No Ears

Sadly, Steve was born without ears. Though he proved spectacularly successful in business, his deformity was a source of great personal sorrow. However, on the advice of his psychoanalyst, he never shrank from the issue and always came to terms with it in the course of running his fledgling black box LDCA (Long Distance Charge Avoider) business.

One day he had to hire a new Executive V.P. who would need to be unusually skilled in order that even salesmen might learn to use the primitive device to ace out Ma Bell.

The first applicant was quite good. He knew everything he needed to know and was a fascinating conversationalist. But at the end of the interview, Steve inquired: "Do you notice anything different about me?"

"Well yes," the applicant replied. "Um, I couldn't help but notice...you have no ears."

Steve did not appreciate the tone or candor and demanded the applicant leave the office immediately.

He was inwardly seething but managed to regain his self-control.

The second interview was with a woman in possession of no mammaries whatsoever who was even more qualified than the first applicant. She performed magnificently.

In the interest of fairness, Steve felt compelled near the end to ask her the same question: "Do you notice anything different about me?"

"Well," she stammered, "you don't seem to have any ears?"

Steve lost control this time and physically chucked her out of the office in a black rage for which he later settled out of court.

The third and final interviewee was the best of the bunch. He was a young man who had recently earned his MBA at the country's pre-eminent East Coast diploma mill. He was intelligent, impeccably attired, handsome as Cary Grant and he seemed to have an innate intuition for the business that put the first two applicants combined to shame.

Steve now felt a certain anxiety. But he was again compelled to ask the necessary question of the young man so as to lay the groundwork for spectacular future profits.

"Do you notice anything different about me?"

"Yes! Unless I'm quite mistaken, you wear contact lenses."

Steve was stunned. The interview fell into total silence while he contemplated this revelation of profound cognitive insight within this, the most select of individuals.

Then, of course, he realized that, as usual with Masters of Business Administration, this was a person of finely honed intellect who had acquired incredible powers of observation during his post-graduate studies at the hands of the most skilled instructors of managerial science known to man.

"Well! I'm pleasantly surprised!" ejaculated Steve. "But, please--how exactly could you tell?"

"Oh that," pooh-poohed the MBA. "Simply pure logic."

"How's that?" inquired Steve.

"Well. It'd be pretty hard to wear glasses without ears."

.

The Romance of Flight



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Working Class Warfare

A strapping young construction supervisor with (a) an uncle on the board of the Union with a pension plan administered by Lehman Brothers and (b) a brilliant future ahead of him, courtesy of his wife's new lawyer "acquaintance," was pontificating at the construction site that he could out-perform anyone on-site in any given feat of physical prowess.

He made a special case of casting vitality-related aspersions at one of the workmen of the mature, near-retirement persuasion.

After several minutes of the usual articulate and grammatically incisive abuse, the older worker'd had enough, just as he had with the wonderful Union that had ceded control of the industry to coked up polymaths with MBA's dedicated to the betterment of our working men and women across this wonderful country of ours.

"Why don't you put your money where your mouth is--Scumbag," the elderly worker inquired.

The youthful supervisor giggled three times in a row.

The old man continued: "Tell you what, asshole. I'll bet a year's salary--gross--that I can haul something in this wheelbarrow here over to that portable shithouse over there that you won't be able to wheel back--ever. Not in a day, not in a week, not until this useless project is completed, sits for a year and a half, is decommissioned and finally razed to the ground. Which means never--this is a zombie project if I ever saw one."

"You're on, old man," the youthful future SUV salesman ejaculated knowingly, following several nanoseconds of in-depth analysis and due diligence.

"Bring it on, you worthless old sonofabitch!"

The old man reached out and grabbed the wheelbarrow by the handles.

Then he nodded to the young man with the brilliant future.

"All right, my young friend. Get in."

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Detroit Shocks With Bold Insourcing Move

JOCOP News Service, November 2, 2008
by David Marvin Mailer

Media pundits and the Association of Automotive Journalists That Missed The Detroit Meltdown In Its Entirety (AAJTMTDMIIE) were caught with their fender skirts down by the collective decision of GM, Ford and Chrysler to opt for bankruptcy, void all existing UAW contracts and insource all future labour from Bangladesh.

Meanwhile, automotive staff at "The Detroit Free Press" took their lives en masse in the editorial room, moving "The Times Literary Supplement" to note distinct parallels to a near-identical drama recounted in "The Tale of the 47 Ronin," said to have originally been inspired by the teachings of Yamaga Soko (1622-1685).

Rick Wagoner, CEO of GM, was said to be considering similar action in the event the brickies of Bangladesh refused to emigrate to Detroit under the auspices of graduate student visas within the next three business days.

"The anti-immigration crowd can go fuck themselves," Wagoner stated. "Far as I know, these guys are the only ones who can possibly save our ass."




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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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Prudent Long Term Investor in Solid Blue Chip Stocks

Wall Street Patrimony

One day a fourth-grade teacher asked the children what their fathers did for a living.

All the typical answers came up--fireman, mechanic, doctor, garbageman, corporate robot, lawyer, etc.

Little Paulie was being uncharacteristically quiet, he was congenitally a good talker.

So when the teacher prodded him about his father, he reluctantly dragged himself out from behind his desk and took his place at the head of the class.

"My father's an exotic dancer in a gay cabaret and takes off all his clothes in front of other men and they put money in his underwear."

"Sometimes," he concluded, "if the offer is really good, he will go home with a man and spend the night with him for money."

The teacher, gobsmacked by this abbreviated curriculum vitae, hurriedly set the other children to work on some exercises and then took little Paulie aside.

"Is that really true about your father, Paulie?"

"No," the boy said.

"My father is Henry Paulson, Secretary of the Treasury and former CEO of Goldman Sachs. So I made up a story that would be less embarrassing."

.

JOCOP Redux: Thursday's Out

The Decision

The boss had to fire somebody, it was a matter of corporate survival-- possibly his own.

So he narrowed it down to one of two people: Debra or Jack.

It was an impossible decision because they were both supremely competent, honest, trustworthy and conscientious--in short, insignificant expendables.

But which one?

Rather than flip a coin, the boss decided he would fire the first one who used the water cooler the next morning.

Debra came in the next morning with a horrible hangover after partying all
night.

She went to the cooler to wash down a couple of aspirin.

The boss approached her. "Debra," he said, his voice wobbling with emotion, "I've never done this before but I've got no choice: I have to lay you or Jack off."

"Could you jack off?" she replied. "I feel like shit."

.

What's Wrong With This Picture?


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Glengarry Glen Gurgle


Always Be Closing.

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The Ballad of Turner Brown

From the viewpoint of the interdisciplinary investigator into the phenomenon of Transpastic Analysis™, the impact of aluminum foil on the apocryphal career of David Marvin Mailer, shown right, cannot be over- emphasized.

Indeed, an entire branch of criminal forensics, Aluminical Turpitude, is now devoted to this curious variation on ABM™ (Aggravated Bestial Metallicism) and was recently featured on an episode of CSI Miami ("Votre Chien, Mon Amour").

Many is the unfortunate canine in particular--although other species are by no means out of danger--which, caught from behind, as it were, in a public park only finds itself suddenly enveloped in an entire roll of Reynolds Wrap™, hustled off to a remote corner of an obscured area covered in shrubs, thence to be sexually abused without mercy or quarter, Mailer all the while singing "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" in a clear Irish tenor, piercing the chill night air.

Skinny little white guy walks into the elevator, looks up and sees this unbelievably huge black guy standing next to him.

The big guy sees the little guy staring at him, looks down and says: "Seven feet tall, 350 pounds, 20-inch shillelagh, three pound balls, Turner Brown."

The little guy faints and collapses to the floor.

The big guy kneels down and, shaking him, finally brings him to.

"What's wrong with you?" inquires the big guy.

In a weak voice the little guy says, "What exactly did you say to me?"

The big dude says: "I saw the look you gave me and figured I'd just give you the standard answers to the questions everyone always asks me: I'm seven feet tall, I weigh 350 pounds, I have a 20-inch shillelagh, my balls weigh three pounds each and my name is Turner Brown."

The small guy says: "Turner Brown?"

"Yeah."

"Holy Jesus," says the little guy, "I thought you said 'Turn around.'"

The Oiled and Gassed Faction, Part IV

Pursuant to the Oiled and Gassed Faction's airlift-assisted demobilization from the Jobsite® in full accordance with the terms and conditions of the Contract for installation of embedded kryptonite stanchions in the Vomitorium just to the immediate northeast of the Rheum Room, the Faction's respective Vice-Presidents for (a) Inane Soundbite-Infested Rhetoric and (b) Kickbacks scheduled/executed ad hoc consultation fee-based related infrastructure to determine optimal allocation of proceeds accruing from proportionate contributions.

Hands Across Time

This inspiring first-hand account from Editorial Waterboard member and Senior Subprime IslamoColonicLavage™ Correspondent Michael Edward Rashoff comes at a particularly opportune moment when our thoughts turn away from the daily grind of imminent nuclear war in Pakistan, three-and-a-half-buck gas, erectile dysfunction, the writer's strike, prostate enlargement, adult diaper rash and cancer of the nose...to soothing memories from another time when hope sprang internal and a helping hand was always there with the small assist that, when it counted, made all the difference.

My grandmother died back in ’72 but during the holiday season when her birthday comes around again, I always go back in time and remember the singular attachment between us and the rare commonality of heart we shared in that unique link across the generations.

During the long walks we used to take to the store on Crawford Road, we would together parse the full panoply of human experience stretching back to the dawn of time.

And, as insignificant as they may seem now, those quarters she gave me for pulling weeds or washing the sidewalk came in awfully handy to a young boy just starting out in the world.

The list of those small but endlessly resonating moments shared between the two of us goes on and on.

But the one I remember most was a single piece of grandmotherly advice which the old lady passed down to me when I’d just turned 13.

We were sitting on a bench in the park on a beautiful spring day after spending a morning canvassing the neighborhood for soda bottles for me to turn in at the store for the deposit money.

“One day, Sonny,” Grandma said, “you will meet a beautiful woman, fall in love, marry and start your own family.”

“Yes, Grandma.”

"And always remember this one thing," she said. "Be sure you marry a woman with small hands."

"How come, Grandma?"

“Because it makes your dick look so much bigger.”

Unctuo-introbureautistic corporo-integumental parvo-esclaviatory, Etiology of, Part III

At the risk of genoinsecticidic tautological self-referentiarial parthenogenetic concrescence, this is why they send the sonsabitches home after termination instead of letting them serve out the day.

Corporeau-Bureau Unctuoesclavitudinal, Etiology of, Part II

To repeat, this is why they send terminated employees home instead of letting them finish out the day.

Corporeau-Bureau Unctuosity, Etiology of, Part I

Why they send terminated employees home instead of letting them finish out the day.

What's Past Is Prozac


In connection with the 50% increase in ATM fees for the benefit of Buncoamerica cus- tomers, according to David Marvin Mailer, The Sixties were 99 44/100% horseshit.


The .0056% that was for real, says Mailer, was the Santa Barbara Branch of Buncoamerica.

Buncoamerica was originally The Bank of Italy. It was disowned by the Outfit after they discovered they could not do business with an institution that was without reference to any ethical standard whatsoever.

MBA Moment