There is something profoundly touching, in a terminal illness sort of way, about the news that global investors are heading into 2026 with "remarkable optimism." It is the kind of optimism one usually associates with a toddler playing on a busy freeway or a man convinced his third divorce will finally be the one based on "mutual respect." To look at the current state of human civilization—a jagged, sputtering mess of geopolitical friction, ecological collapse, and cultural rot—and conclude that the numbers on a screen will continue their diagonal ascent is not just an economic forecast; it is a clinical diagnosis. It is a testament to the human capacity for denial, a psychological fortress built out of spreadsheets and sheer, unadulterated hubris.

Behold the modern investor: a creature with the foresight of a goldfish and the moral compass of a parasitic wasp. They look at the horizon and see a golden meadow, conveniently ignoring the fact that the grass is actually radioactive fire. The report tells us that few expect a crash in the year to come. Of course they don’t. Expecting a crash requires a functional memory and a rudimentary understanding of cause and effect—two traits that have been systematically bred out of the financial sector in favor of high-frequency trading algorithms and vibes-based valuation. The "optimism" they feel isn't based on reality; it’s based on the fact that they’ve spent so long huffing the fumes of cheap credit that they’ve forgotten what oxygen feels like.

The political landscape, naturally, offers no shelter from this storm of stupidity. On the Right, we have the usual collection of deregulatory vultures and greed-driven morons who believe that if we just strip away a few more "burdensome" protections—like, say, child labor laws or basic air quality standards—the economy will reach a state of permanent, friction-free nirvana. They view 2026 as a buffet where the only thing on the menu is more. They are convinced that the "market" is a sentient deity that rewards the cruel and punishes the prudent, and as long as they keep sacrificing the future at the altar of quarterly earnings, the sun will never set on their portfolio. It’s a philosophy of "I’ve got mine, so the physics of collapse don’t apply to me."

On the Left, the performative hypocrisy is even more nauseating. We have the ESG crowd, those brave warriors of "conscious capitalism" who believe they can save the planet by moving numbers from one digital ledger to another while flying private to discuss the carbon footprint of the peasantry. They are optimistic because they’ve managed to convince themselves that a "green" recession is somehow better than a standard one, or that they can invest their way out of a burning house. They speak in the hushed, sanctimonious tones of people who believe that as long as the exploitation is "sustainable" and the board of directors is sufficiently diverse, the inevitable correction will somehow skip over them. They are unified with their counterparts on the right by a single, shimmering thread of idiocy: the belief that the system is actually functioning.

History is a graveyard of "remarkable optimism." Every era has its own brand of fiscal hubris, usually arriving just before the floor falls out and the screaming begins. To say that "few expect a crash" is the ultimate contrarian indicator. It is the silence before the tectonic plates shift. It is the moment in the horror movie where the blonde girl decides to investigate the scratching sound in the basement while wearing a towel. The current optimism is a form of mass hysteria, a shared hallucination where the sheer weight of our collective debt and the fragility of our supply chains are treated as minor "headwinds" rather than the structural failures they actually are.

We are living in a time where the disconnect between the "economy" and the lives of actual human beings has become a yawning chasm, and the investors are currently dancing in the gap. They are celebrating the fact that the fire hasn't reached their floor yet, oblivious to the fact that the foundation is made of kerosene-soaked rags. They call it "resilience." I call it a collective lobotomy. They are betting on a 2026 that exists only in their fever dreams—a world where consequences are optional and growth is infinite. It would be funny if it weren't so pathetic. As they head into the new year with their heads held high and their eyes tightly shut, the rest of us are left to wonder just how loud the thud will be when reality finally remembers that it still exists.