if only I “dare I eat a peach”-ed just a little bit more, I could be a millionaire. A fucking millionaire. I’d be cold lampin’ in hot tubs full of Dom Perignon, smoking Cuban cigars with my fellow humble people, the Saint Moritz night air churned by our DiBiasian cackling at the wretched souls so narrow-minded as to take their own side in a quarrel.1 And yet, here I sit…in a modest Japanese soaking tub…full of Coke Zero…trying to get ChatGPT to tell me what Aaron Rodgers’ deal is, because I mean, really.