12/21/2025
🎄 ’Twas the Night Before Supper Club – 2025 Edition 🎄
’Twas the night before Supper Club, and all through the thread, The group chat was buzzing with what still lay ahead. The jackets were pressed and hung up with care, In hopes that each member would actually be there.
The members were nestled all snug in their rides, Some coming from Jersey, some from warmer tides. And Benna in blazer, clipboard in hand, Was ready to lead with one final stand.
Banker was swirling his fourth glass of red,
Spouting aromas that lived in his head.
“Notes of leather and oak!” he proclaimed to the group— Though someone swore it just smelled like fruit soup.
Steve Manfre walked in with a confident smile,
Now fluent in AI and machine-learning style.
“ChatGPT wrote my toast,” he began with a smirk— “While I made my portfolio do all the work.”
Then Greg raised his glass with a sheepish grin,
“Let me tell you boys how my hosting caved in.
I picked the whole spot, the vibe was just right—
Then Delta said, ‘Nah, you’re grounded tonight.’
So while you all feasted, with wine and with flair,
I was main course to a plastic airport chair.”
Jim arrived sharp, tailored head to toe,
A gentleman’s presence, a presidential glow.
He hosted with grace, from cocktails to steak,
And did it with class that’s not easy to fake.
Davis flew in from Florida’s shore,
Still louder than most when he walked through the door. With a volume reserved for arena-sized calls, He echoed through dinners and vibrated walls.
Matty G rolled in, cool as can be,
Claiming, “You clowns could never outclass me.”
He scoffed at traditions, but still brought delight—
Even lit a menorah mid-dinner one night.
Phil, ever loyal in RSVP tone,
Would text, “I’ll be there!”—then leave us alone.
Each dinner approached with his trademark tease,
But the only Phil sighting was seen in the breeze.
Bosco showed up with his wallet unzipped,
And quadrupled a tip that was already tipped.
The waitress retired and bought her own yacht,
While Bosco just grinned and said, “What? I forgot!”
John brought his daughters, a beautiful twist,
A rule bent with reason no one could resist.
Talks of the future began to take flight,
As the next-gen Supper Club glowed into night.
D-Man had vanished, a ghost through the year,
No jokes, no replies, no dinners, no cheer.
But as December arrived, so did the man,
With courage to share what no one else can.
Life had been heavy—too heavy to speak—
Yet he stood with his brothers, no need to be meek. We welcomed him back with a nod and a clap, a reminder that Supper Club always has your back.
From the back corner came a subtle hush—
Three members emerged from the holiday rush.
Rutan had missed most of the regular fare,
Drawn to the sidelines, to playbooks and prayer.
Ken gave a nod, quiet strength in his stare,
Sipping his red with badge-worthy flair.
And Nitti, composed, our Commish with the pen,
Balanced the rules for the Supper Club men.
Together they entered like a well-timed attack—
The law, the logistics, and the playoff fallback.
Mike Manfre took charge as this year’s big host,
At the holiday bash he was doing the most.
With ci**rs, aged whiskey, and some questionable cheer,
And side bets that lost like they do every year.
“Investor’s Club,” he called with a grin—
“You Venmo me cash, I promise we’ll win!”
Then Boyer walked in with a napkin in tow,
Already mid-sweat from a pre-dinner glow.
Was it nerves? Was it steak? No one could say—
But the man wiped his brow like he’d run a 5K.
At the head stood President Benna with pride,
Clipboard in hand and Ken by his side.
He banged on the glass and summoned the crew,
With a grin that said, “You all know what to do.”
“Brothers,” he boomed, “we made it once more,
Through canceled events and surprise airport lore.
We’ve broken some rules, added new names,
And argued all year about sides and their claims.
But one thing holds true—through the loud and the light— Supper Club’s bond is forever airtight.
”And the laughter it roared, and the wine it did pour,
As the members all toasted to dinners and more.
And just before jackets were flung on their backs,
Came a whisper that cut through the clatter and clacks…
“Supper Club to all, and to all a good bite—
Now someone please Uber Phil home for the night.”
