Category Archives: Important Matters
The Important Matter of Wasted Talent
I just got my series 7 license, working at some boutique firm filled with nefarious figures. It wasn’t a bucket shop because they were pitching real stocks and didn’t underwrite scams. Nevertheless, between the cigarette filled boardrooms and shifty criminals (a story for a later date) roaming around the office, it wasn’t exactly the place where I wanted to stay long term, if you know what I mean.
Starting out, my job was to get new accounts through cold calling. More often than not, people hung up on me; but it never bothered me because human behavior always fascinated me. If you say certain words to people, in a specific cadence, you can literally control them. I experienced this salesman mastery on several occasions, when the words flowed off my tongue perfectly, allowing me to address all concerns with ease and confidence. But it was impossible for me to maintain, consistently, due to the variables of the personalities I had to deal with.
“First one to talk loses”: that’s what I was taught when closing someone. Ask for the order and shut the fuck up. There were times when I’d be on the phone with a prospective client for minutes in total silence (it felt like hours), a game of discipline and will. I shit you not, if he uttered a word before me, 9 out of 10 times he was buying. But cold calling is a hard business. Most men can’t hack it and quit inside of 3 months, after running into walls–fact.
In comes “Ed Motta.”
The seat adjacent to me was idled, apparently reserved for a “professional” account opener. As always, I was skeptical, especially after learning he was getting paid 3x my $200 per week salary–a great sum of money for a piker like me back then.
On a Wednesday morning, around 11:30 am Mr. Motta staggers into work and introduces himself to me “Ed Motta, nice to meet you.” He was in his early 30′s and had an unusually large jug-head, short legs and stocky build. He was a Ray Liotta look alike–to the tee. His arrangement with his senior broker was straightforward: $600 per week salary and an additional $100 per new account opened. He didn’t manage a book or ever speak to a client after opening him. His job was to get clients and move on–like a locust.
He picked up the phone and started to “dial for dollars” as he liked to call it. He made a contact and started to pitch some rich guy out of 0hio some bullshit biotech stock. Ed’s voice was built for radio: it was stentorian, with perfect enunciation and he had an extensive vocabulary to boot. To my amazement, on his first contact he opened a new account. Flabbergasted by his showmanship, I put down the phone and watched him for a next three hours. No one ever hung up on him, literally. He could keep anyone on the phone, for hours if he wanted them to. To test this, I gave him leads of people who “slammed” me on contact and he was able to hypnotize them with his voice and make them buy something. He had the ability to open accounts, almost (some people will never buy), at will. He was a great talent, the best I’ve ever seen.
After his first week at work, Ed invited me out one night “for some drinks.” We hopped in a cab and he told the driver to take him somewhere. At the moment, I was drifting off into outerspace, wondering how this singular man was able to control people like elephants under a stiff whip, so I didn’t hear the address. When we arrived at his “spot,” I was taken aback, finding myself in the middle of Washington Heights (shitty area, like you wouldn’t believe), outside some seedy building. He told me, “Fly, I’ll be right back, just stay here.”
Okay.
After 10 minutes, Ed came running down and said, “okay, let’s go have some drinks.” We hopped in a cab and headed to midtown NYC. After getting out of the cab, some homeless fucker approached us for money. Instead of giving this bum money, to my astonishment, Ed gave him his fucking business card and told the homeless guy “call me Monday, I’ll give you a job.” I queried “are you out of your fucking mind?” That guy’s a crackhead.” His reply was “nah, he has a good voice. I’ll throw him on the phone and he will be a killer.”
Okay.
So we’re at the bar and I have no idea what to do there, as it was my first time in a real NYC bar. I was barely the legal age to drink, by the way. Ed was chatting it up with just about everyone he encountered, jovially having a blast. He told me, “hey, I’ll be right back bud, I need to go do something.”
Forty five minutes later and Ed is nowhere to be found. It was getting late and my wife and baby were at home waiting for me. Actually, my wife thought I was working late and had no idea I was out having drinks (thank God she never reads my blog). I paid the tab and left, thinking “crazy Ed” met a girl and left somewhere with her. No big deal.
As I turned the corner, an ambulance stopped in front of me. I turn to my right and it’s Ed Motta sprawled out on the fucking street, knocked out from an overdose of cocaine. From what I understand, he survived the ordeal; but I never saw him again. Rumor had it that he went to another firm to continue his illustrious career as a “professional account opener.” He could have made millions if he used his unbelievable talents of persuasion to build his own business. Instead, because of character flaws and drugs, he’s probably dead or working as a janitor at some shopping mall right now.
The Important Matter of Cold Callers
It was January of 2001 and my business was spiraling lower, post dot com bust. At the time, I had two cold callers, one partner and the very worst sales assistant money could buy (more on that at a later time). One of my cold callers aka Brandon was a childhood friend. He entered the business with dreams of getting rich. After all, when we were younger we’d throw wooden chinese stars at each other and threaten strangers with our wooden swords, all made with our own hands. If I could make a million in 2000, so he could he, no?
During his New Year’s eve party he met a man named “Gordy.” Gordy was a Russian immigrant, who was at Brandon’s house because Gordy had a mistress and she was there, the mother of one of my better childhood friends. It was a typical Brooklyn New Year’s, with all sorts of degenerate shit going on.
Brandon was being trained to procure clientele for my Titanicesque of a business, where millions of dollars were being shaved off my moneyline on a monthly basis. It was rather sublimely absurd, if I might say so. Anyway, Brandon got Gordy as a client on that fateful January eve of vagrancy. Shortly thereafter, he told me the news that some “big guy” Gordy wanted to invest $100k. At that point in my life, I didn’t give a shit about piker new accounts, but was glad Brandon was making contacts. After talking to Gordy I knew he was going to be a pain in the ass, so I gingerly gave the account to my partner to handle and manage.
The account was opened and running. My partner made a few solid trades for Gordy and the account surged ahead by 10%. Then February of 2001 came. If you are unfamiliar, February of 2001 was God’s way of punishing stock brokers and anyone else remotely related to the market. We’d just sit there, in a stupor, watching stocks fall to laughable levels, then we’d go get drunk during lunch and resume watching tragic comedy unfold into the bell.
Well, it just so happened, during February of 2001, Gordy was loaded the fuck up with a lot of tech stocks. Apparently, he liked that shit. His account fell from 110k to 75k like an anchor in water. All of a sudden, Gordy became frazzled and began to call my partner 20 times per day. If there was one thing my partner was bad at it was customer service. He was the antithesis of good service, opting to “fucking fire” clients rather than make them feel good. After a few weeks of pestering, my partner snapped and told him to “take his fucking account out of here.” Alarmed by this situation, stemming from the fact that Gordy was cheating on his wife with one of my childhood friends mother, I stepped in and offered to assuage the situation. Gordy wanted to meet for lunch, so we did.
He came to the office dressed like a fucking gypsy, an older man of about 55 years old, clad in an all black sweat suit with gold trims. I took him and Brandon to a deli down the block and we all ordered the pastrami. During lunch, Gordy told me “Fly, you can do better” and started to wink his eyes at me, as if to imply he knew that I was in total control of the stock market, but had lost him money because I was punishing him. I told him “the fucking NASDAQ just fell 30% for the month, what did you expect?” The conversation went into his previous investment experience, where he personally lost $700k trading in and out of Janus mutual funds. I asked him to be patient and I promised him I’d take over the account from my irate partner.
Brandon and I left lunch feeling victorious. Gordy seemed happy, albeit delusional, and he promised to send in more money when things turned around.
I told my partner “let me handle this jackass from now on.” He just nodded.
The next day the market fucking cratered and Gordy’s account was getting punched in the cock hard. I told Brandon to “call him and give him the good news,” as I was busy dealing with 500 other clients who hated me and wanted to skin me alive. Brandon told me “don’t worry about it bro. He is cool.” I said “okay” and then proceeded to write a personal check to cover a margin call. The margin call clerk was literally hovering over me as I signed it.
Two days later Gordy called my manager and alleged Brandon and I were taking money out of his account. Anyone in the business knows this is a serious implication and can easily get you a starring role on American Greed. He told my manager that we’d been siphoning money out of the account, obviously, for there could be no other explanation as to why the account value was $66k. Remember, Gordy thought Fly was all powerful Master and Commander of the stock market, able to control it with his magic wand. The idea of seeing the account down 30% made no sense to Gordy, despite the fact that the Nasdaq itself had gone down 30% in 20 days.
Immediately, the account was liquidated and all activity frozen. I told my manager to “take this nutjob off my hands” and he did, much to his chagrin. Our Chief compliance officer looked into the matter and called us in for a preliminary interview. Just so you know, all compliance officers are douchebags, always hating on brokers because they made 10x their salary.
While in his office he offered a multitude of platitudes to my partner, Brandon and me. He then strayed off the plantation and started to accuse us of “improperly managing the account.” That’s when my partner snapped and told him “to go fuck yourself.” He barged out of the office and I explained to the Chief that “this guy is just an asshole. Look into the matter and you will see we did nothing wrong.”
The next day we were vindicated from stealing from Gordy. The guy had gone off his rocker and was calling my manager every 10 minutes for stock quotes. It was especially amusing to watch my staid, boring, manager deal with the superfluities of Gordy, declining his requests to “trade a little bit here or there.” That’s the way Gordy spoke.
After six months, Brandon quit working for me, after my partner had the head of IT replace his computer screen with a sticky, with quotes written on them. Apparently, my partner thought Brandon spent too much time watching the market, too little getting new accounts. A letter was delivered to the firm, introducing a lawsuit from Gordy, only addressed to me. I was dumbd-founded. After all, I never managed the fuckers account and certainly didn’t open it. I found out later on that Gordy thought I was the boss and felt his odds of “getting back a little bit of money” were higher by targeting me, as opposed to Brandon and my partner.
This was my first lawsuit ever and the other brokers came around to congratulate me, saying idiot shit like “now you popped your cherry” or “you can’t work in the mine without getting dirty.” I just scowled at them and said “thanks.” Coincidentally, our firm was being sold and the Chief counsel was trying to get all lawsuits off the books. The firm was getting sued about 30 times per month and the shit was out of control. To mitigate costs, they were settling all suits, no matter how frivolous the claim was. The attorney assigned to me said “this is nothing. Let’s just settle and make it go away.” At first I was against settlement because it meant this suit would be pasted onto my record for the world to see, effectively branding me a criminal. After a few months of sheer distraught over the market, my business and life in general, I told the attorney “if you guys pick up 100% of the cost, go ahead and settle it.”
They ended up giving Gordy $20k. I heard he lost it all in the market, shortly thereafter. Two years later he died, most likely due to the pangs of anguish– accusing an innocent man of egregious crimes.
To this day, that fucking mark is on my license and I have to explain it to people who question me about it. The accusations were absurd, something one might see on American Greed. I deeply regret settling that suit and if I could do it again I’d spend a gagillion dollars defending my innocence.
At the end of the day, however, Gordy is dead and I’m typing this shit from my space rocket. Karma works in grandiose ways, indeud.
The Important Matter of Serving Dinner
I’ve been at the grill a lot these days, some good, some bad. When I fuck up, it is always negligence on my behalf. For example, tonight I took about 45 minutes preparing a mean marinade for my chicken. It was a balsamic and herb marinade that was sure to impress the family and perhaps some of the neighbors. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel like babysitting the grill, since my yard is plagued with mosquitos of barbaric proportions.
I visited said chicken every 10 minutes or so. I had no worries about a grease fire, since my marinade was without oil and my BBQ is brand fucking new.
Big fucking mistake.
The lighting in my backyard was off, due to some fucked up electrical issue that will be dealt with tomorrow. From a distance, I glanced at a bright orange color emanating from my stainless steel grill. I said, “Whoa upon said orange person that touches thy chicken. I will slay thee with great force of 1,000 lions.”
I flipped open the bullshit grill and the flames nearly melted my face off. Gingerly, I had placed a few cute lemons on the grill, in hopes of squeezing them onto my herbalicious chicken.
FUCKING CHARRED BEYOND RECOGNITION.
I had to rush inside and fetch a bottle of salt in order to douse the flames, before they burned down the whole fucking yard and maybe a house or two. I will have you know, Mrs. Fly was quite concerned over the status of her palm trees, as it is summer time, which means “the yard goes tropical.”
When the flames were suffocated and the chicken was procured, it looked like this:
Actual photo of Chef Fly’s dinner
Upon entering the house, I told the family, consisting of three hungry children and one angry wife: “dinner is served.”
The Important Matter of Outstripping You
Some are very good at explaining their ideas and methods, by example. It’s their gift of patience, greedy proclivities, or the fact that no one else will listen to them, that leads them to such a profession. Mind you, being a teacher is not a noble profession unless it’s done with good intentions. There are excellent teachers on this site, like ChessnWine, Ragin Cajun and Scott Bleier, who can walk you through ideas, like pissing in the breeze with ease. I, on the other hand, do not teach because I do not like to tell you anything.
It all started when I was a young boy, throwing 90mph fastballs at the heads of unsuspecting rivals. When I dropped the hook on them, making them swing and miss like school girls in the boys gyms class, they’d ponder how I learned to throw such a pitch. As far as I viewed it, it was none of their concern. As fate would have it, by senior year, my rotator cuff gave way, also leading to the birth of my quest towards financial wizardry. But, to be perfectly blunt with many of you (not all), I loathe the idea of teaching anything, for I feel as if my life is not complete. I realize this is a character flaw, which in turn keeps the fire in my stomach burning red hot. I can only tell you my habits and allow you to rent my financial tools (The PPT); but I am not ready to profess anything, as long as fuckers like DAVID TEPPER are out there banking billions through weak performance data.
In the world of twitter and smoke with mirrors, many claim to be the real deal. Being that I am mostly anonymous, I cannot pass judgement on the respective track records of any of my rival bloggers out there. However, I will tell you, emphatically, they are indeud dick suckers of the first order. Most of them have never held proper corporate employment and tend to live a very, shall I say, laissee faire life, sucking on twizzlers whilst declaring market wins. I am very sorry to tell you, your financial advice is unpolished and woefully inadequate, especially compared to the stuff published here on iBC.
If I was in your shoes, a Joe Public reader of sorts, I’d declare all other financial websites to be null and void, immediately, as their panache simply doesn’t match up to the Clam-like times we live in now. If I was you, I’d most certainly cancel any and all subscriptions held away from iBC and donate said soft dollars to Woodshedder, so that he too could celebrate Christmas this year.
In the big scheme of things, we’re all dipshits, some more than others. Everyone has an opinion, which most of the time is nothing more than a vote into a collective train of thought. There are very few out there who think outside of the cluster-fuck, if you know what I mean. I tend to abhor mankind, which is why I am able to outstrip you, every step of the way.
The Important Matter of “Fly Goes Grocery Shopping”
It looked like she cut two holes in a heavy Korean blanket and draped it over her shoulders. She was a white female, age 60ish, and she was mentally ill, just in front of me at my local grocery store.
In a rush, I visited my local grocery store this weekend, in order to buy pastries. Normally, I’d prefer to visit a homeless shelter instead, since my local grocery store prides itself on selling bullshit food at insulting prices. However, being that I was in a rush, I tempered my emotions and went in. Quickly, I snapped up some cannolis and a few cookies and made my way over to the “cash only” line, as it was 1/10th as long as the others. See, I was clever and with lots of cash in hand. To be honest, I had a certain swagger to my step, as I stepped on the “all cash” line, looking down at the credit card wielding asshats to the left of me.
There was one woman in front of me, who had about 20 items in her cart. To my surprise, I noticed that she put two boxes of cotex on the conveyor belt. I took a keen interest only because she looked “old as fuck” and had no business buying cotex. However, I figured she was a nice old seahag, buying it for her daughter, or some shit.
Then all of a sudden, I noticed she was very chatty with the cashier, which is an early warning sign. Typically, people who talk to strangers are fucking lunatics, so I was on-guard. Then, she started debating the validity of each and every item scanned. Okay, you probably think I am exaggerating here. Let me repeat clearly, after each item was scanned, this crazy bitch questioned the authenticity of the price. I watched on in horror, as the credit card wielding losers to the left of me exited the store with great expedience.
Then the bat-shit hit the wall and the fan.
The gentleman cashier rang up the two boxes of cotex. Immediately, she blurted out “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” Right away, my eyes darted towards her direction, amazed by her language, all done in front of kids and adults alike. She continued, “those aren’t mine. Take them off. How the fuck did that woman’s (referring to the person who was in front of her prior) order get mixed up with mine?”
Clearly she was lying, since I saw her unload the cotex, with my very own eyes, albeit they were shaded by the finest LUX has to offer.
The gentleman cashier erased the two transactions and attempted to continue to do his job, ringing up her shit. However, she had other plans for him. She furthered: “you only took it off once. You need to do it again.” He insisted they were removed; but she would not stop repeating “take if off again,” as if her brain was diseased by demons.
She elevated the debate, saying “I want to speak to your manager.”
By this time, I was livid, especially since I was egregiously late for my appointment. I was on line for about 15 minutes and this lunatic was trying to get over on this poor cashier for $3.50. But I held my tongue. I make it a point to avoid making scenes in public and try to reserve my own lunacy for private art auctions and crowded subway station platforms.
The manager came over, with an intense attitude, all authoritarian and shit, and shut this bitch the fuck down. But, she was not finished, as it was time to review and study the fucking receipt.
As the gentleman cashier scanned my 10 items, I found myself rather snug, wedged between the person behind me and her (crazy blanket wearing bitch). Literally, she would not budge, no matter how uncomfortable my position appeared, for she had the all important task of finding egregious errors on her $31.00 worth of crap grocery ticket.
Then came the tipping point.
She reengaged the gentleman cashier for a little chitty-chat, asking him if he was absolutely certain that all of her items were placed in her cart. He replied, resolutely “yes M’am.” Needless to say, she was not convinced.
One thing you should know about me: I do not like people touching my things and I do not like people, as a rule of thumb. Then, suddenly, things started to appear in slow motion for me (like Matrix), as this straight jacket candidate started to rummage throughout my bags, exclaiming “I just want to be sure none of my stuff is in here.”
I thundered with a loud baritone voice “AWAY FROM MY BAGS. You will find nothing of yours here.” Quickly, I snatched about 5 bags, with one hand, and threw them into my cart, with the same sort of demented mannerism that she was parading with pride for the past 20 minutes. I thrusted those fucking cannolis into my cart as if they insulted my Mother.
I could feel her eyes laser beam the back of my head, as she loudly exclaimed “YOU’RE A FUCKING ANIMAL.”
Lost for words, the only thing that came to mind, as I turned to her was “indeud.”
The Important Matter of Spicy Lemonade
Imagine yourself to be in a hazy state of exhaustion, because you only got 2.5 hours sleep the night before. Then imagine yourself having to schlep around, hauling stuff back and forth, throughout the dainty aisles of WFMI, in order to purvey the finest delicacies for Casa del Fly, at the behest of none other Mrs. Fly, VIII, Empress of the New Boots clan. After you zapped $600 out of your checking account for 10 bags of snacks, you walk over to the beverage section; because you are positively famished, with the thirst of 10,000 desert camels. You spot a fine lemonade, all organic and stuff. It looks promising. You cannot wait to open it, so that you might quench your insatiable thirst, a respite of sorts from a long day of white collar labor.
While on the express line, two metrosexual males yap it up in front of you, as they place their stupid groceries on that stupid organic conveyor belt. They behave in a way that is meant to mimic television personalities, as if they were performing for the rest of the WFMI afternoon, rich people, crowd. They chat it up, giggling, while placing bags of organic carrots and celery onto the freakin’ organic conveyor belt. Then it’s my turn. I pay for my lemonade and make my way to the back of the store, where the Empress and her subjects await. I take a sip.
On Jupiter’s stone, today I am convinced, more than any other day in my life, that this country is filled with raving lunatics. My face felt like it was going to explode from pure heat. It was as if I drank an entire bottle of the hottest sauce in existence, only posing as God damned lemonade. I read the back of the bottle and learned it was spiked with chili peppers, and other such undesirables, making for an “irresistible” beverage that will give you a “natural high.”
I JUST WANT TO QUENCH MY THIRST, GOD DAMN YOU!
My stomach feels like it has 20 bombs inside of it filled with lemon flavored gunpowder.
Just when I thought driving around some random, and dead, homeless guy/girl/whatever, in the front seat of your car for 6 months was crazy, I am introduced to hot sauce masquerading as lemonade.
The Important Matter of Cadillac Mountain
I posted a pic from Cadillac Summit on my twitter page. Follow my retarded Tweets, via The_Real_Fly.
Anyway, I was in Acadia today, venturing up “Cadillac Summit”, and I felt like I was about to plummet 1,500 feet to a very salty death. The fucking winding road up the side of the mountain was cool as ice, until about 1,300 feet, when it started to get all “hey fuckbag from Brooklyn, you’re about to fall off this fucking mountain right here, retard style” on me. Trying to remain composed, doing a cool 3mph up the “hill from hell,” Mrs. Fly thought it made sense to mock Le Fly with “just make believe you’re in the forest” suggestions, as I made my way up the three mile road to “heaven,” as Mrs. Fly likes to say (damn her). Yeah, that would make sense if my fucking car was not in the clouds. Let me tell you, it certainly did not help when my 7 year old daughter began to repeat “oh my God, we’re all gonna die,” over and over.
Truth be told, it was nothing. I’d ride up that fucking mountain on a unicycle, drunk, while juggling oranges. Once up there, it looked like Mars and shit. After about 10 minutes, I took a leak on one of the big boulders up there, then proceeded to head down yonder for a stupid popper and lobster stew.
I’ve eaten so much lobster on this trip I am started to act like one, snapping at people and shit.
I have a few more stops left on my mini-adventure and will be back at the trading turret, sometime next week.
The Important Matter of Korean Dry Cleaners
The portly Puerto Rican man told Frank the Korean dry cleaning guy: “Frank, look at my white shirt, it has black marks all over it.”
Frank, looking a bit shocked and surprised, asked to see the shirt in question. Immediately, Frank’s wife, the seamstress, hurried over to assess the shirt in question.
“Ah, ha!, said Frank. “Look at this black shirt next to this white one. It is rubbing off on the white a one.”
The portly Puerto Rican man replied, ” I know that Frank, that’s why I brought it over with the white shirt.”
Frank’s wife entered the conversation by saying “it makes a no sense.”
Frank, quite rudely, interjected “Ah, see. This a black a shirt is no good. It’s made in a China or a Bangladesh. This a fabric is a very bad. This shirt is no good!”
Frank’s wife chimed in “Ah, yes. I’ve never seen such a fabric. No good. Throw this shirt away.”
Confused and bewildered, the portly Puerto Rican man said “thanks Frank. But can you fix my white shirt, which is the reason why I am here?”
After two minutes of studying the white shirt, Frank, looking sternly over his reading glasses, said to the portly Puerto Rican man, “that black a shirt is a no a good. I fix the white shirt.”
While the portly Puerto Rican man walked out of the store, a space alien magician approached Frank with an absurd amount of “high-end” dry cleaning.
To be continued…
The Important Matter of Drinking Coffee Like a Man
It pains me to see other men order homofied cups of coffee. Whenever I am at my local Starbucks, I cringe at the orders blurted out by other men. “Yes, may I have a super, duper latte espresso with whipped cream and caramel.” If you are a man, you are NOT ALLOWED to EVER order coffee with whipped cream in it, unless of course you intend to use the whipped cream as some sort of diabolical weapon or to be dispatched (immediately) into the face of an idle enemy. Secondly, you are NOT ALLOWED to put caramel in your coffee. What the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t get me started with steamed milk!
Lastly, you are not supposed to put too much sugar in your coffee and NEVER use sugar alternatives. If you put splenda in your cup of mud, you might as well do so while wearing your favorite ballerina outfit.
Coffee is something that needs to be respected. Do not dilute “the bean,” with womanly condiments. It’s bad enough that you wear bullshit jackets, with all of them zippers on it; don’t demean yourself further by defiling the last manly beverage left on Earth (beer has been overrun by homofied micro-brewers).
The Important Matter of NOT Recycling
Poor brainwashed kid. Willing victim of slave labor
Fuck recycling. You tree hugging dipshits can separate the plastics from the wood; I throw everything in one big disgusting bag, so that the slobs, better known as “garbage men,” can pick it up for me and toss it in their filthy trucks. Trust me, I’m not being a snob about this, nor do I hate the environment. I’m just painfully indifferent to the plight of the recyclers. The way I see it, the city is making coin off of my labor: fuck them and their environmental edicts.
This is a point of contention in The Casa de Fly, as Mrs. Fly is a HUGE advocate of recycling. She figures by stacking our blue garbage bins with empty Monster Sodas, the world will be saved and the sea lions will have icebergs to lay out on.
FUCK THE SEA LIONS and FUCK ICEBERGS. As far as I’m concerned, icebergs never did shit for me; why should I care about them? Any of you folks every hear about the Titanic?
As a result of my anti-recycling behaviour [sic], the garbage nazis have targeted me and leave tickets on my door, just about once per week. They must think $50 fines will deter “The Fly” from pursuing his egregious course of action, which is to not give a fuck about recycling. I throw banana peels inside of my milk cartons, then throw them inside empty LCD tv boxes and place it on the curb. Who said I wasn’t a gangster?
Fuck the Department of Sanitation aka “Recycling Nazis,” and their $50 fines. They must not know how much money I have in my fucking checking account.
You should see those fat bastards rummaging through my fucking trash—like upright walking pigs— just to catch me with a few plastic bottles mixed in with my chicken bones. At the end of the day, I refuse to be a victim of SLAVE LABOR, sorting shit out for assholes with an agenda. I don’t play that game. As a matter of fact, I don’t play any games: I make them. Remember that shit, always!
More on that topic at a later date.
Be well.
NOTE: Let’s hope Mrs. Fly doesn’t catch wind of this subversive blog.