BOLD Predictions For My 42nd Year
Odds of me getting marooned on an island with Ryan Gosling? Really, really good.
I’m writing this on the eve of my forty-second birthday. I figured I might not have the time or energy to write it as I may be overcome with the birthday blues or such excitement that I become manic and steal a police horse.
This isn’t an issue filled with teary-eyed lamentations about life up to now. For me to complain about anything would surely be an act of the highest ingratitude. I have everything I need, more than can be said for most of humanity.
This also isn’t looking back in some attempt to impart life lessons and distill all I’ve learned into one epic issue of GNM where everyone cries and cheers and wonders how they ever lived without my newsletter.
“The secret to life is to be happy.”
OHHH MY GODDDD THANK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUU.
No, none of that. I live by the words of Socrates, who said, “The only true wisdom is knowing that you know nothing.” I spout off (almost) every week, pretending I know something, but believe me, I don’t.
Forty-two is all about being bold. I want this year to be audacious, valiant, courageous, and soaked in synonyms.
To me, there’s nothing bolder than baseless predictions, so without further ado, here are my BIG BOLD PREDICTIONS for my forty-second year of life:
ON A ROUTINE FLIGHT TO JAPAN, MY PLANE CRASHES, AND I GET STUCK ON A DESERT ISLAND IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PACIFIC WITH RYAN GOSLING. OUR CLOTHES GET BURNED UP IN THE WRECKAGE, SO WE HAVE TO BE NAKED ALL DAY.
Personally, I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy, and I hope this DOES NOT happen. What a nightmare. But, if it does occur, sometime in June, we will have to find a way to survive. Ryan would take care of the hunting, fishing, and general security. I would keep our beach shelter clean, and when Ryan brings home a wild pig slung over his brawny, tanned shoulders, I cook it for him.
Ryan even took the shirt off a dead pilot he found floating in the water, dried it in the sun, and made it into a little apron for me. That’s just Ryan, though. He’s SUPER thoughtful and handsome.
THE ALIEN “CONSPIRACY” WILL BE PROVEN TRUE.
Sometime around September, the government will finally come clean about aliens. They’re here, and they’ve been around for some time. They built the pyramids and framed O.J. without aliens; we would not have Drew Barrymore’s daytime talk show “Drew.” The problem is that no one will care with everything going on in the world. The aliens will reveal themselves expecting a huge reception, and no one will even attend their event.
It will be exactly like when I graduated college, expecting a massive ovation when they called my name but heard nothing. It made me angry because I, too, had contributed so much to humanity and had a hand in proving O.J.’s innocence. If I had an interstellar spacecraft, I would have gotten on it and flown away like the aliens will when they realize everyone is a jerk for not caring about them.
HUMANITY WILL BREATHE A COLLECTIVE SIGH OF RELIEF.
This one is difficult to predict within a particular month. I won’t even try, but sometime in the next year, the world’s sorrows will crest and recede. Not all the way, but they’ll come back just enough that we can get our bearings and start moving forward instead of letting the powers that be mire us in uncertainty.
Is this prediction too bold? Quite possibly, but I think things have a way of balancing themselves, and those who wish to make humankind fat, poor, and stupid will find that things don’t work that way anymore.
A hero will rise and save us all from evil forces wishing to subjugate the world. Who is that hero?
You guessed it, Hunter Biden.
As I said, these predictions are BOLD.
After Hunter dismantles the World Economic Forum, he’ll fly his daddy’s jet over the island where Ryan and I are marooned. He’ll see the fire I lit to keep us warm and attempt a rescue.
He’ll land on the beach just as Ryan and I exchange vows at sunset. Ryan made me the most stunning wedding dress out of palm leaves, which, believe me, leaves little to the imagination.
Our wedding guests include our friend Kevin the crab, an ornery seagull Ryan and I affectionately nicknamed Smiley, and three corpses I found further inland from the crash site. We call them Larry, Moe, and O.J., haha.
Hunter will hop out of his plane, “Hey, aren’t you Ryan Gosling? Uh, what’s going on here?”
Ryan turns to see Hunter Biden strolling confidently towards us on the beach.
“We’re fine,” I’ll say. “We’re getting married. I don’t mean to be rude, but friends and family only. Thanks.”
Ryan tries to spell the word “HELP” in the sand. I look down and remind him of the gun I retrieved from the body of an Air Marshal I have aimed at his perfect torso.
“Hey, this looks pretty weird. Listen, I can get you guys out of here. I have a plane.”
“It’s very nice,” I’ll say.
“But we’re fine, we’re in love, and we’re getting married today.”
I’ll look at the pig skeleton wearing the dead captain’s hat officiating our wedding and tell him to please continue.
Ryan will scream, “HE’S GOT A GUN!”
One of Hunter’s security goons jumps out of the plane and levels his pistol at my head. I grab Ryan and use him as a human shield.
“What a story we’ll have to tell the grandkids,” I’ll whisper in his ear as I tenderly kiss his cheek.
Hunter’s security goon opens fire, hitting Ryan in the shoulder. The bullet goes through him and into me, making his flesh of my flesh.
As I lay dying, the sun slowly dips into the ocean. My vision blurs, but I can see Hunter and his security goon rushing Ryan onto the jet. They crank it up and take off, leaving me with my last bold prediction:
“I will have Ryan again…in heaven.”
With my dying breath, I pull a detonator from my palm-leaf wedding dress. I press the red button and whisper,
“I do.”
Hunter’s jet explodes in the tropical sky, and I die on a beach at the tender age of 42.
Until next time.