We live in perilous times. It quite often feels as though the worst demons in hell have been loosed upon the world, conspiring in plain sight to corrupt our moral fabric and lay waste to what remains of Western civilization. But enough about Candace Owens.

Fortunately, this was the year that Richard Bruce Cheney finally entered the Kingdom of Heaven, having conquered all there is to conquer here on Earth. He will by now have assembled a coalition of the righteous to strike the infernal rogue state with overwhelming force and seize its oil supply. Enemies of freedom, no matter the cosmic plane on which they fester, will never outrun the penetrating glare of America's Dick.

Many of us had come to suspect that Cheney could not be killed. He survived five heart attacks that would have cut down lesser men in the prime of life. His body was as flawless in form as his soul was immaculate in purpose. He departed on his own terms, just in time to spare himself the indignity of watching New York City—the failed metropolis whose desecration he avenged with lethal force—be overtaken by a terrorist-supporting Marxist. He went out on a high note, having witnessed months earlier the successful U.S. bombing of Iran.

Now that Cheney is gone, the free world's debt—so much owed by so many to one man—will never be repaid. Millions liberated from tyranny through successful military intervention abroad. Millions kept safe at home. An exceptional nation's thirst for justice, quenched atop a staggering pile of dead terrorists. Osama bin Laden, hunted down like a dog with the help of intelligence gleaned from the robust interrogation techniques Cheney pioneered.

No other man, with the possible exception of Teddy Roosevelt, has truly embodied the rugged, masculine spirit of the American outdoors. Cheney wore a cowboy hat—the only man in history to do so without looking like a poser bitch—and bestrode the untamed Wyoming frontier with a swaggering majesty. He once shot a hunting companion in the face "accidentally." The wounded man apologized for the inconvenience.

Like all men of unyielding valor, Cheney's greatness was sharpened by the wretched quality of his enemies—of which, sadly, there were many. Yet even in death, he beclowned them. Mainstream journalists—the same spineless libs who spent years denouncing Cheney as a Nazi war criminal—showered him with praise. All he had to do was criticize Donald Trump, aka Neocon Don, the man who bombed the mullahs into submission. It was as though Cheney had summoned these pundits to endure the same act of self-abasement he invited Patrick Leahy to perform on the Senate floor. They were eager to comply, the sickos.

The Washington Free Beacon hereby consecrates Dick Cheney as Man of All the Years. The only other person to receive the honor is Hunter Biden, a colossus of virility in his own right. Cheney has done more than enough to warrant his inclusion atop this august pedestal of manhood. If anything, the distinction fails to fully encompass his towering legacy. He is, indeed, the Man for All Eternity.