“Are you in the Epstein files?”

“No, Aussie. Are you?”

“So far, no. Is Illegal?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Lori?”

“Who knows?”

“Is anybody in the family mentioned in the Epstein files?”

“Not so far. There are millions of documents there, it’ll take time to know about everybody.”

“Bernie?”

“Not to my knowledge, Auss?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think we were in his league. For one thing, we never met.”

“That’s what everybody says, which means they attended parties but never traveled on his private jet.”

“I don’t think we shared the same circles.”

“Are you kidding?  With all the Zen teachers around?”

“Look, Auss, we had our scandals for sure, but what happened around Jeffrey Epstein is on a whole other level.”

“It’s just my luck to be adopted by such a nothing family. We must be the only ones in the world who didn’t make it into the Epstein files. How come you’re not a big money-maker? How come you’re not a great artist or writer or politician or movie-maker or philosopher or head of the USA Olympics? How come you’re none of those things?”

“I don’t know, Aussie. Not smart enough, I guess.”

“What good is this blog if not one post—NOT ONE POST!—made it into the Epstein files? Shame on you!”

“I try, Aussie—”

“Now, make an effort here. Did he ever make a donation? I bet he did. I bet he made big donations to get your attention.”

“I don’t think so, Aussie. And I don’t think he ever donated to the Immigrant Fund.”

“Of course not, why would he? There’s nothing remotely interesting about that. It used to be that successful people had funny letters after their names to show how successful they are, you know, like Ph.D., M.D., C.P.A., J.D., HRH. None of that means anything anymore. Now the big criterion for success is whether your name is in the Epstein files.”

“Aussie, I think you’re exaggerating a little.”

“I’m ashamed to show my face, the only pooch who’s not part of a Jeffrey Epstein family. Are you sure you didn’t know him just a little? Didn’t discuss contemporary literature with him with a cappuccino and beignet?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Did he ever contact Bernie to talk about enlightenment, and why not do it on a beautiful island surrounded by girls overdressed in bikinis?”

“Aussie, you’re talking rape and human trafficking.”

“I wish he’d invited me, but I’d be too old for him.”

“Not to mention that you’re a dog. Aussie, what he and others did was terrible. It reflects so much about how money and power intersect, and who suffers.”

“Give me a break! It’s capitalism at work. What about the monthly Thursday evening schmoozes you and Bernie had after his stroke? He must have come to one of those just to suss things out. Maybe incognito. Are we at least Epstein-adjacent?”

“What does that mean, Aussie?”

“If there are millions of files about all the important people he knew, think of how many files there are on people who might have known him. All of them with money, fame, or power, all of them come Thursday waiting for a phone call saying: ‘Hi, it’s Ghislaine. Do you have plans for the weekend?’ Never got a phone call like that?”

“Never, Aussie.”

“And you’re sure you’re one of the five Americans who didn’t make it into the Epstein files? Maybe in a footnote? The index? Acknowledgments?”

“Pretty sure, Auss.”

“How can you be such a nothing?”