times and at least once a day thank Heaven I can focus on the important things in life instead of endeavors that tend to be ruinous and self-defeating. Also, I’m not a monstrous piece of shit who preys on the absolute most vulnerable beings on the planet and somehow manages to make their troubled lives still more horrific.

Sometimes you get a bad vibe from certain people. As unscientific as it sounds, experience has taught me there is usually something to it, and at bare minimum I’ll pause and take a closer look. The way these things typically work is via a slippery slope. You agree to a conversation, then a meeting, then a social gathering, and by then it might be too late. If the initial conversation doesn’t feel right and your life or the life of a loved one doesn’t depend on taking the next step, call it a day. That’s advice I both give and follow. Also, I’m not a satanic privileged pervert asshole motherfucker who rather than thankfully acknowledge the boundless unmerited opportunities he’s been granted as a member of the top percent of the one percent decides the only way to keep his sorry ungrateful unwashed ass satisfied in this world is to rape a defenseless child and brag about it to his equally detestable peers.

The art of living is largely that of being grateful for what you have and who you are rather than seeking to acquire simply for the sake of acquiring or comparing yourself to anyone else. Okay, that’s enough. I really can’t keep spewing this bullshit. Like most of us I’ve lived a life on an absurdly short but invisible karmic leash, whereby if I gently run a red light at four AM on a deserted road with no one around for miles, three patrol cars will immediately surround me, officers will beat me senseless, my professional licenses will be yanked, and a lien put on my house. Meanwhile, I have to watch elite child rapists skate every day because the legal bar for prosecution if your net worth is 8, 9, 10 figures or if you travel among the untouchable platinum tech titans is so high you could live stream butt naked penetrate a three-year-old, have Pam Bondi dutifully scrub your dirty laundry before Congress, and still make decent revenue on the pay-per-view.

The unmistakable message to us blithering idiots putting one foot in front of the other every day for decades to pay down mortgages and college loans is drilled into us every hour without fail and couldn’t possibly be clearer—you are worthless. And it goes a little something like this. Rather than inquire about justice for superhumans obviously born to soar well above any conceivable moral or codified law, you should be asking why it is we even allow you to walk and breathe in a world created by us and for us.

The answer is not that complicated. For millennia we the true global royalty have needed the services and physical presence of the workhorse awaiting the glue factory, even if he or she happens to have an advanced degree, a profession, or a stupid little hot tub in the backyard. Whether you’re shoveling our manure, performing our neurosurgery, or providing literally any proletarian function in between, for the time being we need you executing these mundane tasks and faithfully consuming material goods and services to fuel the massive subservient engine that powers our unimaginable wealth.

We’re not entirely happy about this reality, nor have we been for these same few millennia, but rest assured we are working on it. Any day now you’ll be replaceable by neural networks and humanoid robots. You know it and we know it. We are even working diligently on replacing your little boys and girls who have for many centuries served as our sexual piñatas, but admittedly that’s a little trickier because in that case it is these tiny victims being human that renders the thrill of violating them so exquisite. A bit of a conundrum for us, but fear not, we will probably in the long run achieve some sort of acceptable balance between total extinction of the underclass and a very limited, tightly controlled human slave state where targeted breeding is undertaken for the express purpose of perfecting and perpetuating a permanent real life paradigm of the movie Eyes Wide Shut.

You relish pointing out our lack of empathy, but you are at least as guilty. We have worked so hard throughout human history to develop bread and circus diversions for your narrow provincial minds without so much as a thank you. While you can easily name the Roman Colosseum, WWE, and everything in between, you’ve never seemed to grasp that the First Amendment itself is a bone we threw you 250 years ago. You like to talk and talk and talk, blah, blah, blah and blow off steam about a Disneyland sense of justice that has never existed and never will. And we let you because while you grandstand to the cheap thrill of friends and family we make the real money.

We’ve strategically granted you the Friday night high school football and prom queen bourgeois rites of passage to keep you sufficiently opiated, and man has it ever worked. Among all your outrageous misconceptions—and there are so many at every conceivable level of naivety—is the notion that we indulge in ritualistic pedophilia because we have somehow lost our way on the road to something loftier. No. There is nothing loftier. This is the goal. This is the prize. This is what we do.

So go ahead and thank whomever it is you normally thank for the opportunity to watch the latest Congressional hearing pageant while on break from your obsequious chores. These spectacles are charades we unfortunately have to put on from time to time to give the appearance of making some sort of infinitesimally small micro-blows against an empire you can be absolutely certain will remain intact here on Earth long after your meager kin have taken up a collection to toss your ravaged, ethically deluded corpse into a shallow grave on the outskirts of your quaint hometown. Enjoy your few vacuous moments of moral outrage. Monday morning it’s back to business as usual.

When all is said and done you lack the resources. You lack the connections. You lack the levers of extortion. You lack the sociopathic psychological makeup. You lack the identity. You lack the balls. So we win. Again. And we always will, even if to feed the rabid masses we throw a couple of delinquent dues-paying members of the world’s de facto oligarch class under the bus every now and then. Don’t flatter yourself. Justice is a sentimental notion meant to distract worker ants from the harsh realities of a predatory universe not built for them. Our system works for us. We just let you live in it. For now.

We sat and smiled at some of the more mundane stuff—the killing I made buying the dip after the first wave of tariffs, my uncanny sixth sense when it came to dumping and repurchasing Bitcoin at just the right time, successive windfalls achieved by bouncing back and forth strategically between gold and Nvidia. But then things got a bit more interesting. Throughout a chronicled year that was apparently trying at times for others, we watched in awe as I artfully applied emerging wellness technologies ranging from hyperbaric oxygen chambers to stem cell treatments to Chinese peptides, All told, I was able to reverse age a total of about 20 years between January and December 2025.

In a spirit of generosity that is uniquely my own, I said a few words at the end and gave my director maximum props for editing in a series of startling selfies I took throughout the course of the year. The slim, fit middle-aged dude participating in an Ironman event in February bore little physical resemblance to the young man giving a TED talk on AI in August and even less resemblance to the irrepressible adolescent penning an instant bestseller on transcendental Tai Chi in November. By the conclusion of my little speech I had astoundingly reverse aged yet another six weeks, and this was apparently not lost on an adoring audience that both gave a rousing standing ovation and offered to pay for college. As a coda we large-screen FaceTimed with Ryan Seacrest, who jocularly counted down an hour or so prematurely and dedicated the coming year to me. Ryan was looking slightly ragged to be truthful, but I am not one to upstage aging celebrity hosts.

The night was still young, and it was on to a blitzkrieg of New Year’s Eve parties. In the past my dilemma has been the staggering number of events I’d been invited to and my self-effacing tendency to be a people-pleaser. This year I solved the problem with a Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter. With the help of a former Navy SEAL pilot I landed on a succession of residential and commercial rooftops and rappelled down into each festivity dressed to the nines in coat and tails. While each visit was timed to three-to-five minutes, in every case the brevity was more than compensated for by both novelty and sheer audacity. Bawdy toasts, rousing renditions of Auld Lang Syne, and masterfully executed oral favors all flowed freely as well wishers just wanted a small souvenir of what promises to be another banner year in the maverick prototype life I lead mostly for the benefit of others. Somewhere in the commotion I seem to recall a long, deep French kiss from none other than Beyoncé, but frankly it’s all a blur now.

Before we continue this brilliant essay, I’d like to give a shout out to Julius Caesar. It was none other than my dear friend Julius who in 45 BC put the kibosh on the old Roman calendar and declared the first of January the official “New Year.” Whereas various other misguided calendars continued to use such arbitrary markers as winter solstice and the birth of Jesus (a summer baby if ever there was one!) to mark the start of the New Year, it was none other than the fated dictator who provided not only myself but millions of oblivious, self-involved revelers an extra week of narcissistic, aimless, vacuous, bottomless downward spiraling each trip around the sun. When 11:59:59.999999999 on the atomic clock turns to midnight, there is unadulterated exhilaration and boundless personal renewal. It’s something every one of us feels very concretely, and there is no denying it— a nanosecond makes all the difference in the world

After exiting so many triumphal holiday functions I felt a hunger for still more. So I booked a vintage Learjet and headed westward, chasing both the sun and official midnight from time zone to time zone, thereby reliving the dropping ball in the rough vicinity of dozens of American cities both small and large. My significant other and I joined the Mile High Club somewhere above each of these metropolises, perfectly timing climax to the local Witching Hour and apparently setting some sort of obscure Guinness World Record in the amusing process. Not wanting to be too self-indulgent at an altitude of 35,000 feet, we took the time to sporadically dump care packages of caviar and bottles of 1995 Moët & Chandon on an unsuspecting but eternally grateful American populace currently experiencing a low-key credit default crisis. Finally, reluctant to put a premature end to our evening of orgasmic debauchery, we continued on past the International Date Line and refueled somewhere near Vladivostok.

I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions except to vow to make the next New Year’s Eve still more enviable and full of lavish, outrageous, absolutely smashing surprises. So, December 31, 2026 will start farther eastward in Newfoundland, where we’ll enjoy an extra hour-and-a-half (yes!) of celebration and will include skydiving trysts, midnight autoerotic asphyxiation, and recreational organ transplants.

And how was your New Year’s Eve?