Dope-Ass Breakthroughs

Sick, bruh.

It’s called geniusing, you peasant fuckfaces.

Tucked in the bowels of an absolutely baller compound at an undisclosed location in the Nevada desert (no state income tax, y’all!,) an unnamed billionaire – not to be coy, or whatever, but this is like a globally famous man, a guy you totally would know if we said who it was, a guy who is, like, this close to being a trillionaire. Oops. We’ve said too much. We’re not gonna divulge his name, though, to respect his privacy. Because listen, it’s not every ultra-sexy disrupter tycoon genius who can remain this down to earth, so we don’t want to add to the accolades already heaped on him (rightly heaped, mind you, justifiably and correctly heaped. Matter of fact, you know what? We wonder if the praise hasn’t been a little slow in coming, you know? We actually think that like maybe the world is so jealous of this tech visionary-slash-world class cocksman, really just honestly beside themselves with envy, that they’re honestly kind of foot-dragging on the accolade-heaping. ‘Cause I mean how many dudes can you name that are inches away from being a trillionaire AND they are an honest-to-god[1] rocket scientist?[2] Plus he’s packing an absolute chin-up bar in those trousers.[3]

Reports from less-than-credible sources[4] contend that the subject of this profile is “unsettlingly dead-eyed and dependably off-putting” who’s been “demonstrated to be rapist and pedophile, with an honestly staggering body of evidence to support this – you’d need fucking cargo containers to transport it.”[5] Such reports, however, have been roundly discredited in the recently released white[6] paper Haters Be Jealousing: They Can’t Even HANDLE How Much Ass-Kicking We’re Getting After Up In Here from the subject’s groundbreaking think tank The Institute of Ayn Rand Said I Could And Even Should, Probably, which conducts policy research on the biggest questions of the age, like Why do libtards hate freedom? and How do you not see that the caste systems benefits us all?

The reason for our visit to the compound, though, was to check out the pioneering research into human longevity that’s taking place there. Or not human longevity in the sense of, like, all of us. It’s more a thing of like the longevity of a human, like a single individual – the subject of this profile. His reasoning, which seemed sound when he was talking us through it on the day, but which seems frankly pretty disjointed now that we’re reading back over it – it was something about how what he called the “genius table” (an apparently naturally occurring global/societal resource akin to the “water table”) was perilously low and since birth rates among “top-shelf demographics” and/or the “genetically advantaged” are apparently low, geniuses like himself had a duty to the species to live three hundred years. Their brain power would, apparently, be the only force capable of helping humanity overcome a fast-approaching climate catastrophe. When we pointed out that the “genius class” had played a decades-long role in accelerating the coming climate catastrophe and asked why they should then be entrusted to solve it, the subject tapped the window, indicating the view outside. “Ever seen an Olympic-sized hot tub?” accompanied by little “ta-da” hands. He then muttered “That’ll be filled with friends one day,”[7] and laid his palm on the glass like in the second act of a rom com.

In what was perhaps the most boys-will-be-boys[8] moment of the day we spent at the – again, quite baller – compound took place on the gleaming elevator on our way to visit the subterranean Institute for the Advancement of Square-Jawed Savants[9] was not a part of the carefully choreographed PR blitz this site tour and interview were intended to be, obviously – it was little more than an aside, really. My phone sounded, I checked and it was an amber alert notification. The subject caught a glimpse of my screen and murmured “Somebody’s gettin’ his dick wet, am I right?” Our capitulation to the high five he proffered was non-consensual. His face froze into an unsettled rictus that was equal parts validation-lust and robot-bad boy, less a shit-eating grin than a shit-producing one. As we stepped off the elevator, an aide appeared with a fresh NDA to cover events since the NDA we signed at the gate when we arrived. Strangely, the rape-of-an-abuducted-minor joke our host made was something he didn’t simply permit us to include, but actively encouraged us to.

Piped in from speakers throughout the facility was the voice of the subject reading from his forthcoming memoir Bitch, Does Your Yacht Even Have a Helipad? Life Lessons From the Top of the Pyramid. Which critics have called “lackluster prose read by somebody who sounds like if an android that somehow had IBS skipped right past sentience to attain self-loathing.” The opening lines: “I came from nothing. A few inherited millions and a couple emerald mines. Absolute squalor.”

The facility was a sleek and gleaming place – polished steel and glass, lots of white[10] tile. A long hallway flanked by a dozen steel doors on either side, was the heart of the operation. Inside each room, one of our subject’s children (“Not the official ones – these are all off the books,” followed by an attempted wink.) was strapped to a gurney and stuck with a number of tubes. Peering through a circular window at one of the children, a girl, aged maybe twelve. She looked like she was in tremendous pain.

“We collect the spinal fluid which runs through these lines,” he said, pointing along the ceiling. “It’s purified in the lab at the end of the hall to make the serum.”

 “I see. And what’s her name?” we asked, indicating the child in restraints. Our subject didn’t seem to understand the question and made no reply, save a puzzled look.

To cut short the awkward silence our subject seemed content to let carry on indefinitely, we asked: “What does that mean?” pointing at a plaque above the door. It read Meester Ras[11] 6. Each door had a plaque above it with a corresponding number. Our host’s smile was the first we took to be genuine. “Don’t worry about it.”

The lunch that concluded our tour was uncommonly delicious.

[1] There is no god – eds.

[2] The subject of this profile is not a rocket scientist. He is a business visionary (BizVish®) who bought up a space exploration company. Rumors that he had the founders of the company disappeared persist, but our (admittedly quite shallow, which you will NEVER learn, as we’ve buried this disclosure in a footnote – in your FACE, Posterity!) research has not proved able to substantiate or repudiate these rumors.

[3] Reports that the subject of this profile is “weird and dumpy looking, despite having obviously received several dozen cosmetic procedures” is some laparoscopic BULLSHIT, according to the subject’s media team.

[4] The Jew York Times, for one. You been in their offices? Smells super-bagel-y in there, you guys. Are there dozens of other comparably unflattering characterizations of the subject, a man who delivered a public pledge to single-handedly end world hunger if NGOs could get their shit together and provide him feasible plan for doing so. The plan, crafted by a coalition of international nonprofits, was released days after he made this AMAZING AND SELFLESS pledge, is under review.  Has been for eleven years. It’s called due diligence, guys.

[5] What even are these potty-mouthed outlets that are permitting this kind of language? Do better, The Media.

[6] A recurring theme.

[7] The subject did not seem to believe this.

[8] In certain MISGUIDED circles, of course, this phrase has come to be synonymous with “degenerate rapists,” or “misogynist filth,” or simply “unprosecuted sex criminal,” it’s MEANT to convey “lusty in one’s enjoyments, perhaps occasionally crossing a line due to an excess of exuberance, I mean, Jesus, quit being so uptight.”

[9] “The SJS,” he insisted on calling it, doing finger guns every time he said this. Every time.

[10] See Note 6, above.

[11] Afrikaans for “master race.” See notes 6 and 10, above.