The Investment Banker's Story

Morris, the investment banker, has a heart attack at his desk but is resuscitated in the ER by a group of insane doctors crazed by their plummeting portfolios which is a miracle.

The lead surgeon, whose hands are visibly trembling--not from the operation but from the steep fall in Citigroup --says: "Mr Morris, break it to me gently. Will Citigroup ever rebound?"

"I doubt it. The market doesn't lie or inflate medical bills. That's the price and it looks like it's headed either for nationalization...or zero."

"Ohhhhh Jesus Jumpup Christ," moans the surgeon, "I'm fucked!" he says, breaking into tears.

Then he turns to Morris and says tearily, "By the way, so are you--you have 24 hours to live, incredibly sorry and all that other shit, please sign out at the desk and sign the bill, ok? Are you dead certain about Citigroup...?" he implores the patient with a decrepit whimper....

But Morris is already out the door and the bill can go straight onto the hospital's Chapter 11 application.

Morris, who is also in up to his neck in Citi, takes a cab back to the apartment with the Mariana Trench mortgage, opens the door, sets down his briefcase and, incredibly, finds himself horny as a two-peckered billygoat.

Of course, he has to give the wife the bad news; but since she does not follow the market and basically lives to shop, she takes it in stride and asks him if he'd like anything special for dinner.

"No, I'm not hungry. What I really need, Doris, is a good blow job and a fuck."

Naturally, she agrees, so they make love right there on the living room floor.

About six hours later, Morris approaches the missus once again and and says, "Honey, you know I now have only 18 hours to live. How 'bout it?"

"Of course, sweetie," replies the wife and they do it again, this time on the kitchen table.

Later, as Morris is getting into bed, he looks at his watch and realizes that he now has only eight hours left.

He caresses his wife's shoulder ever so gently and murmurs, "Snookiepie, please... just one more time before I die."

"Of course, dear," she says. And they do the horizontal nasty for the third time.

After this session, the wife rolls over and falls into a deep slumber, utterly exhausted.

Morris, however, worried about his impending death under the shadow of the tremendous hit he took on a bank managed by fellow Yale alumni of George W. Bush, tosses and turns relentlessly--but there is no end to it, he is deep into the utter blackness of death and despair, especially in the context of a market meltdown the likes of which he'd never even imagined in his worst days sitting at that goddamned desk.

He looks at the bedside clock. The pitiless motherfucker stares back at him like the useless foreign-made piece of shit it truly is....

He's down to a mere four more hours.

Desperate and yet still unnaturally--irrationally--randy, he taps his wife's shoulder urgently.

"Honey, Honey! I only have four hours to go! Do you think we could--"

The wife sits up suddenly, totally petulant and fed up.

"Listen, Morris, that's it, goddammit, I have to get up in the morning! You don't!"

.