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Fly Story


ALERT: In honor of Le Fly’s magnificent impending birthday, we are handing out 7 day trials to Exodus. Email me a nice note and gain access: flybroker at gmail dot com.

One of the displeasures of working from home is having to do random chores, such as walk the coyote or hedge the bushes. Today, after coming back from a long walk with my coyote, who attacked 3 joggers, 2 rabbits, and 1 dog, I decided to take on the overgrown bushes in my fucking yard again.

So I went into the garage and dusted off the old electric hedger, attached a big old stupid blue extension cord to it and then proceeded to electrocute myself.

Just kidding.

But after 5 minutes of sawing through random parts of my boxwoods, an allergic attack struck me. I was befallen by an odious affliction and sneezed for the next 10 minutes. Racing back into the house to grab a Claritin, my coyote chased me down and bit my foot. I told her to “fuck off” and then grabbed a bottle of water, opened it and some fell on my shirt, then went back outside to finish the job.

Like a creative genius, with Mozart playing in my head, I cut thru those fucking shrubs with extreme energy. Halfway through the job, my landscapers rolled up and parked in front of my house, looking at me sideways, amazed to see me outside doing their job. As I sawed thru the branches with indecorous qualities, I could feel them laughing at me, saying some shit like “Oye, look at gringo trying to hedge that shit. HAHAHAHA, cabron.”

I became a little distracted and instead of focusing on the art in front of me, I envisioned them stepping out of their truck and me throwing the saw at them and cutting them in half. But then I remembered I had an electric hedger and that shit would simply disconnect and barely knock anyone out from the blow.

I cut them shits so deep, barely any leaves were left. It was a complete massacre.

Then I moved onto the side of the house, where I have another dozen or so shrubs, trees, and other shit to cut. I laid into them like a UN resolution and banged out another boxwood, part of a tree, since I was too lazy to venture back into the garage for the ladder, then I got hungry and went back inside — shaking from the energy spent and lack of sustenance coursing thru my creatine laced veins.

I quickly grabbed a granola bar, a key lime La Croix, an energy shake, and blew out of HUYA for a +16% gain and then doubled up in BILI — because my urinal shadows said so and I can’t lose and the Stock Market Gods are dead, replaced by me. I cannot lose. Try to stop me. No one will be able to.

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I Lost a Friend Yesterday — An Important Post About Loss and Addiction

Yesterday afternoon I was informed that a childhood friend of mine, one of my very best friends growing up, had taken his own life. The juxtaposition of this news against the backdrop of the beautifully catered party I was attending couldn’t be more drastic. There I was engorging myself with an array of delicacies and my good friend was gone — because of years of addiction, which led to the disintegration of both his body, mind, and his soul.

The first time I met him was in 2nd grade. It was the first day of school and he had just urinated all over himself and was crying because of his shame. The teacher consoled him and asked how she could make him feel better. He turned around from his first row seat and pointed to me in the back and said “I want to sit next to him.” From that day on, we became best friends. His parents always sheltered him and never let him outside. He once reminded me of a story I had forgotten about how I freed him from his parental captivity.

One day I visited his apartment, which I did at least 5 times per week and grabbed him and looked at his Mother and said ‘we’re going out.’ His Mother turned to us and said, ‘wait just a second. He can’t go out.’ And I said, ‘I am taking him out to play with us and there’s nothing more to be said’ and we walked out. He always liked to tell that story and it made me feel good that he remembered me so fondly.

When we were 11 years old, we became obsessed with ninjas, to the point where we dressed up like them and even made Chinese stars out of wood and ran around the neighborhood hitting other kids with our swords, which were stickball bats. To make a dashing escape, we’d light a smoke bomb and kindly ask our enemies to wait the allotted time for the smoke to disseminate before we disappeared into the thin air. We even went to school dressed like ninjas one day, much to the chagrin of our principal.

In our early teens, we used to chase down girls and he always thought every one was in love with him. It could be 10 of us in a group and one girl glancing over at us and he’d say ‘look, she’s checking me out. She wants me.’ And we’d say, ‘how the fuck do you know that — there’s 10 of us here?’ Then he’d reply with a smirk, ‘trust me, she wants me.’

When the neighborhood got bad, his parents moved him to upstate NY. One of the funnier moments I can remember when we visited him up there was when one of our friends was sleeping, he said ‘watch this’ and proceeded to place a hot sauce bottle in his mouth with his zipper down. He nudged my friend awake, and immediately zipped up his pants and said ‘thanks bro, good looking out.’ Bear in mind, this sleeping teenager was a giant, maybe 6’3, 220lbs. He shot up and chased him down the hall, kicking couches out of the way like they were small toys. We quickly diffused it and told him it was a joke and only hot sauce and laughed until our stomachs hurt for a solid 20 minutes.

He was the type of person that everyone liked, easy going, funny, incredibly generous, and kind hearted. He was the life of every party.

Years later when I was starting out in the business and enjoying some success, I hired him to work under me as a stockbroker. We had great times — because he was always adventurous and brave enough to go for the kill. At one point he became slightly obsessed with the movie American Psycho, which spilled into his demeanor at work. After seeing the movie, we both went to the local print shop to upgrade our business cards, in order to attain supremacy over the other plebs at the office. One time during lunch, someone made the egregious error of complimenting him for his dashing navy suit, and actually touched his right shoulder to get a better feel for the high thread fabric. Channeling Patrick Bateman, he looked at this gent dead panned and said ‘the suit, look, but don’t touch’. We then laughed to tears, from the harrowing expression on the face of the poor man who merely wanted to pay a nice compliment.

We had big dreams of making it big on Wall Street, our kids playing together, and growing old with an empire underneath us. He looked up to me like an older brother, always eager to learn and follow in my footsteps; but after the market had crashed in 2001-2002, and the bills started to pile up, he couldn’t stay in a commission only business much longer and he quit the business in favor of a salaried job.

My wife and I used to take the kids and visit him during his summer BBQ’s, which were attended by all of the people who loved him. He’d meet people on the bus and take them home to dinner on the same night. I thought he was crazy for doing that; but he loved to meet new people and really get to know them, not just superficially.

When I moved into my Staten Island home in 2003, he helped me lug my furniture out from Brooklyn, and even drove the truck for me. All he wanted was a few beers and some laughs. When I needed a new bannister sanded and stained, he came over and showed me how to do it. He was a good man and could be trusted with things, but he also had this burning desire to fit in, which I believe was the nascency of his downfall.

I used to compare him to a chameleon — because he’d mimic whoever he was around. When with me, he was Mr. Professional stockbroker. When with losers at a strip club, he acted like them, and so on and so forth. He started smoking weed at any early age, which was encouraged by his parents. We always felt that was a super cool thing, being able to smoke pot with Dad — but with the benefit of hindsight and some years of maturity, I know now it was dysfunctional.

He’d ‘party’ on occasion, dabbling with cocaine, and it got to the point that by 2006 I didn’t want to bring my kids around him anymore. We kept in touch by phone and I was pleased to find out he entered a new career and enjoyed varying degrees of success. With his new found money, he bought a modest home in NJ, a few cars, and a boat. He was very proud of his possessions and his family, and was always entertaining, cooking steaks and lobsters for his guests, denying his 3 children nothing. Then out of the blue, sometime around 2009, he got fired from his high paying job and had to find a new one. Resilient and always up for a fight, my friend hit the pavement and found a new gig within a month. It didn’t pay as much, but it was a job and he was glad to have it.

Money was always a struggle for him, partly due to lack of income, but mostly because he enjoyed to spend whatever he made. He was a pleaser and he really liked to throw big parties.

In 2014, like a complete maniac, he was speeding out of his companies parking lot, and crashed into a car backing out. The subsequent result of this accident led to a serious back injury, which required surgery, and a prescription for oxycontin. The details of what transpired from 2014 until now are somewhat murky to me, mainly because I had not been in contact with him much. But from what I’ve gathered, the injury led to an opioid addiction, which led to him losing his job, his house, his wife and kids, and eventually his life.

When money ran out, he was asking all of his friends for loans, myself included, which were denied because everyone thought the money would be used for drugs. I’m very good friends with his wife’s brother and knew the issues he was battling, but I never reached out because I felt he needed tough love. Everyone struggles and who the hell was he to deserve special treatment? He needed to wake up from his slumber, get back to work, and provide for his family.

His Facebook timeline is the saddest thing a person could ever see — the slow, but subtle, degradation of a once proud and handsome man — reduced to an avatar of his former self.

The last time he asked me for money was in a text and it read something along the lines of ‘hey Fly, I hope all is well with you and your family. I hate to ask this from you — but I really need to borrow some money. I am getting a job in a few weeks and I’ll pay it back. I want to show my children that I can provide for them, pay some bills, and put some food on the table. I love you man.’

At the time my Mother was undergoing open heart surgery and I was in a panicked state for her health. I asked his wife’s brother if any of this was true and he told me it wasn’t — he was merely using this lie to get money for drugs. I can’t say for sure if he was lying or not, but I denied him the loan and said sorry.

On a side note, for those of you who read my books, he was my cold caller named Eric.

About a year ago, he reached out to my former partner and said he was going to kill himself. He said that he had a gun and was in the woods and didn’t want to live anymore. My former partner contacted me and I immediately tried calling him, but my calls were rejected. He instead texted me and we had a sincere back and forth and he told me he wasn’t going to do it. He explained how losing his family was the hardest thing to deal with and that life wasn’t worth living anymore. I replied with the typical platitudes, telling him how much his kids needed him to be strong — not only for clothes and food, but also to be a role model for them.

His Facebook posts have been scarce the past year and the only photos he posted depicted a person I didn’t recognize. My friends told me he had been trying to borrow money for years and that suicide was regularly discussed and one of his very best friends felt he was a lost cause.

Yesterday, on a beautiful spring day in New Jersey, he took his life in a quiet park by strangulation. I can’t help but to feel like I failed him when he needed help most. It’s hard to say, especially since I’ve been a hermit for nearly a decade now. But the signs were everywhere and he was never entered into a drug rehab program, or provided with the level of care a person in his condition required. Instead, he was treated like a malcontent and whisked away.

His favorite foods were filet mignon, lobsters, and carrots with ranch dressing. He sucked at sports and threw like a girl. He loved motorcycles, skateboards, and being outdoors with his boys and dogs. He considered his daughter a princess and wanted only the best for her. He was misguided and too eager to please. In the end, his addiction to opioids led to a nightmarish life and a bad heroin addiction, and his pride didn’t allow the two to coexist.

If by chance you’re reading this my friend, I am sorry for the way things ended and I hope you find the peace in death that you couldn’t find in life.

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Wall Street, Horribilis

There’s an idle decadence in the air, a shared feeling of invincibility that is always born in the very best of markets. Believe it or not, I was once a young man, filled with promise, fastidiously racing up and down Wall Street in search for extreme fortune. I had made a small score in late 1998 and was interested in another. The year being 2000 and all, markets at new highs, the internet renewed the spirits of those looking to invest in innovative fields; there was very little in the way of us youngsters making our mark — to be loved and cherished by our well-to-do northeast clients who hailed from families rich with tradition and power.

My partner and I had done decent enough business to deserve an office, but not one with a window. Those were reserved for the other brokers, the one’s who were producing large sums of monthly commissions for a long time. We had only recently been big producers and my age was hardly something that was viewed as an asset back then — merely 23, wet behind the years, and I looked 18.

We had a small staff of cold callers, account openers, and even a secretary. I felt as if I could do nothing wrong, since I was a genius — a providential beneficiary of a roaring bull market — one that had seen the NASDAQ climb by 85% the year prior. All of my picks outshone the others. My hand for picking the very best stocks become known around the firm — which caused a small crowd of brokers to constantly populate outside our office to find out what we were buying next. Most of the other men were too interested in spending their money, rather than learning how to make it. Even the lowest producers were making $200,000 a year back then. Money was easy, spending it was easier, and making it was the easiest.

Until it ended on March 7th, 2000. Both the Dow and the Nasdaq tumbled hard. We were heavily leveraged, so we were scared, almost instantly. Accounts that were once up 100% for the year were teetering on break even. The selling didn’t let up and the margin calls started to become a regular chore. Clients would soon be popping into our office before 8am, deeply concerned about their accounts — begging to hear about our plan to get it all back.

In one particular case, the account had gone deep into negative equity. My partner had miraculously convinced him to send in $50k to get back to zero. This helped us avoid eating that loss, something that was happening with regularity by May of 2000.

The idea pitched to us, over and over again, by management and experts on the teevee, was that the downturn was temporary and that things would come back to the way they once were — only better. For if you were able to raise money to buy the blood that was flowing freely through the streets,  it was entirely possible that you’d make such a mark that your firm would let you choose whichever office you wanted, one even with a window.

Things never were the same after that. Markets didn’t really come back with vigor until early 2003, which lasted, tenuously, until it broke apart and shattered again in 2008. Like a dream, when it ends, it cannot be continued. The faineantise illusions we had painted for ourselves were cast in water colors, easily wiped away and erased with inclement conditions that older men, who had been though previous market squalls, understood and prepared for.

When this market cracks apart, and the seams from which it was built upon come undone, how will you respond? Will you, for example, chalk it up to another buying opp, loudly declaring to “buy the dip” — for the 3:30 algo Gods will surely save you? Or, perhaps take a different tact and prepare for something worse?

Ostensibly, one thing is evergreen in this regard, hindsight is the only unspoiled and unbiased truth laid bare, most often obvious to those who were too busy keeping their heads up their backside cavities while matters took a turn for the dreadful.

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Halloween in My Hood

My grandfather used to tell me tales of halloween, growing up in Harlem, NYC, circa 1920’s. Times were tough, so they weren’t tossing protein around like kids in my day. Instead, they put flour into a black sock and used it to pound each other into dust. On occasion, he told me of times they’d store one or two eggs in a drawer for a month or two to make the eggs rotten. He said the stench it’d leave after exploding over someone’s head was enough to kill a mule, or bring back the dead.

When I was growing up, in the 80’s, no one trick or treated. Costumes were no more than a cheap plastic apron, with some bullshit sketched on it. I once walked around as a skeleton, with only the front painted, because that’s all C-town sold that year. For me, in my hood, Halloween was all about destroying the neighborhood and your friends with eggs and shaving cream. My friends and I would save our money and buy dozens and dozens of eggs, multiple cans of shaving cream, then head out to wreak havoc on our neighborhoods.

We’d affix aerosol caps to the shaving cream, so it would spray better. Or, if we couldn’t steal a cap from the local store or find one in our apartments, we’d take the cap, rip out the middle, and use that. It wasn’t aerosol, but it sprayed further than leaving it as is.

Everyone got bombed on Halloween. If you were walking outside and under the age of 18, you got nailed.

Because I lived in an apartment complex, there were rivalries between the buildings. I was lucky enough to live in the building that had the most athletic/most popular kids. Plus, it was like children of the corn around my way, with 30 kids running around without parental supervision, menacing the entire neighborhood. Cops never came by either, mainly because it was a low crime area in those days. Later on, when the neighborhood changed, people got shot, including several of my close friends.

One time we got caught off guard by some elder teens, who chased us into the building amidst eggs flying everywhere. We ran up the stairs, trying to shake them. Some of our slower friends got caught and egged to hell. The interior of the building was completely wrecked, strewn with cracked eggs and mountains of shaving cream. The porter would always get pissed off, cursing at us, telling us to “take this shit to the park.” The day was never complete without the psychotic, STEVE BROWN, dropping gallons of milk down the stairwell from the 7th floor, accompanied by his lunatic whistle to make it sound like it was a bomb dropping out from a bay.

Good times.

Oh, and if you ever yelled at us throughout the year for playing hardball baseball in the parking lot, your door got destroyed on Halloween.

I’ll leave the more extreme Halloween stories for another year.

Happy Halloween. Don’t eat too much candy; it’ll make you sick (Yo Gabba Gabba)

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Back when I was starting out, I had a real bitch of a margin clerk. She had dead eyes, and a serious demeanor, like a shark. At around 2:00pm, she’d make her way around the office, like a mafia hitman, demanding payment, else face the consequences. Often times, we’d hide from her in the bathroom, lobbies or head out for an extended lunch. Sometimes we’d go play arcade games in Times Square and try to forget our misery by playing the games of children.

It was a sad time to be in this business, back in 2000-2002. No one wanted to invest in stocks and to look at client accounts, post crash, was simply depressing.

Guess what? You young fuckers might get to “enjoy” it now, for at least the next two years.

China goes offline: your whole business ignites into flames–like a homeless man wrapped in burlap.

The margin clerks are make the rounds now. Expect volatility into the bell.

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Bottled Up Nitroglycerine

Several times in my career I’ve had moments of clarity, when everything made sense and it gave me uncontrollable energy and drive to accomplish a task. When I first entered the business, poor as shit wearing chinese-man delivery shirts to work, I witnessed success for the first time and wanted it. But to get from where I was to where some of the top producers were, I needed to make changes. The first and most obvious change to me was to work on my speech patterns. Growing up in Brooklyn, I had taken on a distinct NY accent. That shit needed to go and quick.

So I skill milled every fucking night, recorded myself, and entrenched myself in the process of sales. The first thing you need to do is just do it. Get over the specter of rejection. Being rejected, in any venue, whether it be women or business, should be viewed as a learning process. What did I do wrong? How could I’ve closed that sale? Right? Soon enough, your skin will become so thick, you crave for that rejection–because you’re gonna overcome it and make that person see the light.

After the dot com crash I went into hibernation and made a modest living selling bonds and doing preferred stock offerings, raising capital through secondaries and “just getting by.” During this period, my energy level plummeted and I became a recluse, staying at home reading books and consuming information on an industrial scale. Then I saw eureka. I believe that moment came in early 2003, after the Bush tax cuts. It was like a bolt of lightening ran through my spine. Immediately I ceased all bad habits and focused my newly found, and intense, energy on building my business. I started going to work at 4am to call overseas, working late until 9pm. I was never home and my wife hated me. Frankly, I didn’t think about that because I had a mission to accomplish and nothing was going to stop me. I scaled my business and started doing 6 figures in monthly gross production again, for the first time since 2000.

The reason why I can’t sleep these days is because, for the first time since 2003, I sense a major shift in my life coming.

For five long years, I’ve tried to get PPT 2.0 finished. It is finally finished and I couldn’t be happier with the results. The PPT was built solely for an internet based audience; one that, quite frankly, I discouraged people from subscribing to. It’s actually quite funny if you look at how abrasive I am with you fuckers and you still do business with iBC. I think you sense there is something genuine and real about my intentions.

With Exodus, I’ve decided to rapidly expand the company though direct sales efforts to industry professionals, applying the skills that helped me build a multi million dollar brokerage business, twice, to software as a service.

I am sure many of you have ideas and want to find that vision or motivation to build something. The best advice that I can give you is to stop being such a fucking pussy and grab the bull by the horns, else that motherfucker up the block will do it for you.

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Before I rejoice in the soon to be public Shake Shack, ticker symbol SHAK, I want to tell you a horrible story (fair warning given).

Once upon a time there was a small boy living in a foreign land. He was staying at his Uncle’s house during the summer, taking in the ocean breeze, hamming it up with his cousins. One morning his Uncle woke them up and asked them if they’d like to go on a journey. The boy and the cousins celebrated this idea with vigorous tenacity and packed a small bag to head down to the beach with their Uncle.

It was very early in the morning. The sun was barely out and the weather was a bit damp and cold. His Uncle told them of an ancient ritual that could cast away disease, bad luck and give him the vitality he needed to be a successful man. Barely 12 years old, none of these things meant anything to the young boy. But he agreed to undergo the ritual with his Uncle and cousins for the sake of sport.

While walking on the beach his Uncle said they needed to head over to the rocks. The young boy was so excited over this mysterious adventure he was nervously shaking with a smile from ear to ear.

They arrived at their destination and his Uncle stepped in the water with his eyes focused on the ground peering near the rocks. Ah, he found it! Uncle pulled a giant turtle out from the water and raised it up to the sun. The boys were ecstatic. They’ve found their treasure and now the ritual was complete!

But the Uncle wasn’t done.

He pulled 4 shot glasses out from his bag, one for the boy, two for the cousins and one for himself. He then turned the turtle over on his back, pulled out a knife, and removed the turtle from its shell. By this time the small boy was in shock, unable to move. His great Uncle then picked up the turtle, raised it to the sun and stabbed it in its heart. He then squeezed the turtle’s blood into the shot glasses and demanded everyone to “drink now”, while hot, before the blood congealed.

The ritual had been completed. The boys and the Uncle then went back home to watch a soccer game.

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A Christmas Past

My grandfather was the proudest man I’ve ever known. He was comfortable with who he was, wore his Italian culture on his sleeve, and voiced his opinions often in his classically loud baritone way. A small business owner, dealing with furniture, a stand up comedian during World War 2, and a fantastic story teller in his later years: that was my grandfather.

Christmas in our quaint two bedroom apartment in Brooklyn started immediately after Thanksgiving. He’d plaster his cheesy, one dimensional, paper decorations all over the apartment, in every room, even the bathroom. The front door was covered with Santa Claus’ greetings and the 6th story window was framed with large colored bulbs. He made a small chimney out of cardboard and wrapped it in faux brick paper, for the effect of course. Then he’d stick an oversized blow up doll of Santa Claus in it and declared the Christmas season had begun.

These were magical times for me. The whole idea of Santa Claus traveling to my house to deliver gifts was beyond amazing. He’d tell me stories of the time he actually saw Santa Claus, live and in person, when my mother was a child. This only fueled my imagination with endless possibilities.

In his spare time, he was either painting in his closet or baking. Italians express themselves through food. My grandmother was the traditional Italian cook. She never did anything differently, always the same, reliable, Italian fare. My grandfather, being the artist he was born to be, would make fantastic messes in my grandmother’s kitchen, which would lead to dramatic flare ups and eventual evictions for Grandpa Fly from the kitchen.

But every Christmas he did it right. He’d take out his Mother’s 19th century, hand written, recipe of struffolis out from his little tin box and get to work. For those who aren’t familiar, they are small balls of dough, infused with anisette, and deep fried in glorious oil. After they were fried, he’d lather them with honey and candied sprinkles. Sometimes he’d sneak me a shot of anisette when my grandmother wasn’t looking.

He’s also made us zeppoles, which is essentially deep fried dough with tonnes of powdered sugar on them. For a kid who loved sweets, this was my favorite time of year.

We’d buy a real tree down the block, lug it home on foot; and then he’d saw off the end and stick it in a tree stand. He always said the trunk of the tree needed to be cut so that it’d last longer. I have no idea whether this was true or not. All I do remember was the force he’d administer to saw that damned trunk apart. The decorations were something out of the 1920’s. My grandmother would literally string popcorn together and wrap it around the tree. Throughout the month of December, Christmas music would be playing, from real vinyl records, never from the radio. Sinatra was never played in his house, since he hated him. I think he knew one of Sinatra’s cousins and had a personal beef against him. Back then, Italians in the tri-state area all seemed to know one another. If you were in politics or owned a business, you vacationed in the same places and went to the same nightclubs.

Christmas eve was for the kids. My grandparents would wake at 5:30 am to a boiling pot of black coffee. He’d start his “gravy” with braciole, sausages and meatballs. The spread was kid-friendly: sweets, home made anti-pasta, linguini with sauce and meats, baked macaroni with cheese, lots of bread, roasted sausages, peppers, onions with potatoes, and of course lasagna. My sister and I would run around like wild animals, playing hide and seek, then open our presents at night. When we woke up the next day, like magic, Santa Claus’ presents had arrived and we were smitten with joy.

Christmas day was a traditional Italian holiday, one that pushed the annoying kids aside and celebrated the birth of Christ. Coincidentally, my Grandmother’s birthday was Christmas Day too (Happy birthday Grandma!), so it was a really big deal in my house.

Seafood of all kinds was made. He favored mussels, clams and shrimp. I hated all of that stuff, so I usually ate leftovers from the night prior. But I remember how happy they all were, dancing and celebrating over plates of their favorite food and glasses brimming with wine.

You only realize how special things are when they’re gone.

Cheers to the past and to making new memories.

Merry Christmas.

NOTE: My grandparents would play this song every Christmas and every Christmas remind me that my Uncle would always cry when he heard it. To this day, I have no idea why he’d cry.

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The Banana Republic

After the apes lost their banana trees to arson, foreign apes visited their jungle to offer them some of their bananas. These apes wore elaborate head-dresses and spoke with exotic accents. Normally bananas would sell for $30 per bushel. But give the situation at hand, lack of bananas and excess supply of crazy eyed monkeys, the new imported bananas were to be sold for $60.

At first, the exchange went fucking apeshit. Everyone sold their banana stocks and panic ensued. The Grand Wizard ape stepped in to calm the bloody waters. He lowered the cost of borrowing from the Bank of Ape by an unprecedented 100 basis points. The little apes on the exchange were delighted, throwing shit back and forth between one another, bashing skulls in for fun–the works. Stocks recovered, and not before long, expensive bananas were to be enjoyed.

After a period of 5 years, the apes grew accustomed to fancy imported bananas. Slowly but surely, the price rose from $60 to $100. With the price north of $100, industrious apes began exploring new places to find bananas. Shortly thereafter, they found a bunch of banana trees way up in the mountains. You’d have to be fucking insane to climb up there to get them, so they hired the dumbest apes and paid them a fortune to do the work.

Within a few years time, the jungle was booming with rich apes who worked in the new mountain ranges. The stock market roared, led by mountain range banana stocks. The president of the jungle promoted his new mountain range banana economy like crazy, all the while talking shit about the jungle’s addiction to foreign bananas. He told the citizen apes that the jungle didn’t need those fancy fuckhead apes with funny hats. Soon enough, the jungle would be producing their own bananas and could easily tell those foreign apes to fuck off and to burn in hell.

The citizens enjoyed this rhetoric and re-elected their president for another term.

When the fancy apes heard this shit, they got pissed off. But they didn’t react right away. They continued to sell the jungle apes their overpriced bananas, all the while encouraging them to expand their jungle economy based off the premise of ‘banana independence’. After the jungle apes built it up nice and strong, the foreign apes flooded the jungle with excess bananas, crushing the price and the stocks associated with it. The little apes on the exchange floor went nuts, selling banana stocks left and right until they passed out from exhaustion.

The mountain range banana business went bust and the jungle apes went hungry again.

The end.

Part 1

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You must admit, this market has a certain, shall I say, je ne sais quoi about it. The death knell has stricken equities. In accordance with the inverse of their mandate, the Federal Reserve is strongly considering a surprise rate hike, in order to expedite the 2nd coming of the great depression.

Jim ‘bow tie’ Rogers, long term commodity champion, died today of stupidity of the brain. Everything is drek, except HABT. As Americans, we do enjoy a hearty burger, or three.

As I gaze into my monitor and bear witness to my own demise, I had a vision, one that had to be relayed to you, the ordinary pleb from the housing tenements.

I envisioned a world without people, a vast sea of silence sweeping the landscape. The apes were running the show and banana stocks were all the rage. These new lads swung from vines and defecated in the jungle, whilst eating plants and worms. But they loved to eat bananas, atop all. At night they’d fornicate with one another and then attempt to bash in the skulls of their enemies. They eventually set up exchanges and started wearing suits. They appointed a “Grand Wizard” ape to run their monetary system, who in turn provided the jungle with the liquidity needed to function as a dysfunctional cabal of shit eating apes.

This Grand Wizard made elaborate speeches. He was a King of garb and liked to see the price of bananas swing around wildly, almost uncontrollably wild, whenever he decided to make a change in his monetary policy. The little apes on the exchange would throw shit at him, whenever he appeared, as he always seemed to fuck them, one way or another. The price of bananas were cratering and although it was good for them as consumers of bananas, their fucking banana stocks were going lower.

Until one day a terrorist ape set fire to all the banana trees, sending the price of bananas through the fucking roof. The little apes were jerking off in public, elated, drinking fermented piss and getting drunk about the jungle. When all of the apes went home that night for supper, there was nothing on the dinner table but worms and plants. All of the fucking bananas had been destroyed.

The end.

Part 2

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