Might I impose on your Wednesday evening with news of your demise?
I realize the sting of my battle ax is a bit soft these days, considering I’ve missed out on the second popping of the tech bubble, down more than 22% for the year. However, for the sake of imagination, let’s surmise I’m a guy who was up 70% last year and who’s made money every single year, thrashing the markets to bits, since 2006–all live on the internets for the public to consume.
Now let’s suppose you went short today because of David Einhorn and his “bubble basket”, which was leaked on the youtube station two weeks ago. You went into the hole to sell stocks twice, bought a bundle of puts, then ventured off to iBankCoin to make fun of this chap who calls himself “The Fly”, an utterly ridiculous name. It’s almost too painful to watch, as he carelessly tosses good money after bad, all to be incinerated inside of flaming barrels of garbage. To add insult to injury, electric utility securities, as well as municipal bonds, outperform the broader indices, indeud.
You call this fellow, “The Fly”, all sorts of sordid names, under the protection of what you consider to be an inpenetrable wall of secrecy. The internet is your bestest of friends and you are empowered to let this poser know how very stupid he is, indeud.
Until your plan started going sideways. The panic that you invested in, rubber stamped by a certain David Einhorn, was predicated on the fact that high growth stocks weren’t going to grow anymore. But then they came out with better-than-expected-results, throwing acid into the faces of the people who gawked at them, waiting for execution. The stocks who were on death row broke loose–and were given sharp axes, made from VG 10 steel, and sent out into the crowd of watchers to exact a medieval brand of revenge. All the while, Le Fly, as he is known in France, activated his internet tracking software to find your exact whereabouts, for reasons soon to be revealed.
You might find yourself enjoying dinner, over a nice chardonnay, discussing politics with your brutish wife, when a man appears, kicks your door clean off its hinges and punches your jaw loose, ramming the chards from your chardonnay glass–all the way down– your– big– fat– mouths.
100 NASDAQS TO THE HEAD TOMORROW.