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Cake day: January 23rd, 2025

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  • Thank you! Yeah, Libertarian Police is top tier:

    Libertarian Police™ Department

    I was shooting heroin and reading “The Fountainhead” in the front seat of my privately owned police cruiser when a call came in. I put a quarter in the radio to activate it. It was the chief.

    “Bad news, detective. We got a situation.”

    “What? Is the mayor trying to ban trans fats again?”

    “Worse. Somebody just stole four hundred and forty-seven million dollars’ worth of bitcoins.”

    The heroin needle practically fell out of my arm. “What kind of monster would do something like that? Bitcoins are the ultimate currency: virtual, anonymous, stateless. They represent true economic freedom, not subject to arbitrary manipulation by any government. Do we have any leads?”

    “Not yet. But mark my words: we’re going to figure out who did this and we’re going to take them down … provided someone pays us a fair market rate to do so.”

    “Easy, chief,” I said. “Any rate the market offers is, by definition, fair.”

    He laughed. “That’s why you’re the best I got, Lisowski. Now you get out there and find those bitcoins.”

    “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m on it.”

    I put a quarter in the siren. Ten minutes later, I was on the scene. It was a normal office building, strangled on all sides by public sidewalks. I hopped over them and went inside.

    “Home Depot™ Presents the Police!®” I said, flashing my badge and my gun and a small picture of Ron Paul. “Nobody move unless you want to!” They didn’t.

    “Now, which one of you punks is going to pay me to investigate this crime?” No one spoke up.

    “Come on,” I said. “Don’t you all understand that the protection of private property is the foundation of all personal liberty?”

    It didn’t seem like they did.

    “Seriously, guys. Without a strong economic motivator, I’m just going to stand here and not solve this case. Cash is fine, but I prefer being paid in gold bullion or autographed Penn Jillette posters.”

    Nothing. These people were stonewalling me. It almost seemed like they didn’t care that a fortune in computer money invented to buy drugs was missing.

    I figured I could wait them out. I lit several cigarettes indoors. A pregnant lady coughed, and I told her that secondhand smoke is a myth. Just then, a man in glasses made a break for it.

    “Subway™ Eat Fresh and Freeze, Scumbag!®” I yelled.

    Too late. He was already out the front door. I went after him.

    “Stop right there!” I yelled as I ran. He was faster than me because I always try to avoid stepping on public sidewalks. Our country needs a private-sidewalk voucher system, but, thanks to the incestuous interplay between our corrupt federal government and the public-sidewalk lobby, it will never happen.

    I was losing him. “Listen, I’ll pay you to stop!” I yelled. “What would you consider an appropriate price point for stopping? I’ll offer you a thirteenth of an ounce of gold and a gently worn ‘Bob Barr ‘08’ extra-large long-sleeved men’s T-shirt!”

    He turned. In his hand was a revolver that the Constitution said he had every right to own. He fired at me and missed. I pulled my own gun, put a quarter in it, and fired back. The bullet lodged in a U.S.P.S. mailbox less than a foot from his head. I shot the mailbox again, on purpose.

    “All right, all right!” the man yelled, throwing down his weapon. “I give up, cop! I confess: I took the bitcoins.”

    “Why’d you do it?” I asked, as I slapped a pair of Oikos™ Greek Yogurt Presents Handcuffs® on the guy.

    “Because I was afraid.”

    “Afraid?”

    “Afraid of an economic future free from the pernicious meddling of central bankers,” he said. “I’m a central banker.”

    I wanted to coldcock the guy. Years ago, a central banker killed my partner. Instead, I shook my head.

    “Let this be a message to all your central-banker friends out on the street,” I said. “No matter how many bitcoins you steal, you’ll never take away the dream of an open society based on the principles of personal and economic freedom.”

    He nodded, because he knew I was right. Then he swiped his credit card to pay me for arresting him.





  • Ethan Cole had always been a man of ambition. Fresh out of business school, he clawed his way up the corporate ladder, making calculated moves, shaking the right hands, and cutting the right deals. By 42, he was the CEO of Dynamax Industries, a multimillion-dollar tech company. He had the mansion, the sports cars, the perfect family. He was a man at the top of his game.

    And then, one day, someone left a pack of Oreos in the break room.

    At first, it was innocent. A treat here and there. A reward after a tough meeting. But something about the combination—the crispness of the cookie, the smooth, sweet cream—lodged itself deep in his mind. Soon, he wasn’t just eating Oreos. He was craving them.

    He started keeping a pack in his office drawer. Then a stash in his car. Then entire cases delivered discreetly to his home. The real tipping point came when he discovered what he called doing a line—eating an entire row straight from the tray in one sitting. The rush was intoxicating. The sheer indulgence, the loss of control—it was better than any corporate victory.

    At first, his wife, Claire, laughed it off. “At least it’s not whiskey or cocaine,” she’d say. But as weeks turned to months, his obsession deepened. His once-razor-sharp focus dulled. Meetings ran late because he was sneaking away for a quick line. His tailored suits started to strain at the seams. His fingers were constantly smudged with dark crumbs.

    The board took notice. Investors grew uneasy. Claire stopped laughing.

    One evening, she found him in the kitchen at 2 a.m., hunched over the counter, surrounded by empty blue packages. The kids’ lunch Oreos, gone. The emergency stash, obliterated.

    “Ethan, this has to stop,” she pleaded.

    He wiped his mouth, his eyes wild. “You don’t get it, Claire. This… this is the only thing that still makes sense to me.”

    She packed up the kids and left the next morning.

    From there, the downward spiral accelerated. He missed meetings. Forgot deadlines. Showed up to a shareholders’ event with Oreo dust on his tie. The board had no choice but to remove him.

    His severance barely lasted six months. By the end of the year, he had lost everything—his job, his family, his home. But still, he chased the high.

    He wandered the streets, trading pocket change for his fix. At first, it was regular store-bought packs, but soon, he turned to back-alley dealers who peddled special Oreos—double-stuffed with mysterious, off-market fillings. Some said they came from overseas factories, unregulated and dangerous. Ethan didn’t care.

    One night, in the pouring rain, he crouched in a filthy alleyway, a tattered trench coat wrapped around his shivering body. His fingers trembled as he opened a sketchy pack of Golden Oreos. Something was off—the color, the smell—but he ignored the warning bells in his mind.

    With a desperate hunger, he stuffed the cookies into his mouth, barely chewing. The taste was wrong. Chemical. Bitter. His throat tightened. His vision blurred. His body convulsed, collapsing against the cold, wet pavement.

    As the rain washed over him, the city lights dimming in his fading vision, a single thought echoed in his mind.

    Just one more line.

    And then, darkness.