HMO's Plummet in Massive Selloff

One day, in line at the cubefarm cafeteria, Joe says to Mike behind him, "My elbow hurts like a sonofabitch. I guess I'd better go see a doctor."

"Listen," says Mike, "you don't have to spend that kind of money. There's a diagnostic computer down at Costco™. Just give it a urine sample and the computer will diagnosis the problem and prescribe the remedy--it takes ten seconds and costs $9.99--a whole shitload cheaper than a quack slaving for an HMO!"

Desperate, Joe heads for the mens' room, deposits a urine sample in a used water bottle which, alas, fits easily and takes it to the Costco™ computer on Aisle 4.

He deposits ten dollars, retrieves the change, the computer lights up, whirrs and a message appears:

PLEASE POUR URINE SAMPLE IN RECEPTACLE.

Joe pours the urine into the slot and waits.

Ten seconds later, the computer ejects a printout:

YOU HAVE TENNIS ELBOW. SOAK YOUR ARM IN EPSOM SALTS (AISLE 1) AND WARM WATER, TAKE TYLENOL™ AS REQUIRED AND AVOID HEAVY ACTIVITY. IT WILL CLEAR UP IN TWO WEEKS.

THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING @ COSTCO!

That evening, while thinking over this new technology and considering a massive purchase of calls, Joe is, as usual, beset by doubts--stock options never work for him, even the covered ones.

Suddenly, Joe begins wondering if the computer can be fooled.

So he mixes some tap water, a stool sample from his dog, urine samples from his wife and daughter and a sperm sample from himself for good measure.

Joe hurries back to Costco™, eager to check the result. He deposits ten dollars, pours in his concoction and awaits the outcome.

Ten seconds later, the computer prints out the following:

1. YOUR TAP WATER IS TOO HARD. GET A WATER SOFTENER (AISLE 9).
2. YOUR DOG HAS RINGWORM. BATHE HIM TWICE A WEEK IN ANTI-FUNGAL SHAMPOO (AISLE 7).
3. YOUR DAUGHTER IS ADDICTED TO CRACK COCAINE. GET HER INTO REHAB.
4. YOUR WIFE IS PREGNANT WITH TWINS. THEY ARE NOT YOURS. GET A LAWYER.
5. IF YOU DON'T STOP PLAYING WITH YOURSELF, YOUR ELBOW WILL NEVER HEAL.

THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING @ COSTCO!

.

Why Santa Didn't Answer Your Letter

Starring Bernie Madoff as S. Claus.

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!"

.