Epstein’s Birthday Book Exposes Elite Horrors

Vile letters, doctored covers, and grotesque gags expose Epstein’s inner circle, demonstrating how privilege and power allowed America’s elite to treat abuse as casual amusement.

Guest article by Michael Cohen. Follow him on Substack for more by clicking here.

If Jeffrey Epstein’s so-called “birthday book” had been produced by Comedy Central, it would’ve been billed as the filthiest roast in history—except the jokes weren’t funny or written by comics. They were written by presidents, lawyers, and billionaires who should’ve known better. Instead of Nikki Glaser poking fun at a movie star, we’ve got Ghislaine Maxwell compiling 238 pages of “tributes” to a sex trafficker, each dripping with innuendo, misogyny, and in some cases, outright depravity.

Take Johnny Boy Kafka, one of Epstein’s circle of grotesques, who thought it was hilarious to start his letter by describing, in pornographic detail, the sex act between Epstein’s parents that “created” him. Not metaphor, not veiled wordplay, but an actual graphic account—as if writing a blue movie script about conception was somehow birthday-card material. This wasn’t roasting; it was reveling in vulgarity, flaunting Epstein’s depravity as if the abuse were part of the punchline. Kafka’s bile sets the tone for a scrapbook that reads less like a celebration and more like a confessional booth where predators winked at each other in code.

And then there’s Alan Dershowitz. Ever desperate to prove himself the court jester of Epstein’s inner circle, Dershowitz went the extra mile. His apparent typed note bragged that he had obtained an early version of Vanity Unfair and “talked them into changing the focus from you to Bill Clinton.” Attached was a mock cover he cobbled together, complete with fake headlines like “Al-Qaeda in South America financed by Epstein?” and “Jeffrey Epstein’s Bloody Summer.” That’s not clever—that’s grotesque. Imagine a Harvard law professor, a man who never met a camera he didn’t love, spending his time joking about terrorism and blood-soaked summers with a convicted pedophile. Dershowitz now claims he doesn’t “recall” what he wrote. Convenient. The survivors remember all too well—and they don’t have the luxury of rewriting their history as parody.

Bill Clinton’s contribution was vanilla by comparison: a simple “Happy 50th” that looks like it belongs in an office break room card. His team insists he cut ties with Epstein long before 2019. Maybe. But there it sits, his name in black and white, a reminder that Epstein’s Rolodex reached the highest levels of power.

And of course, President Trump. Democrats on the Oversight Committee released a page showing Trump’s name in the book, his jagged signature scrawled like graffiti. Trump denied it immediately and sent his minions out to do damage control. Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt insisted the signature wasn’t his. Taylor Budowich played amateur graphologist, posting side-by-side samples of Trump’s John Hancock like he was running a handwriting seminar. But here’s the problem: it looks exactly like Trump’s signature—especially the ones where he signs only his first name. What’s puzzling is why Trump would deny it at all, given that his page in the book is tame compared to the vile and graphic entries from others, like Kafka.

Now, let’s be precise about the most shocking “gag” in the book: the oversized $22,500 check made out for a “fully depreciated woman.” That check wasn’t signed by Trump and it wasn’t from him. It was a joke concocted by one of Epstein’s friends, poking fun at Epstein’s habit of commodifying women—and, oddly, at Trump as well. What’s striking is that Trump’s name was even pulled into it. Why would Epstein’s circle think that attaching Trump to the sale of a woman was funny, or fitting? Why would Trump even tolerate being the butt of that kind of “joke”? It wasn’t a roast—it was a reflection of how naturally others thought his name fit into the language of exploitation, business or otherwise.

This is the pattern throughout the book. These aren’t jokes, they’re breadcrumbs. Every vile note, every doctored photo, every lewd caption is a coded acknowledgment of what Epstein was doing and who was standing around, laughing. The scrapbook is less about celebrating Epstein’s 50 years of life and more about cataloging the normalization of his perversion and crimes.

And here’s where it gets darker: the birthday book is grotesque, but it’s not the real treasure trove. The true files—the ones with names, acts, and evidence—sit in the desk of Attorney General Pam Bondi. Think about that. A woman who built her career defending Trump, who stood on television spinning his scandals into fairy tales, now controls the very documents that could expose the most powerful predators in America. She hasn’t released them. She hasn’t even hinted at transparency. Instead, she’s playing gatekeeper, hiding behind “redactions” and “caution.” But let’s call it what it is: obstruction dressed up as discretion.

Bondi isn’t protecting victims. She’s protecting reputations. She isn’t securing justice; she’s securing silence. Every day those files stay locked in her desk, survivors remain denied their chance at accountability, while the guilty men—men whose names could shake Washington and Wall Street—enjoy their freedom in their mansions and on their yachts. Bondi’s inaction doesn’t just delay justice; it becomes complicity. She is shielding the predators with the full weight of the Justice Department behind her.

But instead of justice, we get political theater. Oversight Chair James Comer rages at Democrats for “cherry-picking” documents. He insists Republicans want “transparency.” Please. If transparency were the goal, Bondi’s vault would already be empty and survivors would have answers. What we have instead is another stall, another dance, another round of denials while predators age comfortably out of reach.

The birthday book is a grotesque artifact, but it also proves what we already knew: Epstein’s crimes weren’t secrets. They were celebrated, mocked, and shared in plain sight by men who thought themselves untouchable. The roast is over. Survivors deserve the reckoning. And until Pam Bondi unlocks that desk, America will remain complicit in the punchline.

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