As the annual festival of forced cheer and domestic resentment approaches, the financial press has decided to gift us a rare, unvarnished look at the structural decay of the modern economy. They suggest we 'raise a glass' to concentrated market returns, a phrase that is little more than a polite euphemism for the fact that seven companies are currently acting as a pair of overpriced spanx, holding in the bloated, sagging midsection of the global market. It is a festive realization: the 'market' is no longer a diverse ecosystem of innovation and industry; it is a handful of tech overlords and a massive, trailing tail of corporate zombies shuffling toward the graveyard of 'former greatness.'

The data is as clear as it is depressing for anyone who still clings to the delusion of a broad-based recovery. While a tiny cadre of trillion-dollar behemoths—the so-called Magnificent Seven—drive the indices to dizzying heights, the vast majority of the S&P 500 is essentially treading water in a pool of their own irrelevance. This isn’t 'concentration' in the sense of a concentrated espresso; it’s concentration in the sense of a toxic spill in a residential pond. We are witnessing the cannibalization of the corporate world, where the success of a few high-frequency-trading darlings serves to mask the systemic failure of hundreds of companies that were once considered 'pillars' of the economy.

Consider the phrase 'former greatness.' It’s the kind of nostalgic bait that appeals to the moronic Right, who believe a return to 1955 and a few more coal mines will solve the existential dread of the digital age. They worship the 'Market' as a sentient god of meritocracy, blissfully ignoring that this same god is currently busy liquidating the very American middle-class stability they claim to defend. On the other side of the aisle, the performative Left will undoubtedly use these concentrated returns as a springboard for another round of shrill, ineffective moralizing. They will tweet their outrage about billionaire wealth from their latest iPhones, oblivious to the fact that their own passive index funds are the very mechanisms pumping air into these bloated valuations. Both sides are trapped in a feedback loop of hypocrisy, fueled by the very dividends they pretend to despise.

The reality is that we are living through the endgame of financialization. These 'concentrated returns' are the result of an economy that has stopped producing things of value and started producing algorithmic optimizations. When the majority of the market lags behind its previous peaks, it isn't just a temporary dip; it is a signal of obsolescence. We are watching the slow-motion collapse of companies that used to make things, replaced by companies that simply manage the data of our inevitable decline. To 'raise a glass' to this is like toast to the structural integrity of the iceberg while you’re standing on the deck of the Titanic. It’s a cynical exercise in ignoring the obvious: the foundation is gone, and we are just admiring the polish on the remaining pillars.

The 'Christmas Miracle' this year isn’t a rally; it’s the fact that the entire house of cards hasn’t been blown over by a stiff breeze yet. The retail investors, those brave souls who think they’re 'beating the system' by buying fractional shares on a brightly colored app, are merely providing the exit liquidity for the institutional ghouls who know exactly when the music will stop. We are told to celebrate the 'resilience' of the market, but resilience is just another word for the delay of the inevitable. The concentration of returns is the final stage of a monopoly game where one player owns all the hotels and the rest of us are just hoping to pass Go without being hit by a service fee.

So, by all means, raise your glass. Fill it with the cheapest sparkling wine you can find, because that’s all your stagnant wages and devalued currency can afford. Toast to the Magnificent Seven. Toast to the hundreds of 'formerly great' companies that are now just line items in a liquidation audit. Toast to the fact that we have collectively traded a functioning, broad-based economy for a few shiny apps that can deliver overpriced burritos to our doors while we watch the world burn. It’s a festive scene, provided you’re nihilistic enough to enjoy the view. Personally, I find the spectacle as tedious as a corporate HR holiday party—full of forced laughter, bad snacks, and the underlying knowledge that everyone is one quarter away from being redundant.