If I hear any more shit, regarding “The September Surge,” I will find you and split your head in four parts. I’ll go QCOM 4 for 1 on your asses, without regard for personal injury. The market is simply testing my staying power, by way of perpetual, yet insidious, daily melt ups. Little does Mother Market know, “The Fly” can hold his breath a long, long time. I’m the type of guy that is willing to die for a cause, providing it is a cause only reserved for a gentleman. From my vantage point, this is a most distinguished task, one that cannot and will not be underwritten by the likes of you.
I reckon, you are far better off obtaining the friendship of a Mr. James Cramer, than emailing “The Fly” with money management requests. For the last time, small plebs, “The Fly” is not accepting new money. Moreover, even if “The Fly” was down to his last nickel, he’d never accept clients from the internets. Let it be known. Let it be archived: I have my own fucking money. Fuck you very much.
Back to the subject of perpetual mark-ups: do you think that it bothers me? On the surface, it vexes me to the point I am stroking out, like a fucking retard on a life endangering insane roller-coaster ride, doing loops. However, deep down, I don’t give a fuck. Next thing you know, POOF, “The Fly” is in Mexico City doing shots, hanging out with first rate idiots. This stock market business that you speak of is simply child’s play. My near term focus is to raise enough private capital to sink my enemies, simply out of spite. You do not know what I speak of; therefore, I will say no more.
At the end of the day, the market is all about pricing and timing. Sometimes my pricing is off. Other times my timing is off. On Jupiter’s stone and the eyes of my future great grandchildren, your pricing is completely and utterly wrong.
Good night to you and farewell.
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