It’s true. Aleksey Vayner is my friend. I rule!

The events and allegations of the past few days have grieved me enormously. I cannot conceive of a person with more passion, drive and dedication than Aleksey. The fact that this is happening to him, of all people, is inconceivable. No one, not even The Christ himself, has ever had as much passion as Aleksey.

Aleksey and I were born to gypsies in the Siberian tundra under a full, red moon. The young tot was born with the umbilical cord tied around his neck, came out a caul around his face and was birthed feet-first. A thunderous, masculine sound could be heard from the heavens. This was later attributed to God, allegedly clapping in admiration for Aleksey’s record-setting birth, which took a grand total of seventeen weeks and a day.

Thus, when it seems like Aleksey is claiming that it’s his birthday just so he can get a free meal everyday, he’s not lying. His birthday goes on forever.

Our childhood, however, was typical. We spent our days frolicking about the Tibetan mountainscape, getting into trouble for the same sort of stuff kids get in trouble for: spraying graffiti on the monastery walls, killing a yak from 200 miles away (with mindbullets!). We would train under the cover of night, honing our bodies to the peak of physical perfection. It is my firm belief (one that was confirmed by his eminence himself, Steven Seagal) that, while I may not have achieved this perfection, Aleksey sure did.

Because, if you see the video, Aleksey is holding back. He believes in fairness, and the original video set the bar so high up, it was in the vicinity of the planet Pluto. Then the planet Pluto ceased to be, and Aleksey, in a spell of compassion, filmed a new video of his abilities, this time using only 20 percent of his mega-life-force. Instead of four score bricks, he breaks only six. He also slowed down his tennis serve, which, at full force, cannot yet be detected by even the most advanced of man-made cameras.

In the monastery, we learned that Aleksey was the descendant of an old Lama. This makes sense. We always called him the Enlightened One, and his aura shone like the sun. It was here that Aleksey discovered his ultra fighting powers. The best fighter in our monastery, he entered a mythical tournament to find, once and for all, the greatest fighter in the world. In it, he defeated the likes of Zangief, Baraka and a pushy bald man named Sagat. Unfortunately, he lost to Shao Kahn in the last fight. But let’s not take anything away from Aleksey. He might not have won the event, but he is still the second best fighter in the world. Like the proletariat says, props.

Soon, we grew weary of the monastic life. When one is as young and brimming with vigor as Aleksey is, a yearning for transcendence sets upon your heart like a great, golden eagle. This yearning compels you to go forth and conquer mankind, shining the light of eons on the unilluminated.

And so, Aleksey came to America. When recruited by the Mafia, he volunteered to join the CIA in order to keep the universe balanced.

But we soon grew tired of the gadgets, the cool murders and the bikini babes. So we became tennis instructors. The likes of Harrison Ford (absolutely hopeless) and Sarah Michelle Gellar (nice backhand) came through our courts, which we built as an exact replica of Wimbledon, right down to the queen. People think that we just got Aleksey’s aunt to play the queen, but what they don’t know is that Aleksey’s aunt really is the queen, and the old bag living at Buckingham palace is an impostor, placed there by the Illuminati — at the behest of Aleksey — so that he may spend time with his favorite aunt.

But I digress. The tennis clinic was a mild success, but it was a bit too small. We needed to diversify and moved on to other sports. We taught Marisa Tomei the art of the steeplechase and Jessica Alba to play Boccee Ball. The notoriety, in truth, got to be too much. That, and the fact that Jessica Alba was issued a restraining order and enjoined from approaching within 300 yards of Aleksey, forced us to change occupations once again.

Aleksey’s supernatural power netted him big gains: He was one of four people who was licensed to handle nuclear waste in Connecticut. Aleksey is actually too modest to mention it, so I’ll do it for him: Of the four, he was the only one equipped to do it without gloves. I believe I don’t need to tell you what he stirred the coals with; you’re a smart crowd and can figure that out on your own.

We wandered for a while and did odd jobs. Aleksey ghost-wrote several books, including two Pulitzer prize winners. He rescinded a Fields Medal, murdered the Pope (it had to be done. Long story.) and predicted not only the location, but also the precise second that the last piece of Skylab would fall to Earth. Thank God he figured it out in time: a boys’ orphanage was located there, and this would have been the time that they held their annual mixer with the girls’ orphanage across the street. Aleksey evacuated the orphanage and moved them to a nicer, larger home that he built with his bare hands out of one massive block of Mahogany.

Now, all Aleksey and I wanted were nice, sedate lives as college students. He enrolled at Yale. I came to Cornell. We still keep in touch, and he usually answers the phone. He’s a prince of a fellow. That is why the besmirching of his solid name and the staining of his sterling reputation vexes me so. Oh, that I could extend the hand of solidarity to him, much as he has extended the hand of greatness to humanity at large!

Ah Aleksey! Ah Humanity!

Carlos Maycotte is The Sun’s Associate Editor. He can be contacted at cam98@cornell.edu. Tequila Sunrise appears Thursdays.