The Banana Republic

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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

ENTER PORTFOLIO HERE

6,416 views

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

A Working Theorem on America

2,147 views

state_map

Current map of America, as presently situated

When America was founded, the people chose to live along the east coast, mainly the northeast corridor. There is a specific reason for this, much to do about migration from europe and the like. Not before long, men of extreme importance and industry took up quarters in the northeast, establishing it as the stalwart section of this great, new, vibrant world.

Then poverty crushed the skulls of the lower middle class. Couple that with the fact that low-brow immigrants streamed into the nation; we, the people, desperately needed a place to store the third estate.

So we sent them out west.

We published elaborate tales of splendor and riches to be had in the Dakotas and California, most of which were wonderful lies. But it did the job. We used these pawns, these whiskey swillers and grave robbers, to settle the lands, kill off those annoying Indians and build us a fucking railroad. After they did all of that, we simply took the choice real estate for ourselves.

So the question I pose to you is this:

What sort of lineage and genetic gene pool resides in these “utterly useless” areas of the Unites Steaks? One might argue it is a gene pool passed down from charlatans and hucksters, persons of low standing who thought it made sense to take the whole family on a 3,000 mile road trip through dense forests and Indian arrows, just so that they could mine for some gold and become rich. These were the original lottery players, the lady at the bingo machine trying to make it big.

I realize fly over country is now populated with plenty of good people, most of whom are bible thumping maniacs who pride themselves on being good mid-western folk. But I remind you to keep a close eye on these people, for they are the direct descendants of persons of ill-repute, gamblers and vagrants who embodied the term ‘hobo’ and thrusted chaos upon the American landscape, all for the sake of some quick money and cheap opportunity.

An Un-Gentleman’s Guide to Fourth of July

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July 4th is a day for white trash to bask in their undignified glory. For those of you living that sort of lifestyle, oblivious to how one might throw a proper white trash 4th of July party, “The Fly” is here to help. With the assistance of my readership, as well as many other people who I’ve met growing up in Brooklyn, this is your “how-to” guide on having an ‘un-gentlemanly” Independence Day.

When you wake up in the afternoon, after a solid night of drunken debauchery, you should feed the children something sugary, like Captain Crunch cereal and/or frozen panned cakes (extra syrup).

Now that your parenting for the day is done, you can prepare for the 4th of July BBQ and drinking extravaganza!

Head on over to the local liquor store and buy a few kegs of beer, several bottles of Jack Daniels and a whole lot of cases of budweiser (CANS ONLY!!!).

After hauling in your treasure, prepare the old charcoal BBQ by spraying massive doses of lighter fluids on it. Have the kids throw things at the flames and play with the fire. Prepare to welcome some of your guests.

After your guest walks through the open screen door, welcome them by saying “what’s up bro” or “yo, man, have a bud”, then carelessly throw a frozen aluminum can of budwesier at him. Every once in awhile you will errantly strike his girlfriend in the head/face with it, so have an extra frozen can aside for the purposes of suppressing swollen bumps about the face and head.

As the party progresses, it’s time to serve your guests of dishonor food. Grab some styrofoam plates and slap a few hotted dogs on them, preferably with bun. If, by chance, you do not have buns, as they weren’t within your budget, feel free to use Wonder Bread as a substitute. Some people actually prefer good olde fashioned white bread anyways. Be sure to douse all hotted dogs with copious amounts of generic ketchup.

As the day drifts on, and the beer cans begin to pile up around the house and yard, ask the children to pick up the cans and place them into the giant black garbage bag that you have hanging off the side of your metal fence. The kid who picks up the most cans of bud gets to drink a can of their own!

FIREWORKS TIME!

You and your friends should now head on over to the front of the house to light some fireworks. It’s important that 90% of your fireworks be of the deafening loud, explosive, variety and not that “color crap.” You will light all fireworks with a lit cigarette butt and be sure to let the children light and toss M-80’s too, as it is their right of passage to do so.

After the fireworks, the real party begins. Parenting is over and has been over since breakfast, so feel free to let the kids roam off into the woods or nearby junkyard for a little childhood curiosity. You and your friends will begin, in earnest, drinking excessive quantities of Jack Daniels, while decrying how “fucked up” this country has become, especially honing in on the immigration issue and how people who don’t speak english should be deported and/or killed.

After 1am is the witching hour. By now, you and your guests should be comfortably buzzed. But it’s time to take it to the next level. Marijuana filled “joints” should be passed around at this time and a side table filled with lines of cocaine should be displayed, for all those interested. Shots of tequila with slices of lemon are appropriate chasers after “partying”, so be sure to have that in stock.

By 3am, 70% of your guests will be asleep (including the children), strewn out across the yard and furniture. Now would be an excellent time to partake in a little innocent adultery. Anything that transpires now is subject to denial and is easily excused, as everyone was “so wasted” that he or she could barely remember what happened.

By 11am on July 5th, most of your guests have woken up and should be asking for coffee. DO NOT PROVIDE THEM WITH COFFEE. By failing to provide them with coffee, they will be forced to leave your residence and find it elsewhere.

The party is now over. It’s now time for you and the kids to clean up the vomit and bottles of Jack Daniels and prepare for the hangover to come.

FUN TIP: Storing beer in aluminum trash cans is good, but getting rid of the water can be a hassle. ENTER BATH TUB.
Bathtub o'beer

A Gentleman’s Guide to Mother’s Day

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It’s that time of year again, gents: Mother’s Appreciation Day.

To preface this article, I will ask and answer the following question: What is Mother’s Day?

To put it simply: it is a day by which men celebrate the achievement of his mother and wife. Let me be clear, siblings SHOULD NOT be subjected to the ceremonies of this prestigious day. To do so, quite frankly, is incestuous blasphemous balderdash. Tell your sister to buzz off.

I will now walk you nelipots through a typical Mother’s Day, a model for all gentlemen between the ages of 21-47.5 (no one cares about persons under 21 and if you’re over 47.5, you aren’t supposed to be on this site anyhow, as it is prohibited by law).

8am: Wake up, shave, shower, partake in all of the morning rituals that you normally partake in, only this time entreat your wife to break her fast in bed. To do this, simply crack a few eggs into a pan and scramble them around for about 2 minutes. DO NOT use butter, as it is your duty to make sure she doesn’t acquire a pyknic physique (I am assuming your wife is short, on a relative basis). If you’re lax in this department, let me inform you now, this marriage is doomed for a ventripotent ending.

10am: After lounging about the reading room/office/den, digesting breakfast and reading your favourite Doctor in financial bloggery, do a walk by your wife and remind her that it is Mother’s Day, have the kids jump on her back, and then excuse yourself for a little more relaxation outside (the weather is usually splendid on Mother’s Day and you have every right to enjoy it).

12pm: It’s time to receive guests. You’ve invited your mother, mother-in law, male companions/Dad/Father in law, over for brunch. This should go swimmingly.

1pm: Carelessly toss a few pounds of chicken onto the BBQ. It doesn’t need any real preparations other than a quick rinse with water and vinegar to crush the bacteria that has designs to murder you. After about 10 minutes or so, take the chicken off the grill and cut it up into pieces. Slap the chicken into a bowl and toss a bunch of lettuce and tomatoes on top. Listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you: DO NOT ADD DRESSING OR OLIVED OIL. This is a major mistake on behalf of husbands, worldwide. Look, if you permit a child to eat as much candy as they want, they’d end up with no teeth and be 100% overweight. Being the leader of the household, patriarch of the family, it is your responsibility to be on the look out for potential health hazards that might afflict your wife. Being fat, most certainly, falls into that category. Having said that, squeeze a lemon and fling a handful of salt onto the chicken salad and serve.

2pm: After lunch, gracefully accept the praise that will undoubtedly come your way from all of the women in the house. Take your bow and retire to the study with the gents, for several copious glasses of brandy.

3pm: By this time, the women should have performed their motherly duties and fed the kids, cleaned up the mess they made with the chicken salad feast, and made the dining area generally acceptable for your reentry. Invite the gents to rejoin the ladies in the living room to bestow Mother’s Day gifts upon the ladies.

4pm: Your wife, mother, and mother in law, should be quite pleased with their prizes. For this, I strongly suggest buying them one of the following (whatever you decide determines the sort of man you are): 1. diamond necklace 2. shirt 3. inappropriate lingerie 4. a stick-free frying pan 5. new blender 6. a book 7. bag of cocaine 8. an iPhone or iPad 9. an envelope with a nonsensical spa gift card inside of it 10. nothing at all (NOTE: making the wrong choice is on par with being a skopet).

5pm: Inform everyone of the time and remind them of their long drive home. The men will immediately understand this is code talk for “get the hell out of my house.” See them to the door and wish them well. At this point, you might want to throw in another “Happy Mother’s Day” to the prize winners. Do not worry about it being gratuitous, for they do not think so.

6pm: Receive praise and proper appreciation for your magnificent Mother’s Day ceremony. Mother’s Day is now over. Allow your wife to go about her regular duties. You may now retire for the evening, smoke a pipe, drink some wine, become a gongoozler, etc.

Step Into My Time Machine

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Back in 1998, my book of business was a smoldering mess, reeling from the 1997 debacle. I had been fired from my previous firm, supplanted from the office I was placed in at my new firm for lack of production, and generally hating life being the sole source of income for my wife and newborn son. In the summer of 1998 the Russian crisis hit, aka “Asian contagion”, and it wreaked havoc on equity markets, sending the Nazzy down a cool 30%+ in a matter of 8 weeks.

Whatever clients I had left were decimated, reduced to rubble, thanks to the ruble. At that point in time, I was looking to switch careers. I never really made any money, so I had nothing to lose and nothing to gain by staying.

After failing to secure “a real job”, I had no choice but to get to work.

bks

Barnes and Noble’s was one of the stocks I was buying, getting smoked daily like a pack of Benson and Hedges. Unlike today, BKS was a hot stock. They were supposed to take on AMZN for online bookstore dominance. They even had a deal with MSFT that led people to believe they’d beat AMZN’s face in.

WRONG.

But the point is, it was a momo stock, lifted more on sentiment than fundamentals. As you can see, when the animal spirits left Wall, the stock lost its floor and crashed 50% in a few months.

Look at today’s momo stocks. Even though the Nazzy is only off 6% from the highs, there are stocks down 30-40% on no news, simply a side effect of cancer infecting the minds of speculators. Clearly, this is overdone. Nothing goes down in a line. Nothing goes up in a line. Nothing lasts forever, except death.

Based on the current numbers, if the Nazzy fell by another 25% (LOL!), FEYE would be down around 80% from the top, sitting at around $15. C’mon son.

Just like 1998, this market isn’t going down on fundies. It’s going down because of fear. When the fear dissipates (look at that chart), we are going to whipsaw around faster than you can shoot your margin clerks in the head.

I built my business in 1998, went from supreme piker to #3 producer at the firm in less than a year. It was a crazy lifestyle change for me, as I was literally sitting at 10% equity at the time we bottomed. Accounts were teetering on zero equity, long internet stocks into the teeth of insanity. Everyone around me was in cash and warned me to stop buying stocks. Stubbornly, I kept calling people, telling them to “buy the blood and drink it like a fucking Vampire in a blood bank.”

When it bottomed, my money line went apeshit to the upside. I even got my office back. Clients sent me their friends, mothers and grandmothers to manage–all setting up for another grande fiasco in 2000. But that’s another story.

Imagine Yourself on the Equator

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You’re watching American television, with rabbit ears affixed, trying to glean some American culture from the novelas. You see people with iPhones and wonder what it’s like to own one. After a siesta and subsequent armed robbery, you head out to the market to see what’s for sale.

BEHOLD: The “iFON”!
Verykool_i315_12

What sort of iPhone is it? The clerk shoots back: “it is a Very Kool IFON, señor. Here, take a look. They make it in red now.” Suspicious of the new wares in the local market, you run to the cafe and ask the owner if you could use his computer to view the internet. After dialing up, you see that the Very Kool phone is indeed made in California. It is an authentic “iFON.”

All of you friends and wives are jealous of your new status, as an owner of a luxurious American product. They too run over to their bodegas to buy “the iFon”, with the hopes of being able to look like the rich people on the television. It worked! You are now rich and people respect you, as you walk down the barrio with a brand new “Very Kool” phone, painted cherry red, upon your elaborate ear.

NOTE: I added to my IFON position.

How Much Money Will You Have When You’re Dead?

2,276 views

I’m not sure what the demographics are like on this site, especially since I don’t pay any mind to statistics and have a general disdain for that sort of thing–placing people into neatly fit boxes and the like. But I get the sense that a great many of you are under the tender age of 47.5. As you know, anyone older than 47.5 is strictly prohibited from viewing this blog and shall be executed on site, if caught doing so. Furthermore, it is the age at which “The Fly” will retire from blogging, pass on the crown to a younger, more deserving, trader/investor, who will carry on the traditions of financial debauchery, until he relinquishes said throne at 47.5 years of age.

When I was younger, I used to stuff money into envelopes, budgeting for the months’ expenses. One envelope was for “rent”, another for “electricity” and so on and so forth. I spent all of the money that I had, save my investments in the market, which I smartly spared due to keeping the dream alive, supporting a child and wife. I was in my early 20s and the market was an unforgiving monster. I couldn’t handle the volatility and money was tight for a long time.

I recall one New Year’s, being as happy as a troll inside of the comments section, because I had taken home the enormous sum of $4,250. Back then, I thought it was all the money in the world. Soon after New Year’s, my 8 month old son, wife and myself celebrated over dinner at the local diner. I might’ve ordered a “Romanian steak.” The whole meal had to cost no more than $50. But it was a luxury for me, as I was accustomed to living lean and eating even leaner.

As time went on and the market improved, so did my paychecks. I moved out of the basement apartment, which I rented from a bastard of a landlord, and into a brownstone. It took me a long time to move, since I always felt the good times wouldn’t last. A friend of mine, who started the business the same time as me, used to park his brand new Mercedes in my driveway–right outside my basement apartment. He spent his money as fast as he made it. He achieved success faster than me; but his didn’t last as long.

Soon enough, the checks grew from $4,250 to $10,000 to $50,000 per month and so on and so forth. It’s true when they say “the more you make, the more you spend.” Last month we spent upwards of $3,500 on groceries alone. We didn’t buy anything exotic or elaborate, just ordinary meat and vegetables from the local Whole Foods. We are consumers at heart. I think it has a lot to do with mortality and our desire to live the best with the time that we have here. Only a handful of us are able to save a lot of money. Most of the people I know would be flat broke, if it weren’t for their enormous monthly paychecks. Gone are the days of frugality, when people saved for rainy days and put money aside for their children’s inheritance.

These days, I’m afraid the stock market is used to finance the personal pyramid schemes people have going on. They spend so much money on gratuitous items; but make it all up in a week or two at the races, also known as the stock market.  Either way, this is an unsustainable way to live. Get your lives in order, man, else you’ll be singing the blues when this hit parade ends.

We talk about making money a lot here and have plenty of talented traders present to help you make more money. But no one tells you to ease up on the drunken spending sprees. You’re gonna regret it one day, as I’ve once regretted my debaucherous ways. It took a second wind to give my boat another go around, something I am grateful for. It’s not often that people are given a second chance at success. Most of the time you’re given that chance, through hard work or luck; and if you blow it, it’s gone forever. My grandfather comes to mind when thinking about that subject, a story for another day.

The moral of the story is: set up trust accounts, SEP IRA’s, invest in property before you buy that new Benz.  Be smart and try not to live your whole life now, for it’s going to last a long time and you’ll need some of that worthless fiat cash to get you through the latter years.

A Gentleman’s Guide to Valentine’s Day

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Valentine’s day was designed to allow a gentleman the opportunity to lavish his loved one(s) with concern (love), in order to demonstrate his magnanimous demeanor. It is a day to ennoble her with a high end affair, so that–she too–might enjoy a fleeting sense of entitlement before having to fetch the water and bathe the children.

I am going to reveal to you, in no uncertain terms, how a gentleman should behave on this illustrious day of love and decadence.

First, have your secretary send her two dozen, long stemmed, roses. If you err and send her just one dozen, you risk looking cheap and/or cliche. Also, should you send her short stemmed roses, you might as well couple the delivery with divorce papers–because that’s the type of signal you’d be sending.

DO NOT send her chocolate or any other gifts for that matter. Remind her that the unwashed stuff their fat faces with sugary treats on this fine day. Explain to her that “we’re better than them,” while offering a small kiss upon her forehead. The reason to avoid buying her gifts is simply a matter of manners. It would be rude of her to expect extravagant gifts on a day as sensual as Valentine’s Day. Reserve the diamonds and the shoes for her birthday.

Next, make reservations for the most expensive restaurant within 20 miles of your home. If it’s too far, you risk ruining the mood because of “gratuitous traffic.” The very best food is NOT important, only the most expensive.

At dinner, make sure to order for her. Do not humor her with the notion that she could make her own decisions. Real gentlemen always know what’s best for their ladies and provide for them. Marriage isn’t a democracy, but a benevolent dictatorship. To that end, be sure you watch her waist when you order. Too many calories could spell catastrophe for the longevity of your union.

Skip dessert, as it is the meal of gluttons. Anyone who relishes in dessert are underserving of being a gentleman and cast a terrible shadow over the longevity of his marriage. To embrace dessert is also to embrace obesity and assured death. Never forget that.

After dinner, take her to theatre, regardless of how she might feel about it. You know best and civilized society are patrons of the arts. It is your shared responsibility to attend theatre on this day.

After theatre, have your driver take you to the nearest 4 star hotel, reserved by your secretary at your behest. The details of this part of the instruction shall be excluded, in order to preserve the decency of the message, which is also part and parcel of being a gentleman.

Upon arriving home, bid her a good night and retire to the library, where you might read a good book, whilst smoking a nice pipe. Ask her to serve you some tea and to tend to the children.

Is this the Top?

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Certainly not.

After each new high comes renewed cat-calls of “blow-off tops” supported by one weak stock or another. The dialogue might sound something like this:

Bob: Did you read Zerohedge today? Boy, I’ll tell ya, this market is really due for a correction. All of that margin is bound to really cut some penises off.

Frank: What the hell are you talking about Bob? Why don’t you go stuff your head inside of a musket and pull the trigger. I’m busy making money in stocks. Leave me the hell alone.

Bob: Hey, what’s up your ass, permabull. I’m just trying to help you out. After all, I know you since we were like sperm cells and don’t want to see you lose money.

Frank: Shut the hell up Bob. The next word out of your mouth, I am going to take this computer and break your skull with it.

Bob: I’ll just leave you with one word, jackass: NETFLIX.

Frank: What the hell is that supposed to mean? (busy smoking cigarette while executing trades)

Bob: Well, duh, it’s down 5% today and that has been the bulls’ number one momentum stock.

Frank: Hey, tell me this Bob, does your wife stay with you because she feels sorry that you lost all of your money shorting the market or is she just stupid and has nowhere else to go? She is a pretty girl, after all.

Bob: Make jokes all you want, Frank. I am going to be dancing on your grave soon enough. And I won’t stop there. I am going to dig up your grave, rip your skeleton out from the coffin and skull fuck you as the market tanks.

Frank: Blow me. Now go fetch me a coffee.

Bob: I’m heading out to lunch now. I just bought some VIX options. It’s a layup here. I am telling you.

Frank: You know what’s a layup here Bob?

Bob: What Frank? Tell me something clever.

Frank: Your wife Bob. Your wife is a layup here.

Bob: (fist pumps as he executes another $2,000 order in TZA)

Frank: Are you buying that TZA again? You’re better off taking a nice bubble bath and then dropping a toaster in it, than messing around with that thing.

Bob: You will see.

Frank: Didn’t you lose like $500,000 in that thing back in 2009?

Bob: It wasn’t that much, but close.

Frank: I’m telling you Frank, your wife is definitely a lay up here. She’s just waiting for a reason to leave your dumbass.

Bob: (fist pumps with excitement as NFLX ticks lower)

Frank: Jesus Christ you need help. You don’t even own puts on the darn thing. Come, let’s go to lunch. It’s on me.

Bob: Thanks. They’re having a special at the diner downstairs.

The Banana Republic

5,656 views

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

ENTER PORTFOLIO HERE

6,416 views

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

A Working Theorem on America

2,147 views

state_map

Current map of America, as presently situated

When America was founded, the people chose to live along the east coast, mainly the northeast corridor. There is a specific reason for this, much to do about migration from europe and the like. Not before long, men of extreme importance and industry took up quarters in the northeast, establishing it as the stalwart section of this great, new, vibrant world.

Then poverty crushed the skulls of the lower middle class. Couple that with the fact that low-brow immigrants streamed into the nation; we, the people, desperately needed a place to store the third estate.

So we sent them out west.

We published elaborate tales of splendor and riches to be had in the Dakotas and California, most of which were wonderful lies. But it did the job. We used these pawns, these whiskey swillers and grave robbers, to settle the lands, kill off those annoying Indians and build us a fucking railroad. After they did all of that, we simply took the choice real estate for ourselves.

So the question I pose to you is this:

What sort of lineage and genetic gene pool resides in these “utterly useless” areas of the Unites Steaks? One might argue it is a gene pool passed down from charlatans and hucksters, persons of low standing who thought it made sense to take the whole family on a 3,000 mile road trip through dense forests and Indian arrows, just so that they could mine for some gold and become rich. These were the original lottery players, the lady at the bingo machine trying to make it big.

I realize fly over country is now populated with plenty of good people, most of whom are bible thumping maniacs who pride themselves on being good mid-western folk. But I remind you to keep a close eye on these people, for they are the direct descendants of persons of ill-repute, gamblers and vagrants who embodied the term ‘hobo’ and thrusted chaos upon the American landscape, all for the sake of some quick money and cheap opportunity.

An Un-Gentleman’s Guide to Fourth of July

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July 4th is a day for white trash to bask in their undignified glory. For those of you living that sort of lifestyle, oblivious to how one might throw a proper white trash 4th of July party, “The Fly” is here to help. With the assistance of my readership, as well as many other people who I’ve met growing up in Brooklyn, this is your “how-to” guide on having an ‘un-gentlemanly” Independence Day.

When you wake up in the afternoon, after a solid night of drunken debauchery, you should feed the children something sugary, like Captain Crunch cereal and/or frozen panned cakes (extra syrup).

Now that your parenting for the day is done, you can prepare for the 4th of July BBQ and drinking extravaganza!

Head on over to the local liquor store and buy a few kegs of beer, several bottles of Jack Daniels and a whole lot of cases of budweiser (CANS ONLY!!!).

After hauling in your treasure, prepare the old charcoal BBQ by spraying massive doses of lighter fluids on it. Have the kids throw things at the flames and play with the fire. Prepare to welcome some of your guests.

After your guest walks through the open screen door, welcome them by saying “what’s up bro” or “yo, man, have a bud”, then carelessly throw a frozen aluminum can of budwesier at him. Every once in awhile you will errantly strike his girlfriend in the head/face with it, so have an extra frozen can aside for the purposes of suppressing swollen bumps about the face and head.

As the party progresses, it’s time to serve your guests of dishonor food. Grab some styrofoam plates and slap a few hotted dogs on them, preferably with bun. If, by chance, you do not have buns, as they weren’t within your budget, feel free to use Wonder Bread as a substitute. Some people actually prefer good olde fashioned white bread anyways. Be sure to douse all hotted dogs with copious amounts of generic ketchup.

As the day drifts on, and the beer cans begin to pile up around the house and yard, ask the children to pick up the cans and place them into the giant black garbage bag that you have hanging off the side of your metal fence. The kid who picks up the most cans of bud gets to drink a can of their own!

FIREWORKS TIME!

You and your friends should now head on over to the front of the house to light some fireworks. It’s important that 90% of your fireworks be of the deafening loud, explosive, variety and not that “color crap.” You will light all fireworks with a lit cigarette butt and be sure to let the children light and toss M-80’s too, as it is their right of passage to do so.

After the fireworks, the real party begins. Parenting is over and has been over since breakfast, so feel free to let the kids roam off into the woods or nearby junkyard for a little childhood curiosity. You and your friends will begin, in earnest, drinking excessive quantities of Jack Daniels, while decrying how “fucked up” this country has become, especially honing in on the immigration issue and how people who don’t speak english should be deported and/or killed.

After 1am is the witching hour. By now, you and your guests should be comfortably buzzed. But it’s time to take it to the next level. Marijuana filled “joints” should be passed around at this time and a side table filled with lines of cocaine should be displayed, for all those interested. Shots of tequila with slices of lemon are appropriate chasers after “partying”, so be sure to have that in stock.

By 3am, 70% of your guests will be asleep (including the children), strewn out across the yard and furniture. Now would be an excellent time to partake in a little innocent adultery. Anything that transpires now is subject to denial and is easily excused, as everyone was “so wasted” that he or she could barely remember what happened.

By 11am on July 5th, most of your guests have woken up and should be asking for coffee. DO NOT PROVIDE THEM WITH COFFEE. By failing to provide them with coffee, they will be forced to leave your residence and find it elsewhere.

The party is now over. It’s now time for you and the kids to clean up the vomit and bottles of Jack Daniels and prepare for the hangover to come.

FUN TIP: Storing beer in aluminum trash cans is good, but getting rid of the water can be a hassle. ENTER BATH TUB.
Bathtub o'beer

A Gentleman’s Guide to Mother’s Day

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It’s that time of year again, gents: Mother’s Appreciation Day.

To preface this article, I will ask and answer the following question: What is Mother’s Day?

To put it simply: it is a day by which men celebrate the achievement of his mother and wife. Let me be clear, siblings SHOULD NOT be subjected to the ceremonies of this prestigious day. To do so, quite frankly, is incestuous blasphemous balderdash. Tell your sister to buzz off.

I will now walk you nelipots through a typical Mother’s Day, a model for all gentlemen between the ages of 21-47.5 (no one cares about persons under 21 and if you’re over 47.5, you aren’t supposed to be on this site anyhow, as it is prohibited by law).

8am: Wake up, shave, shower, partake in all of the morning rituals that you normally partake in, only this time entreat your wife to break her fast in bed. To do this, simply crack a few eggs into a pan and scramble them around for about 2 minutes. DO NOT use butter, as it is your duty to make sure she doesn’t acquire a pyknic physique (I am assuming your wife is short, on a relative basis). If you’re lax in this department, let me inform you now, this marriage is doomed for a ventripotent ending.

10am: After lounging about the reading room/office/den, digesting breakfast and reading your favourite Doctor in financial bloggery, do a walk by your wife and remind her that it is Mother’s Day, have the kids jump on her back, and then excuse yourself for a little more relaxation outside (the weather is usually splendid on Mother’s Day and you have every right to enjoy it).

12pm: It’s time to receive guests. You’ve invited your mother, mother-in law, male companions/Dad/Father in law, over for brunch. This should go swimmingly.

1pm: Carelessly toss a few pounds of chicken onto the BBQ. It doesn’t need any real preparations other than a quick rinse with water and vinegar to crush the bacteria that has designs to murder you. After about 10 minutes or so, take the chicken off the grill and cut it up into pieces. Slap the chicken into a bowl and toss a bunch of lettuce and tomatoes on top. Listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you: DO NOT ADD DRESSING OR OLIVED OIL. This is a major mistake on behalf of husbands, worldwide. Look, if you permit a child to eat as much candy as they want, they’d end up with no teeth and be 100% overweight. Being the leader of the household, patriarch of the family, it is your responsibility to be on the look out for potential health hazards that might afflict your wife. Being fat, most certainly, falls into that category. Having said that, squeeze a lemon and fling a handful of salt onto the chicken salad and serve.

2pm: After lunch, gracefully accept the praise that will undoubtedly come your way from all of the women in the house. Take your bow and retire to the study with the gents, for several copious glasses of brandy.

3pm: By this time, the women should have performed their motherly duties and fed the kids, cleaned up the mess they made with the chicken salad feast, and made the dining area generally acceptable for your reentry. Invite the gents to rejoin the ladies in the living room to bestow Mother’s Day gifts upon the ladies.

4pm: Your wife, mother, and mother in law, should be quite pleased with their prizes. For this, I strongly suggest buying them one of the following (whatever you decide determines the sort of man you are): 1. diamond necklace 2. shirt 3. inappropriate lingerie 4. a stick-free frying pan 5. new blender 6. a book 7. bag of cocaine 8. an iPhone or iPad 9. an envelope with a nonsensical spa gift card inside of it 10. nothing at all (NOTE: making the wrong choice is on par with being a skopet).

5pm: Inform everyone of the time and remind them of their long drive home. The men will immediately understand this is code talk for “get the hell out of my house.” See them to the door and wish them well. At this point, you might want to throw in another “Happy Mother’s Day” to the prize winners. Do not worry about it being gratuitous, for they do not think so.

6pm: Receive praise and proper appreciation for your magnificent Mother’s Day ceremony. Mother’s Day is now over. Allow your wife to go about her regular duties. You may now retire for the evening, smoke a pipe, drink some wine, become a gongoozler, etc.

Step Into My Time Machine

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Back in 1998, my book of business was a smoldering mess, reeling from the 1997 debacle. I had been fired from my previous firm, supplanted from the office I was placed in at my new firm for lack of production, and generally hating life being the sole source of income for my wife and newborn son. In the summer of 1998 the Russian crisis hit, aka “Asian contagion”, and it wreaked havoc on equity markets, sending the Nazzy down a cool 30%+ in a matter of 8 weeks.

Whatever clients I had left were decimated, reduced to rubble, thanks to the ruble. At that point in time, I was looking to switch careers. I never really made any money, so I had nothing to lose and nothing to gain by staying.

After failing to secure “a real job”, I had no choice but to get to work.

bks

Barnes and Noble’s was one of the stocks I was buying, getting smoked daily like a pack of Benson and Hedges. Unlike today, BKS was a hot stock. They were supposed to take on AMZN for online bookstore dominance. They even had a deal with MSFT that led people to believe they’d beat AMZN’s face in.

WRONG.

But the point is, it was a momo stock, lifted more on sentiment than fundamentals. As you can see, when the animal spirits left Wall, the stock lost its floor and crashed 50% in a few months.

Look at today’s momo stocks. Even though the Nazzy is only off 6% from the highs, there are stocks down 30-40% on no news, simply a side effect of cancer infecting the minds of speculators. Clearly, this is overdone. Nothing goes down in a line. Nothing goes up in a line. Nothing lasts forever, except death.

Based on the current numbers, if the Nazzy fell by another 25% (LOL!), FEYE would be down around 80% from the top, sitting at around $15. C’mon son.

Just like 1998, this market isn’t going down on fundies. It’s going down because of fear. When the fear dissipates (look at that chart), we are going to whipsaw around faster than you can shoot your margin clerks in the head.

I built my business in 1998, went from supreme piker to #3 producer at the firm in less than a year. It was a crazy lifestyle change for me, as I was literally sitting at 10% equity at the time we bottomed. Accounts were teetering on zero equity, long internet stocks into the teeth of insanity. Everyone around me was in cash and warned me to stop buying stocks. Stubbornly, I kept calling people, telling them to “buy the blood and drink it like a fucking Vampire in a blood bank.”

When it bottomed, my money line went apeshit to the upside. I even got my office back. Clients sent me their friends, mothers and grandmothers to manage–all setting up for another grande fiasco in 2000. But that’s another story.

Imagine Yourself on the Equator

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You’re watching American television, with rabbit ears affixed, trying to glean some American culture from the novelas. You see people with iPhones and wonder what it’s like to own one. After a siesta and subsequent armed robbery, you head out to the market to see what’s for sale.

BEHOLD: The “iFON”!
Verykool_i315_12

What sort of iPhone is it? The clerk shoots back: “it is a Very Kool IFON, señor. Here, take a look. They make it in red now.” Suspicious of the new wares in the local market, you run to the cafe and ask the owner if you could use his computer to view the internet. After dialing up, you see that the Very Kool phone is indeed made in California. It is an authentic “iFON.”

All of you friends and wives are jealous of your new status, as an owner of a luxurious American product. They too run over to their bodegas to buy “the iFon”, with the hopes of being able to look like the rich people on the television. It worked! You are now rich and people respect you, as you walk down the barrio with a brand new “Very Kool” phone, painted cherry red, upon your elaborate ear.

NOTE: I added to my IFON position.

How Much Money Will You Have When You’re Dead?

2,276 views

I’m not sure what the demographics are like on this site, especially since I don’t pay any mind to statistics and have a general disdain for that sort of thing–placing people into neatly fit boxes and the like. But I get the sense that a great many of you are under the tender age of 47.5. As you know, anyone older than 47.5 is strictly prohibited from viewing this blog and shall be executed on site, if caught doing so. Furthermore, it is the age at which “The Fly” will retire from blogging, pass on the crown to a younger, more deserving, trader/investor, who will carry on the traditions of financial debauchery, until he relinquishes said throne at 47.5 years of age.

When I was younger, I used to stuff money into envelopes, budgeting for the months’ expenses. One envelope was for “rent”, another for “electricity” and so on and so forth. I spent all of the money that I had, save my investments in the market, which I smartly spared due to keeping the dream alive, supporting a child and wife. I was in my early 20s and the market was an unforgiving monster. I couldn’t handle the volatility and money was tight for a long time.

I recall one New Year’s, being as happy as a troll inside of the comments section, because I had taken home the enormous sum of $4,250. Back then, I thought it was all the money in the world. Soon after New Year’s, my 8 month old son, wife and myself celebrated over dinner at the local diner. I might’ve ordered a “Romanian steak.” The whole meal had to cost no more than $50. But it was a luxury for me, as I was accustomed to living lean and eating even leaner.

As time went on and the market improved, so did my paychecks. I moved out of the basement apartment, which I rented from a bastard of a landlord, and into a brownstone. It took me a long time to move, since I always felt the good times wouldn’t last. A friend of mine, who started the business the same time as me, used to park his brand new Mercedes in my driveway–right outside my basement apartment. He spent his money as fast as he made it. He achieved success faster than me; but his didn’t last as long.

Soon enough, the checks grew from $4,250 to $10,000 to $50,000 per month and so on and so forth. It’s true when they say “the more you make, the more you spend.” Last month we spent upwards of $3,500 on groceries alone. We didn’t buy anything exotic or elaborate, just ordinary meat and vegetables from the local Whole Foods. We are consumers at heart. I think it has a lot to do with mortality and our desire to live the best with the time that we have here. Only a handful of us are able to save a lot of money. Most of the people I know would be flat broke, if it weren’t for their enormous monthly paychecks. Gone are the days of frugality, when people saved for rainy days and put money aside for their children’s inheritance.

These days, I’m afraid the stock market is used to finance the personal pyramid schemes people have going on. They spend so much money on gratuitous items; but make it all up in a week or two at the races, also known as the stock market.  Either way, this is an unsustainable way to live. Get your lives in order, man, else you’ll be singing the blues when this hit parade ends.

We talk about making money a lot here and have plenty of talented traders present to help you make more money. But no one tells you to ease up on the drunken spending sprees. You’re gonna regret it one day, as I’ve once regretted my debaucherous ways. It took a second wind to give my boat another go around, something I am grateful for. It’s not often that people are given a second chance at success. Most of the time you’re given that chance, through hard work or luck; and if you blow it, it’s gone forever. My grandfather comes to mind when thinking about that subject, a story for another day.

The moral of the story is: set up trust accounts, SEP IRA’s, invest in property before you buy that new Benz.  Be smart and try not to live your whole life now, for it’s going to last a long time and you’ll need some of that worthless fiat cash to get you through the latter years.

A Gentleman’s Guide to Valentine’s Day

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Valentine’s day was designed to allow a gentleman the opportunity to lavish his loved one(s) with concern (love), in order to demonstrate his magnanimous demeanor. It is a day to ennoble her with a high end affair, so that–she too–might enjoy a fleeting sense of entitlement before having to fetch the water and bathe the children.

I am going to reveal to you, in no uncertain terms, how a gentleman should behave on this illustrious day of love and decadence.

First, have your secretary send her two dozen, long stemmed, roses. If you err and send her just one dozen, you risk looking cheap and/or cliche. Also, should you send her short stemmed roses, you might as well couple the delivery with divorce papers–because that’s the type of signal you’d be sending.

DO NOT send her chocolate or any other gifts for that matter. Remind her that the unwashed stuff their fat faces with sugary treats on this fine day. Explain to her that “we’re better than them,” while offering a small kiss upon her forehead. The reason to avoid buying her gifts is simply a matter of manners. It would be rude of her to expect extravagant gifts on a day as sensual as Valentine’s Day. Reserve the diamonds and the shoes for her birthday.

Next, make reservations for the most expensive restaurant within 20 miles of your home. If it’s too far, you risk ruining the mood because of “gratuitous traffic.” The very best food is NOT important, only the most expensive.

At dinner, make sure to order for her. Do not humor her with the notion that she could make her own decisions. Real gentlemen always know what’s best for their ladies and provide for them. Marriage isn’t a democracy, but a benevolent dictatorship. To that end, be sure you watch her waist when you order. Too many calories could spell catastrophe for the longevity of your union.

Skip dessert, as it is the meal of gluttons. Anyone who relishes in dessert are underserving of being a gentleman and cast a terrible shadow over the longevity of his marriage. To embrace dessert is also to embrace obesity and assured death. Never forget that.

After dinner, take her to theatre, regardless of how she might feel about it. You know best and civilized society are patrons of the arts. It is your shared responsibility to attend theatre on this day.

After theatre, have your driver take you to the nearest 4 star hotel, reserved by your secretary at your behest. The details of this part of the instruction shall be excluded, in order to preserve the decency of the message, which is also part and parcel of being a gentleman.

Upon arriving home, bid her a good night and retire to the library, where you might read a good book, whilst smoking a nice pipe. Ask her to serve you some tea and to tend to the children.

Is this the Top?

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Certainly not.

After each new high comes renewed cat-calls of “blow-off tops” supported by one weak stock or another. The dialogue might sound something like this:

Bob: Did you read Zerohedge today? Boy, I’ll tell ya, this market is really due for a correction. All of that margin is bound to really cut some penises off.

Frank: What the hell are you talking about Bob? Why don’t you go stuff your head inside of a musket and pull the trigger. I’m busy making money in stocks. Leave me the hell alone.

Bob: Hey, what’s up your ass, permabull. I’m just trying to help you out. After all, I know you since we were like sperm cells and don’t want to see you lose money.

Frank: Shut the hell up Bob. The next word out of your mouth, I am going to take this computer and break your skull with it.

Bob: I’ll just leave you with one word, jackass: NETFLIX.

Frank: What the hell is that supposed to mean? (busy smoking cigarette while executing trades)

Bob: Well, duh, it’s down 5% today and that has been the bulls’ number one momentum stock.

Frank: Hey, tell me this Bob, does your wife stay with you because she feels sorry that you lost all of your money shorting the market or is she just stupid and has nowhere else to go? She is a pretty girl, after all.

Bob: Make jokes all you want, Frank. I am going to be dancing on your grave soon enough. And I won’t stop there. I am going to dig up your grave, rip your skeleton out from the coffin and skull fuck you as the market tanks.

Frank: Blow me. Now go fetch me a coffee.

Bob: I’m heading out to lunch now. I just bought some VIX options. It’s a layup here. I am telling you.

Frank: You know what’s a layup here Bob?

Bob: What Frank? Tell me something clever.

Frank: Your wife Bob. Your wife is a layup here.

Bob: (fist pumps as he executes another $2,000 order in TZA)

Frank: Are you buying that TZA again? You’re better off taking a nice bubble bath and then dropping a toaster in it, than messing around with that thing.

Bob: You will see.

Frank: Didn’t you lose like $500,000 in that thing back in 2009?

Bob: It wasn’t that much, but close.

Frank: I’m telling you Frank, your wife is definitely a lay up here. She’s just waiting for a reason to leave your dumbass.

Bob: (fist pumps with excitement as NFLX ticks lower)

Frank: Jesus Christ you need help. You don’t even own puts on the darn thing. Come, let’s go to lunch. It’s on me.

Bob: Thanks. They’re having a special at the diner downstairs.

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