Awaiting a Wonderful Week of Trading

The Nazi dictator, Angela Merkel, mentioned the specter of a “Grexit”, or as normal people would refer to as a welcomed and deserving tragedy for the people of Greece. All of the loungers and rusticates in the Greek isles might be forced to work 8 hour days, away from booze and cigarettes, in the event of european welfare being rescinded from their greasy fingers. Naturally, they should all be rather content to have sufficient places to sleep and eat, given their inimical history of gross ineptitude. Most people in the western world associate the Greek populace as lovers of sodomy, rather than being an industrious, studious, type.

Oil is trading lower, as is the recent custom to do so. The black, criminal, hearts of the OPEC members should burn in hell, twice over, for the volatility they’ve thrusted upon us (just the hearts, mind you). These men are villainous scoundrels, operators of harems, filled with drugs and beautiful women, and other things that I’d never want in my life. The nerve of them charging 50% less for the very same crude they sold to us 4 months ago. I want a refund for all of the rip off gasoline I was forced to purchase over the past 6 years. And more, I want reparations.

Perusing over the internets, I was stunned to find so many stock market finaglers, experts in the art of trading mastery, rooted in magic from the orient. Here I thought the world of finance started and ended at iBankCoin. Apparently, there is a whole world of charlatans and primitives out there, posting pictures of luxurious items, in order to curry the favour of weak minded booze hounds. Shall I post a picture of my foot inside of a rented Ferrari, reminding you that this month’s lease was paid for by one of my many successful swing trades?

Most of these chaps aren’t qualified to work an onion patch, let alone manage serious money on behalf of people with rational goals, on a professional scale. It’s not that I hate these people, or possess even the slightest feelings of jealously. It’s just that I wish to kill them all and set their bones  aflame, mash them into dust, and then flush them down a toilet. Not any toilet of course–especially not one of my own. No,  I’d have to travel to a filthy pub somewhere– in a dark, backward city– to accomplish the deed. Perhaps I could film their ashes, accompanied by their faux Rolex watches, as they succumb to the inevitable coriolis force of the toilet flushing them away? This is the only way to describe the method by which one would dispose of such characters, paired with hand organ and monkey type thinking, rich with superstition.