Klaatu Barada Nikto

Guy walks into a saloon, there's a robot bartender shining a tumbler.

The robot says, "Yessir. What'll it be?"

The customer says, "Martini."

The robot brings back the best martini the customer's ever tasted. Then the robotender says to the customer: "Pardon me for prying, Sir, but might I inquire what your IQ is?"

The guy says, "168."

The robot launches into a discussion of Quantum Mechanics, Freud's theory of the death instinct and Wittgenstein's Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.

With regret, the customer finishes his martini then departs.

But his interest has been piqued. So he spins a U-ey and walks back into the bar.

The robot bartender says, "Yessir. What'll it be?"

The guy says, "Martini."

The robotender concocts the transcendental martini, blended at the molecular level, while flinging the shaker ten feet into the air where it hovers for four seconds then executes a double gainer before landing perfectly in the robot's carbonfibre claw.

The robot places a napkin on the bar and sets the chilled glass with double olives in front of the customer.

"Pardon me for prying, Sir, but might I inquire what your IQ is?" inquires the robot.

The customer says, "100."

The robot immediately launches into a discussion of the Dodgers, the price of gasoline and those fucking Republicans.

The customer finishes the martini with a sigh, finding this turn of events suddenly compelling. Reluctantly, he departs.

Out on the street, he decides to try it just one more time.

He walks back into the bar.

The robot says, "Yessir. What'll it be?"

The guy says, "Martini" and the robot brings him a libation which, due to a sudden drop in localized isobaric pressure together with an unexpected spike in sunspot activity, may be the greatest martini he has ever served.

Napkin. Double olives.

The robot then says, "Pardon me for prying, Sir, but might I inquire what your IQ is?"

The guy says, "Just under 60."

The robot leans in real close, lowers his voice and whispers: "Sir, I have certain information pertaining to the coming boom in the value of the US Dollar. Would you be interested in this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?"

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This Is London Calling

A Scotsman, carrying a huge suitcase, has been riding a London bus for five miles along its route, all the while attempting to avoid the ticket collector.

Finally, the conductor manages to corner him and orders him to pay up: "You've been on for five miles--that'll be 50p, please, and 10p for your suitcase."

The Scotsman responds: "I ha'not, I want a ha'p'ny fare, just got on this vera moment."

They begin to argue and the ticket collector becomes ever more enraged and finally, as the bus is passing over London Bridge, he grabs the Scotsman's suitcase and hurls it out of the bus.

It lands in the river and sinks without a trace.

The Scotsman stands gobsmacked for a moment and says to the ticket collector, "Not only are ye tryin' to overcharge me for the ticket...but now you've gone 'n' drowned me boy Robbie!"

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Big Dick Fuld

Big Dick Fuld, CEO of Lehman Brothers, was not the type of űber-executive who suffered fools gladly.

On an impromptu tour of the 23rd trading floor packed with driven MBA's staring into computer screens, talking feverishly into their headsets, flogging CDS's and AAA-rated securitized mortgage and credit-card debt packages that would eventually end up in Beijing, Big Dick, ever vigilant, noticed one person leaning casually against a wall--doing absolutely nothing.

Big Dick decided to shake things up: his bonus depended upon a year-end bonanza and it was already November--November 2007. He needed to set an example.

He needed to impress upon one and all that he meant business. Serious Business.

All eyes on the great man, Big Dick walked up to the guy leaning against the wall, then looked him up and down with contempt that verged on GBH. Then he inquired with absolute disgust, "Tell me something, my friend. How much money do you make a week?"

Taken aback, the young man tried to look Big Dick in the eye and finally managed a reply: "$400 a week...?"

The object of media adoration took this in, nodding in disbelief. He allowed the moment to breathe, as it were, like an expensive wine just decorked. Then he shook his head wearily and cast a glance around the floor, now silent with all MBA's fixated on the high drama taking place before their very eyes.

"Tell you what I'm gonna do, my friend," said Big Dick, pulling a massive clip of hundreds out of his front pocket, peeling them off, one by one for the benefit of everyone looking on.

Then he violently shoved the cash in the young man's front pocket and screamed: "HERE'S FOUR WEEKS PAY, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT!!! NOW GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE AND DON'T EVER COME BACK!!"

Big Dick's face was crimson with fury; although the close observer might have detected the giveaway curl of the lip which played upon his livid countenance.

"You sloppy no-good motherfucking slacker!!" he yelled for good measure after the retreating figure making tracks to the elevator.

"Next time you find a job, if you ever do, pull your finger outta your ass and GET TO WORK!!" bellowed Big Dick as the young man disappeared into the lift--forevermore.

Visibly regaining control of his faculties as befitted one of the most-widely adored and respected CEO's on The Street, he let the shocked MBA's take in the ineffable conflation of high passion and the cold-steel self-discipline that comprised Big Dick Fuld--a master, in Tom Wolfe's words, of the universe.

Again, the great man allowed his gaze to wander dangerously around the trading floor at the dumbstruck MBA's.

"I guess you've all got the picture now. Right?"

No reply.

"Just as a point of interest, though," mused the CEO to impress upon the floor traders his unerring talent for analysing every aspect of a given situation to make totally evident the infallible discrimination that informed his finely-honed analytical mind, "would someone like to inform me what, exactly, that worthless garbage did around here?"

From far across the room came a voice, impossible to identify within the mass of information technology and traders.

"Pizza delivery guy from Domino's...."

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Winning Traders Prefer Sony

Fastpoke"Pall"Nosirree!, who captured the now-celebrated shot above depicting naked short sellers illegally driving down the price of HBOS, was born in a log cabin on the littoral of a major waterway in a huge metropolitan conurbation which shall remain nameless in Landosmiles.

Working first as towel boy at The University of Sabailand, he autodidactically absorbed 'gor-gai' using charcoal by candlelight on a shovel to prepare himself for a career in accupunctural gynecology.

He quickly came; first to the attention of the Night Manager and then unto 74.2% of the all-female student body who selflessly contributed to a fund dedicated to his continuing education while Pall pursued his heuristic investigations amongst those specimens of the more Lolitic persuasion, all culminating in his voyage to Great Britney where he attended Oxbridge University, graduating with honors in Sperm Donor Kebab Technology.

In 1964, he entered the Guinea Book of Records for single-handedly carrying 9 mature bears across the M-1 during rush hour, thus going down in history as "Pall Bearer."

Nossiree! is currently the Senior Madagascar Bureau Chief for The Journal.


Disclaimer: Pall owns 1,492,558 shares of Sony Corporation and has no other interest in the company while continually and massively shorting the US Dollar against the Japanese Yen.

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Exclusive Interview with Alan Greenspan

The Journal’s Senior Economics and Free Market Collapse Correspondent, Ed Zachary, was fortunate to run into Alan Greenspan who, as Chairman of the Federal Reserve from 1987 to 1996 paved the way for the buoyancy which currently reigns supreme throughout the G-7 and 4-F economies. They encountered one another by accident in the Women’s Shitter at the New York Stock Exchange, both in search of (a) a drink and (b) Andy Warhol. As Greenspan had gotten an early start that morning with a refreshing 1978 Châteauneuf-du-Pape, followed in quick succession by a liter of Fundador, the great man readily agreed to an interview with Zachary, as follows:


Zachary: Chairman Greenspan, readers of The Journal would like to know more about the basic groundwork you performed in paving the way for the wealth and prosperity which pervades the world of short sellers today, with the exception of those who took their own lives during yesterday’s dead cat bounce.


Greenspan: Well, thank you for those kind words. You may not be familiar with my background at the Julliard School of Music where I was busily preparing myself for a future in the Jazz industry. I was doing fine until The Great Depression when I had to turn to finance in order to do to it what I did to jazz.


Zachary: Well, I had been aware of your musical precedents. But do you feel this contributed in any way to the Toxicity—a word I hope to be using about every four seconds, my employer is in competition with a real bunch of pricks, so we have to start using Toxicity—which has led to the rampant wealth creation which we see for those shorting the S&P500.


Greenspan: To the best of my recollection, the best known trombone solo of all time is the soaring cry of frenzied sexual intoxication which bifurcates “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”—the famous Frank Sinatra (a personal friend, by the way) rendition backed by the Nelson Riddle Orchestra recorded at Capitol Studios. That magnificent musical phenomenon was by none other than the late, great Milt Bernhart. Whom I knew well.


Zachary: Late? I thought he was still alive.


Greenspan: Alas, he took his life after Lehman. I told him to steer clear of the investment banks. But would he listen? Noooooooooo.


Zachary: Do you feel that your reputation has been besmirched by the huge upsurge of interest in the financial markets over the past few months, particularly, as it were, on the bearish side?


Greenspan: Would you believe I had a job offer from Bix Beiderbecke which, looking back, discombobulates me intensely because I didn’t take it, choosing instead to enter this business, pervaded as it is by rectal illuminaries. Try to imagine, if you will, the lyrical solitude of my coronet pirouetting like Fred Astaire over the main coda of Duke Ellington’s magnificent "Sophisticated Lady." I knew Duke, of course. Fortunately he died 30 years before The End. But that subtracts nothing from his oeuvre.

By they way, if you think journalism is chockablock with what you charmingly refer to in the vernacular as ‘chickenshit motherfuckers,’ you should sit in on a few Fed meetings. But that is neither here nor there.


Zachary: You were famously quoted, in 1996, as warning against “irrational exuberance” in connection with the stock markets. Do you wish now that you had drawn more attention at that time to the ticking time bomb of the derivative markets, as did Warren Buffett?


Greenspan: I know Warren well. We are very close. Not too close, of course, neither of us are gay. Did you know he is part Negro? On several occasions we would take time out from the trials and tribulations of Finance to revel in the atonal dissonance of Count Basie’s piano solos. I knew Count Basie, by the way. I was scheduled to appear with him on a CNBC symposium but he unfortunately died 15 years earlier. CNBC is a great network, I particularly enjoy the cheerful banter of the Squawkbox crew as the markets tank. I do feel however that the soundtrack music used on these financial programs is inappropriate, based on heavy metal rock ‘n’ roll, inappropriate, that is, as it may be for those Baby Boomers who thought they were on the verge of retirement. Surely, Little Richard would seem more germane, particularly the piano introduction to “Good Golly Miss Molly” in the present context. By the way, I never took narcotics when I was Chairman of the Fed.


Zachary: But “irrational exuberance….” Do you feel that somehow this ameliorates your legacy as financial czar of the USA for the period of time leading up to the present downside euphoria despite the unprecedented prosperity being enjoyed by short-sellers today?


Greenspan: Let me say this. Selling short is strictly illegal on 634 listed stocks, mostly financial, unless you have a broker who can whistle Dixie in mid-fellatio while twirling plates on the end of sticks as is seen frequently in the famous Chinese circus, Xiang Hua Wing. By the way, I know Xiang Hua Wing well. Who also wouldn’t listen and was up to his neck in AIG, may he rest in peace.

As for “irrational exuberance,” that was actually a misquote. My actual words were “irredeemable flatulence”—the Chairman of the Senate Finance Committee had cut the cheese in a manner with which I could have had no previous experience or foreknowledge--it was most likely Limburger, I remember thinking at the time. But it might also have been a less than mature Camembert, one can never be sure. I was fortunate to have met Camembert last year at Basle, incidentally.


Zachary: Thank you for shedding light on the present market freefall, Chairman Greenspan. I got a hot date with Maureen Dowd.


Greenspan: Thank you. I trust I may tell celebrities that I met you and we are good friends?


Zachary: Actually, I’d rather you didn’t.

World Economy Saved!

Ed Zachary (né Zacharini) contributed this eyewitness report from the floor of the New York Stock Exchange on the basis that you’re not drunk if you can still hold on to a horizontal surface. Ed graduated from Fort Wayne Junior College with an AA degree in (Home) Economics, went on to break big stories for the Berkeley Barb, Screw Magazine, The Escondido Daily Times-Advocate, Redbook, Watchtower and The Pattaya News before becoming The Journal’s Senior International Economics Correspondent in direct competition with Christine Jorgensen, his counterpart at CNN, except for his serving in this capacity without benefit of parachute or a huge chest and a bigger mouth. In the editorial section of the Mens’ Shitter at the Bumfuck Holiday Inn, Ed is affectionately known to one and all as the ‘Credit Derivative Wop.’


I came to when the CBS floor correspondent kicked me in the balls (intentionally?) as the House's Wall Street Bailout just went over the top to save the World Economy.

The reaction was immediate as several traders lost control of their lower intestinal tracts and filled their pants in relief. The smell was terrific from my unique position trying to lift myself off the ticker-tape strewn floor, even though ticker tape no longer exists. Dragging myself to my feet, I spotted that bitch from Bloomberg--fine ass but no jugs at all, a pirate's dream--and immediately approached her, flashing my Press Pass.

"I have two questions: one, do you think the bail out will actually trickle down to Main Street; and two, you got any aspirin on you? Gallo Tokay really packs a punch but what with the credit crunch, there's no alter--"

"Get the fuck outta the shot, shitbreath, I'm just going on-air."

"Oh yeah? Wanna interview me?"

"The only person who wants to interview you is Andy Warhol. Now get out."

Wandering through the crowd of relieved traders and media experts in search of Andy Warhol, I looked up at the board and couldn't help noticing the Dow heading straight south like a bad taco through a Tijuana tourist. Buy on the rumor, sell on the news, I thought to myself.

When the President made the announcement congratulating the House of Representatives and Sarah Palin for managing the rescue of the economy for future generations of hedge fund investors, a trader standing next to me let loose with a digestive emission that flattened the NBC correspondent whose hair pin caught the corner of a Credit Derivative trader's mouth on the way down, tearing half his face off. The S&P 500 made an attempt at a rally, then stalled and resumed its descent.

The dollar was making a big move on the basis that the US Dollar is the safe haven of last resort. I managed to interview a financial futures analyst who had reported for work that morning at the wrong exchange.

"Oh yes. The dollar is where you run to when you panic. There are two reasons for this. One, the US Treasury and Federal Reserve are true experts in monetary and fiscal policy. Two, the alternative is to invest it with a bunch of filthy wogs who will steal your money when you go to the bathroom."

Speaking of which, I needed a drink badly and could not believe my luck when I ran into Hank Paulson in the Women's Bathroom skolling a magnum of 1959 Chateau Mouton-Rothschild in one of the booths. I heard the familiar gurgling noise and banged on the door.

"You're not taking a shit, you phony!"

Hank opened the door and said, "You're right. You're always right, Ed. Have a pull. I can't believe what they did to my 3 page precis granting me total discretion over the world economy. That never would have happened at Goldman! These assholes in Congress, look what they've done! If I didn't have 650 million stashed under my mattress in Aspen, I'd be pretty upset. Have a drink."

Carefully wiping the top of the magnum off, I partook of the '59 Chateau Mouton which immediately recalled the familiar hint of Catherine Deneuve with an unusual insolence associated with the haunting scent of the girls' playground at the parochial school in Valence.

"Thanks, Hank. I needed that. Good luck."

"You don't have any crack cocaine on you by any chance--" Hank ejaculated as I headed for the door, but I was already back on the exchange floor in search of Andy Warhol and a quick sildenafil citrate ingestion for the date I had with Maria Bartiromo that same evening.

Unlike me, the Dow was well and truly back in the shitter as I emerged onto the trading floor. It ended the day down 162.84.

Maria Bartiromo stood me up. She was appearing on CNBC with the most intelligent man in financial broadcasting, Larry Kudlow.

I never did find Andy Warhol.

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