0710/1748 59/74 Blue Skies NE15 70%H
DOGS 10543 7945 1095 1230.
Greetings from the Hill.
A beautiful day in paradise...
seventy one degrees at noon
after a double comforter night
with windows closed and cats inside.
A day reading comments on 'Zero Decade',
Crudman's NYT ostentatious yuppie barf,
insipeous wanting attention remarks
without any sense of reality,
or simply edited for LaLa world.
"The fucker has conned the world as well
as the dickhead masses on hardon pills
and obamaphones, the black professor
of the American Constitution, my oh my,"
growls the madone disgusted with 'it' all,
this sordid affair between government
and the investment bankers manipulation
of the central banking system.
Representatives of the people....
certainly true for the limited few,
those five million families surviving
on 100T to 1M annual income,
executive managers of the show,
while 120 thousand families exist
on 1M to 20M annually.
"What about those four thousand families
with over twenty million a year,
and where are they today...."
growls the oldman
always amazed with ignorance.
A politician for every three Goldman Sachs
thieving cheating lying partners...
and that's not the Dimon grifters
or petty crooks like the Countrywide king,
635 elected assholes pretending to know
about balanced budgets while living
ungainfully from the 'perks' of Office.
"My my my...is anything left to borrow on,
the roads, insurance policies, the air we breath,
ho ho ho, a carbon tax and death derivatives,
privatization for tollways, squeeze what you can,"
the boys who fucked Mexico are doing 'it'
to hapless hopeless Uncle Sam,
the old Rothschild game....
buy those bonds and wait a few years.
After all, new management is always lurking.
A Zero Decade for struggling families
who earn between five and thirty thousand,
not much for half the population,
fifty million families must be growing herb,
and sixteen million underclass living
between 500 and 5000 dollars annually,
the same sixteen million in middle class...
30 to 50 thousand bucks a year.
"Who the fuck invents these figures,
Ben Bernanke or that stooge at FRBNY,
say goodbye to unions Mister AFLCIO,
Dimon's mentor holds the wand.
"A flaw, I have found a flaw, but...
I don't know what 'it' is," stumbles
the wizard of risk prevention,
the promoter of derivatives,
the inventor of financial chaos,
the creator of Fedspeak.
"A lovely model."
"But she has no tits,"
"Fatten her ass."
Gullible's Travels forewarned the greedy,
a clever publication for the curious.
"Oldman, you're not doing very well,
there is no subtle message or joke,
poetry creates pictures, comedy a laugh,
your snide remarks on photos..."
the madone was tired of chasing roosters,
the oldman knew this was not the day
to uncover the true criminals
behind banksters, corporapists, fraudsters,
the book of Law is written every day
by shysters and shylocks.
Blue skies and beautiful
with perfectly clean windows
open for the breeze.
'It' was a very good year.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Friday, December 25, 2009
Christmas Turkey and Pie in the Sky.
0709 1746 72/80 Cloudy SSE 5/10 90%H.
DOGS 10423 7650 1100 1729.
Greetings from the Hill.
A month away from searching and snooping,
seeking the invisible thieves in the banks,
the facilitators who manage the drainwork
down which underlying assets disappear
into the dark opaque toxic waters
of cisterns beneath the shadow offices
of OTC and DTC now connected to FRBNY.
"We have learned how to manage risk this time,
there will not be a second wave....."
assures the Master of the Treasury looking funny,
as if he were a lying politician promising hope,
or a general assuring victory in Afghanistan,
perhaps a waiter at Happy Hour.
Of course the water is rising in Arizona,
over the heads of homeowners
with no equity life rafts and no walkaways.
State income down twenty five percent,
back to 2002 levels before the boom.
Actually the same when Bill was on the Hill.
"Who the fuck created this mess and who
has profitted from the financial engineering,"
sneered the madone well aware of the criminals
who talked and walked the same game,
played boldly without shame,
those who held the trust of a nation
to adventure in speculation.
"Kings of the Street, Masters of Fraud,
Manipulators of Governments,
Treasury Agents, Keepers of the Fiat,"
scoffed the oldman awakening
from a morning nap.
He had dreamed Hillary came for lunch
and told him about Bill and Phil
conspiring with Wendy and Enron
to alienate Brooksley Born,
permitting the explosion of betting
without table stakes,
the word of a turd
in the derivatives Game.
Within two years, the remarks...
"A trillion here, a trillion there,"
were now unregulated quadrillions.
"Deer hunting with Jesus,"
mused the oldman over his gift,
a present to himself.
The stylings of Joe Bageant
encouraged him to dream of Truth.
The Weather Channel in the bedroom,
classics from Havana and Big Mac
in the Presidents' room,
cats and roosters on the balcony,
thirty five years looking out
the same windows...
"Paradise is still Paradise."
"What about that little worm, Larry Fink,
the smartfuck kike from Boston
who can't control his bitch,
the elite cunts needing age rage counselling,
watching the men of power glower
in skyscraper erections.
The very idea that a man of humble status
could comprehend the mechanics
of computerized algorithms
without a nightcourse from MIT
or a day job at McDonalds....
"Is fucking Absurd,"
laughed the oldman
after smoking a joint with Alger
and sipping a cold pint with Tony.
The turkey was simmering in his mind.
The last vestige of hypocrisy is now in danger...
"Horror of fucking Horrors,
that black boy went berserk....
but he's only part black, the bad part,
a big stick went to his head,
he'll caddy for the President somewhere,"
saddens the oldman wondering
if the worst has past
and no one is cleaning up the mess.
A humid day in paradise
beyond the reef
above the horn
Happy on the Hill.
DOGS 10423 7650 1100 1729.
Greetings from the Hill.
A month away from searching and snooping,
seeking the invisible thieves in the banks,
the facilitators who manage the drainwork
down which underlying assets disappear
into the dark opaque toxic waters
of cisterns beneath the shadow offices
of OTC and DTC now connected to FRBNY.
"We have learned how to manage risk this time,
there will not be a second wave....."
assures the Master of the Treasury looking funny,
as if he were a lying politician promising hope,
or a general assuring victory in Afghanistan,
perhaps a waiter at Happy Hour.
Of course the water is rising in Arizona,
over the heads of homeowners
with no equity life rafts and no walkaways.
State income down twenty five percent,
back to 2002 levels before the boom.
Actually the same when Bill was on the Hill.
"Who the fuck created this mess and who
has profitted from the financial engineering,"
sneered the madone well aware of the criminals
who talked and walked the same game,
played boldly without shame,
those who held the trust of a nation
to adventure in speculation.
"Kings of the Street, Masters of Fraud,
Manipulators of Governments,
Treasury Agents, Keepers of the Fiat,"
scoffed the oldman awakening
from a morning nap.
He had dreamed Hillary came for lunch
and told him about Bill and Phil
conspiring with Wendy and Enron
to alienate Brooksley Born,
permitting the explosion of betting
without table stakes,
the word of a turd
in the derivatives Game.
Within two years, the remarks...
"A trillion here, a trillion there,"
were now unregulated quadrillions.
"Deer hunting with Jesus,"
mused the oldman over his gift,
a present to himself.
The stylings of Joe Bageant
encouraged him to dream of Truth.
The Weather Channel in the bedroom,
classics from Havana and Big Mac
in the Presidents' room,
cats and roosters on the balcony,
thirty five years looking out
the same windows...
"Paradise is still Paradise."
"What about that little worm, Larry Fink,
the smartfuck kike from Boston
who can't control his bitch,
the elite cunts needing age rage counselling,
watching the men of power glower
in skyscraper erections.
The very idea that a man of humble status
could comprehend the mechanics
of computerized algorithms
without a nightcourse from MIT
or a day job at McDonalds....
"Is fucking Absurd,"
laughed the oldman
after smoking a joint with Alger
and sipping a cold pint with Tony.
The turkey was simmering in his mind.
The last vestige of hypocrisy is now in danger...
"Horror of fucking Horrors,
that black boy went berserk....
but he's only part black, the bad part,
a big stick went to his head,
he'll caddy for the President somewhere,"
saddens the oldman wondering
if the worst has past
and no one is cleaning up the mess.
A humid day in paradise
beyond the reef
above the horn
Happy on the Hill.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
More Congressional Corruption.
0642/1740 68/76Blue Skies N5/10 80%H
DOGS 10230 7699 1116 1716.
Greetings from the Hill.
A comfortable day in paradise,
a cool breeze from the north
for the milliondollar machines,
big spenders from the elite world.
The town grasping at events
to add to a diminishing cash flow
while retailers disappear in the night
unwilling to pay exorbitant rents.
"The signs are on the street
and more and more unlighted,"
snorts the madone.
"Empty seats at the World Series,"
shrugs John, visiting for the day,
a ticketholder himself...
"The bastards are cleaning us out
and nobody cares, you gotta think,
the mafia had morals, these pricks
are bloodsucking leeches,"
sipping a beer on the balcony
then heading into the coastal storm
returning to HedgeHog City.
More and more each day the fool
reveals himself beyond control,
becoming an embarassment,
a babbling pretentious imposter
as leader of the World...
Commander in Chief of a military
in another losing adventure
that profits only the privateers
and the drug cartels.
"Public memory is deleted nightly."
Too big to understand, too much to know,
those who toil for the soilings of others
can only dream and never chance to scheme
in the financial engineering of fraud.
"This fucking contagian is a disease
that was created in the minds
of mathmatical manipulators
for fast talking marketeers
of the swine pits of Lehman
and the cages of Bear...
'make a deal, how much can I steal',
the mantra for vultures and hogs
offering twenty percent gains
with bribes on the side ",
fumes the madone pissed
with liars and cheats,
embezzlers of the soul,
thieves of Trust.
"Yeah fucking yeah...
in Fraud we Trust,"
grumbles the oldman,
weak, sick and emfeebled,
body and mind diseased,
without insurance to cover
the catastrophic costs
of sustaining life...
allowing nature to determine
one's time on the planet.
A cool breeze on the balcony,
classics from Havana and CNBC,
cats on the chairs, doves on the railings,
roosters never silent,
a cold pint at noon...
Warren, the wood turner
downstairs on the lathe,
Tony protecting his garden,
the flautist silent.
"So what about this bigeared jewess
who engineers the law
for the Goldie Sox Gang,
this bitch must control Masters
and her derivative scam
with all the other crooked twats...
dried up cunts taking over
the Viagra dicks,
hohofuckingho,"
laughs the oldman
over being nice to anyone.
The Bribees in Congress sucked ass again
under the leadership of Bunghole Barney,
two stupid bills empowering Fraud Street
to fleece the naked sheep again,
"These fucking derivatives that no one
understands or wants to for fear of stupidity,
after all what does 'it' mean...
insurance on shorting an investment
to hedge against loss and gain
in the offshore havens
of the British Mavens,
controlled by
'The City of London',"
cunts from Caimbridge,
pimps from JPMorgan,
traitors like Dimon.
"Go get them, Janet."
The bitch in the White House
pedals a healthcare plan
for cellphone drugdealers
and Acorn nutcases,
pathetic and preposterous,
the schill on the Hill.
One down and more to go,
Corzine and his largess,
New Jersey a mess.
Blue skies and beautiful,
a breeze in the keys.
Beyond the reef.
Above the Horn.
or
DOGS 10230 7699 1116 1716.
Greetings from the Hill.
A comfortable day in paradise,
a cool breeze from the north
for the milliondollar machines,
big spenders from the elite world.
The town grasping at events
to add to a diminishing cash flow
while retailers disappear in the night
unwilling to pay exorbitant rents.
"The signs are on the street
and more and more unlighted,"
snorts the madone.
"Empty seats at the World Series,"
shrugs John, visiting for the day,
a ticketholder himself...
"The bastards are cleaning us out
and nobody cares, you gotta think,
the mafia had morals, these pricks
are bloodsucking leeches,"
sipping a beer on the balcony
then heading into the coastal storm
returning to HedgeHog City.
More and more each day the fool
reveals himself beyond control,
becoming an embarassment,
a babbling pretentious imposter
as leader of the World...
Commander in Chief of a military
in another losing adventure
that profits only the privateers
and the drug cartels.
"Public memory is deleted nightly."
Too big to understand, too much to know,
those who toil for the soilings of others
can only dream and never chance to scheme
in the financial engineering of fraud.
"This fucking contagian is a disease
that was created in the minds
of mathmatical manipulators
for fast talking marketeers
of the swine pits of Lehman
and the cages of Bear...
'make a deal, how much can I steal',
the mantra for vultures and hogs
offering twenty percent gains
with bribes on the side ",
fumes the madone pissed
with liars and cheats,
embezzlers of the soul,
thieves of Trust.
"Yeah fucking yeah...
in Fraud we Trust,"
grumbles the oldman,
weak, sick and emfeebled,
body and mind diseased,
without insurance to cover
the catastrophic costs
of sustaining life...
allowing nature to determine
one's time on the planet.
A cool breeze on the balcony,
classics from Havana and CNBC,
cats on the chairs, doves on the railings,
roosters never silent,
a cold pint at noon...
Warren, the wood turner
downstairs on the lathe,
Tony protecting his garden,
the flautist silent.
"So what about this bigeared jewess
who engineers the law
for the Goldie Sox Gang,
this bitch must control Masters
and her derivative scam
with all the other crooked twats...
dried up cunts taking over
the Viagra dicks,
hohofuckingho,"
laughs the oldman
over being nice to anyone.
The Bribees in Congress sucked ass again
under the leadership of Bunghole Barney,
two stupid bills empowering Fraud Street
to fleece the naked sheep again,
"These fucking derivatives that no one
understands or wants to for fear of stupidity,
after all what does 'it' mean...
insurance on shorting an investment
to hedge against loss and gain
in the offshore havens
of the British Mavens,
controlled by
'The City of London',"
cunts from Caimbridge,
pimps from JPMorgan,
traitors like Dimon.
"Go get them, Janet."
The bitch in the White House
pedals a healthcare plan
for cellphone drugdealers
and Acorn nutcases,
pathetic and preposterous,
the schill on the Hill.
One down and more to go,
Corzine and his largess,
New Jersey a mess.
Blue skies and beautiful,
a breeze in the keys.
Beyond the reef.
Above the Horn.
or
Thursday, October 29, 2009
The King is Dead.
0733/1848 78/85 Blue Skies ESE10/20 75%H
DOGS 9878 7928 1043 1615.
Greetings from the Hill.
Another beautiful day in paradise,
chimes ringing, roosters singing,
gentle overnight showers...
"And no late night drunks,"
offers the madone,
surley from Larry King
with Ron Paul and Michael Moore
at three AM on CNN.
This years Fantasy Fest seems a bust,
usually a week long party
only a weekend orgy,
the mood darkened
with the death of last year's King,
Captain Timothy Brown.
"Good morning, How are you."
Always giving with love and laughter,
helpful with happiness,
so rare among the selfish,
a very rare bird.
The oldman will miss the man.
Another week and the ruse continues,
more coverups about fuckups,
the gaming without blaming
the banksters and corporapists,
the lawyers and lobbyists
who contrive then bribe,
the checks and balances
are payments to politicians.
Greenspan with Pimco
and 'the other Paulson'
"How low does 'it' go."
"Could there be a revenge of the others,
that half downtrodden by men
with fat wallets and stiff dicks,
'The Pissed Off Party of Women',"
muses the oldman
thinking of Brooksley Born
lecturing the FDIC
on the disaster of derivatives,
"I told you so!"
The bully Summers advising Obama.
"Of course if middle class women
hadn't wanted granite kitchentops
and husbandless wives swimming pools,
the mess would have never occured,"
claims Jeff Beck.
Busy street at noon, even motorcycles,
not a parking spot available,
soon the power will go out,
"The Conch's revenge."
The ConchTrain passes full.
"The Audacity of Fraud Street,"
claims Mish, pissed with the pack
of moneyeaters gorging
at the Trough of Debt,
pigplanning the next meal
in 'the derivative steal'.
"Where is the Outrage,"
rants Denninger in Market Ticker,
attempting to rattle
the addled brains.
"Hedge Funds will fall in the winter,
with Citi returned to the same games,
seperate companies controlled by the same
who are responsible for 'it' all,"
claims Cramer the seer,
a Goldman Sachs queer,
his last comedy tips
before moving to the Weather Channel.
The Three Headed Dog has now one head
and getting smaller each day
while GMAC goes looking
for an Obama bone.
"Why does he not make me mad,"
sighs the oldindian passing
the joint with an excuse
for part payment...
"I'll pay the rest tomorrow."
What can an oldman do
but sigh in the sun.
A charming con who acts the part,
plays the role with the look
of sincerity and soul
while busting the check book.
"Where did he learn to salute,"
growls the madone watching
a clip on the tarmac.
An interesting reunion of the past,
thirty years of FantasyFest
and how many alive,
who did survive
the party of Death...
AIDS.
The event evolved to a fundraiser
for the victims of an unknown,
a curse, perhaps revenge...
"Queers can't love naturally,"
claimed a certain preacher
who bungholed a whore
and paid cash
from the collection plate.
"What's it all about...Baarrry,
are you sorry you were a Sorieto,
did you never love Granny Dunham,
tough having white parents,"
growled the madone
sipping a cold pint
at two o'clock
in the balcony breeze.
"Pretenders in Paradise....."
mulled the oldman thinking
about the visitors drinking
and laughing across the street
with seasonal owners.
The gardener stopped for a spell,
before taking a rideabout,
smoking a butt, sipping a pint,
then off with his camera...
"But, they're all old and ugly,"
those who survived
and never arrived.
As Mayor McCoy said
thirty years ago,
"We'll have sunset condos
for the old and the rich."
CitiBank charges 30% for your DEBT.
Blue skies and beautiful.
Inside the Reef.
Above the Horn.
DOGS 9878 7928 1043 1615.
Greetings from the Hill.
Another beautiful day in paradise,
chimes ringing, roosters singing,
gentle overnight showers...
"And no late night drunks,"
offers the madone,
surley from Larry King
with Ron Paul and Michael Moore
at three AM on CNN.
This years Fantasy Fest seems a bust,
usually a week long party
only a weekend orgy,
the mood darkened
with the death of last year's King,
Captain Timothy Brown.
"Good morning, How are you."
Always giving with love and laughter,
helpful with happiness,
so rare among the selfish,
a very rare bird.
The oldman will miss the man.
Another week and the ruse continues,
more coverups about fuckups,
the gaming without blaming
the banksters and corporapists,
the lawyers and lobbyists
who contrive then bribe,
the checks and balances
are payments to politicians.
Greenspan with Pimco
and 'the other Paulson'
"How low does 'it' go."
"Could there be a revenge of the others,
that half downtrodden by men
with fat wallets and stiff dicks,
'The Pissed Off Party of Women',"
muses the oldman
thinking of Brooksley Born
lecturing the FDIC
on the disaster of derivatives,
"I told you so!"
The bully Summers advising Obama.
"Of course if middle class women
hadn't wanted granite kitchentops
and husbandless wives swimming pools,
the mess would have never occured,"
claims Jeff Beck.
Busy street at noon, even motorcycles,
not a parking spot available,
soon the power will go out,
"The Conch's revenge."
The ConchTrain passes full.
"The Audacity of Fraud Street,"
claims Mish, pissed with the pack
of moneyeaters gorging
at the Trough of Debt,
pigplanning the next meal
in 'the derivative steal'.
"Where is the Outrage,"
rants Denninger in Market Ticker,
attempting to rattle
the addled brains.
"Hedge Funds will fall in the winter,
with Citi returned to the same games,
seperate companies controlled by the same
who are responsible for 'it' all,"
claims Cramer the seer,
a Goldman Sachs queer,
his last comedy tips
before moving to the Weather Channel.
The Three Headed Dog has now one head
and getting smaller each day
while GMAC goes looking
for an Obama bone.
"Why does he not make me mad,"
sighs the oldindian passing
the joint with an excuse
for part payment...
"I'll pay the rest tomorrow."
What can an oldman do
but sigh in the sun.
A charming con who acts the part,
plays the role with the look
of sincerity and soul
while busting the check book.
"Where did he learn to salute,"
growls the madone watching
a clip on the tarmac.
An interesting reunion of the past,
thirty years of FantasyFest
and how many alive,
who did survive
the party of Death...
AIDS.
The event evolved to a fundraiser
for the victims of an unknown,
a curse, perhaps revenge...
"Queers can't love naturally,"
claimed a certain preacher
who bungholed a whore
and paid cash
from the collection plate.
"What's it all about...Baarrry,
are you sorry you were a Sorieto,
did you never love Granny Dunham,
tough having white parents,"
growled the madone
sipping a cold pint
at two o'clock
in the balcony breeze.
"Pretenders in Paradise....."
mulled the oldman thinking
about the visitors drinking
and laughing across the street
with seasonal owners.
The gardener stopped for a spell,
before taking a rideabout,
smoking a butt, sipping a pint,
then off with his camera...
"But, they're all old and ugly,"
those who survived
and never arrived.
As Mayor McCoy said
thirty years ago,
"We'll have sunset condos
for the old and the rich."
CitiBank charges 30% for your DEBT.
Blue skies and beautiful.
Inside the Reef.
Above the Horn.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Just another Sad Song.
0728/1854 75/85 Blue Skies E15/25 85%H
DOGS 9913 8290 1060 1750.
Greetings from the Hill.
An average day in paradise...
weatherwise.
Seems more like a perfect day
for sailing, golfing, diving,
even fishing
or reading a book,
perhaps jogging at Nude Beach
flopping the tits.
Morning sunlight on the balcony,
cats on chairs sleeping,
chickens on the railings
to sneak in the catbowls,
"Fuck off, you parasites,"
the madone hosing them to flight
dive bombing passing cars...
"Chickens do fly."
The oldman was distressed
with the mess,
no comics with courage,
no singers with heart,
no satirists with sear,
"Gutless dicks and shrill tits,
who hires these actors,
the casting department
'needs a makeover',
Wall Street on Madison Avenue,"
thinking of ryhmes
with the musical chimes,
a gusty beeze
in the keys.
The Big Urgency has disappeared
as the government agency
into banking appeared,
more coverup with TARP blankets,
but commercial arms
sticking out
in rigor mortis.
"Talk, talk, you braindead fools,
no Charlie Rose in your weedpatch,
liars, cowards and whores,"
rants the madone at CNBC
with the opening bell
for traders from Hell.
The ten o'clock sun accented
a dozen oregano on the balcony,
time for the winter seedlings,
"Yeah, something to eat,
not just gawk at,"
grumbles the nasty one.
Today seemed a good day to live,
maybe write a country song.
"Okay...pick up a chorus."
'Down to my last buck..
and I don't give a fuck.'
"Oh oh, despair and foul talk."
'All my payments are late
my current account past
don't know how much longer
my credit cards will last'
"Hey hey, country and middle class
with a little trailer park trash."
'My banker on Main Street
sold my mortgage to Wall Street
who peddled it in tranches
to worldwide branches'
"Oh, oh, a little esoteric like Bob Dylan."
'Now that sputtering Barney Frank
and the fulminating Dodd
conspire with every bank
in the financially engineered fraud'
"Pooh pooh, stretching for a ryhme,
and what about the chorus."
'Been working all my life
for the red white and blue
but I'm losing my home
and my union job too'
'Out on the street soon
sleeping under the moon'
"Well, that's a stretch...
maybe Charlie Daniels
or Arlo Guthie."
'Blame it all on George
but Bill signed the bill
that made Wall Street
King of the Hill'
'A conspiracy by the few
or mathmatics gone mad
politicians and bankers
all greedy men gone bad'
"Hey there Horatio, what's up,
is this some jazz poem now,
a liitle Miles Davis bitches brew."
'All Hope is small Change
from a smooth talking leader
down to my last buck
and don't give a fuck'
"My my heavens, what to say."
A beautiful breeze
in the florida keys.
Inside the reef.
Above the Horn.
DOGS 9913 8290 1060 1750.
Greetings from the Hill.
An average day in paradise...
weatherwise.
Seems more like a perfect day
for sailing, golfing, diving,
even fishing
or reading a book,
perhaps jogging at Nude Beach
flopping the tits.
Morning sunlight on the balcony,
cats on chairs sleeping,
chickens on the railings
to sneak in the catbowls,
"Fuck off, you parasites,"
the madone hosing them to flight
dive bombing passing cars...
"Chickens do fly."
The oldman was distressed
with the mess,
no comics with courage,
no singers with heart,
no satirists with sear,
"Gutless dicks and shrill tits,
who hires these actors,
the casting department
'needs a makeover',
Wall Street on Madison Avenue,"
thinking of ryhmes
with the musical chimes,
a gusty beeze
in the keys.
The Big Urgency has disappeared
as the government agency
into banking appeared,
more coverup with TARP blankets,
but commercial arms
sticking out
in rigor mortis.
"Talk, talk, you braindead fools,
no Charlie Rose in your weedpatch,
liars, cowards and whores,"
rants the madone at CNBC
with the opening bell
for traders from Hell.
The ten o'clock sun accented
a dozen oregano on the balcony,
time for the winter seedlings,
"Yeah, something to eat,
not just gawk at,"
grumbles the nasty one.
Today seemed a good day to live,
maybe write a country song.
"Okay...pick up a chorus."
'Down to my last buck..
and I don't give a fuck.'
"Oh oh, despair and foul talk."
'All my payments are late
my current account past
don't know how much longer
my credit cards will last'
"Hey hey, country and middle class
with a little trailer park trash."
'My banker on Main Street
sold my mortgage to Wall Street
who peddled it in tranches
to worldwide branches'
"Oh, oh, a little esoteric like Bob Dylan."
'Now that sputtering Barney Frank
and the fulminating Dodd
conspire with every bank
in the financially engineered fraud'
"Pooh pooh, stretching for a ryhme,
and what about the chorus."
'Been working all my life
for the red white and blue
but I'm losing my home
and my union job too'
'Out on the street soon
sleeping under the moon'
"Well, that's a stretch...
maybe Charlie Daniels
or Arlo Guthie."
'Blame it all on George
but Bill signed the bill
that made Wall Street
King of the Hill'
'A conspiracy by the few
or mathmatics gone mad
politicians and bankers
all greedy men gone bad'
"Hey there Horatio, what's up,
is this some jazz poem now,
a liitle Miles Davis bitches brew."
'All Hope is small Change
from a smooth talking leader
down to my last buck
and don't give a fuck'
"My my heavens, what to say."
A beautiful breeze
in the florida keys.
Inside the reef.
Above the Horn.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Something beyond Economics.
0725/1900 82/88 Blue Skies SSE/5 75%H.
DOGS 994 7490 1051 1751.
Greetings from the Hill.
A good day for an adventure,
gardens watered, cats fed,
time to visit the outside world
away from the home arrest,
the selfimposed observer.
A month of creative gardening
changing dereliction to beauty,
"I do 'it' because I enjoy 'it',"
laughing and smiling,
an attitude forgotten
in a culture of greed,
a nation obsessed with billing,
overcharging incompetence,
served with an insult.
The fellow possessed an overview
that allowed him to see as an artist,
not anothers' design or plan,
simply the thing itself
unfolding on 'its' own,
without some asshole
imposing will.
A photographer who takes
the perfect shot because
he thought with patience
and a gentle kindly sense,
not dollars and cents.
A quiet morning street but for
"Those fucking roosters talk
to each other, nasty birds
that only interrupt to mock,
reminds me of certain people,"
grumbles the oldman gazing
down the street at the dead lady's
empty house, keeping sorrow
private and never discussed,
a walk in the garden
to test the legs.
The street was oddly active,
dirtbags up early scrounging
off the cruiseship walkers,
gawking in Tshirt shops,
the oddest collection of tourists
for a 'Five Star Destination'.
"Not Fat Mac's dream no more."
Passing the Green Parrot bar,
the oldman barred for life,
just as well...
"Hey, Jack, don't slow down now,
we got another mile to go before
we shoot the cannon, Hoho,"
concerned about the
wobbly legs,
the faint heart,
and dizziness.
"Where did this water come from,"
resting in the cool of the brick,
a few decades since the last visit,
wondering if this would be
the final.
This was Tony's part of paradise,
facing Matamoros to the west,
fifteen hundred miles
of water...
the same to New Orleans.
"Well, its a lot closer to Havana,"
laughing in the sand...
"Key West is a beeetch,"
mocking some song or slogan.
The oldman had made the voyage,
his last breath beneath
the palms and pines
hands in the sand
soul in paradise.
"Hey, Mad Jack..how are you,
I heard you was dead...
have a cold beer, man,"
a voice from the past.
Inside the Reef,
Above the Horn.
DOGS 994 7490 1051 1751.
Greetings from the Hill.
A good day for an adventure,
gardens watered, cats fed,
time to visit the outside world
away from the home arrest,
the selfimposed observer.
A month of creative gardening
changing dereliction to beauty,
"I do 'it' because I enjoy 'it',"
laughing and smiling,
an attitude forgotten
in a culture of greed,
a nation obsessed with billing,
overcharging incompetence,
served with an insult.
The fellow possessed an overview
that allowed him to see as an artist,
not anothers' design or plan,
simply the thing itself
unfolding on 'its' own,
without some asshole
imposing will.
A photographer who takes
the perfect shot because
he thought with patience
and a gentle kindly sense,
not dollars and cents.
A quiet morning street but for
"Those fucking roosters talk
to each other, nasty birds
that only interrupt to mock,
reminds me of certain people,"
grumbles the oldman gazing
down the street at the dead lady's
empty house, keeping sorrow
private and never discussed,
a walk in the garden
to test the legs.
The street was oddly active,
dirtbags up early scrounging
off the cruiseship walkers,
gawking in Tshirt shops,
the oddest collection of tourists
for a 'Five Star Destination'.
"Not Fat Mac's dream no more."
Passing the Green Parrot bar,
the oldman barred for life,
just as well...
"Hey, Jack, don't slow down now,
we got another mile to go before
we shoot the cannon, Hoho,"
concerned about the
wobbly legs,
the faint heart,
and dizziness.
"Where did this water come from,"
resting in the cool of the brick,
a few decades since the last visit,
wondering if this would be
the final.
This was Tony's part of paradise,
facing Matamoros to the west,
fifteen hundred miles
of water...
the same to New Orleans.
"Well, its a lot closer to Havana,"
laughing in the sand...
"Key West is a beeetch,"
mocking some song or slogan.
The oldman had made the voyage,
his last breath beneath
the palms and pines
hands in the sand
soul in paradise.
"Hey, Mad Jack..how are you,
I heard you was dead...
have a cold beer, man,"
a voice from the past.
Inside the Reef,
Above the Horn.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
A Tree Grows in Paradise.
0724/1901 82/88 Blue Skies E5/10 65%H.
DOGS 9818 7316 1067 1762.
Greetings from the Hill.
A lovely morning in paradise,
classics and 'Law and Order',
chimes ringing, cats sleeping,
green tea with the laptop.
Blue skies and beautiful.
An Australian pine grows
on the abandoned Flagler Railway,
trees unwanted at Fort Zackary,
by know it alls with caps,
"An invasive and not indigenous,"
something like a tourist.
"Imagine that...a peace price
for conducting two wars at large
and the Hopeless War at home,"
snorts the madone annoyed
with this pompous jackass
who pontificates to the masses
as were they ignorant asses,
lecturing to the uneducated
of government corruption
and corporate fraud
while representing the elements
of the most sinister of cabals.
"A fucking shill on the Hill
playing frontman to the public,
while ignoring the moneymaster
manipulations of M123,"
growls the oldman
getting testy
from sobriety.
The secret deals not so secret,
the stock deals with Barclays Bank,
Goldman Sachs and BlackRock,
a few shares of the Lynchpin
to tie to BofA and CountryWide,
all holding hands walking down
MaidenLane with Tiny Tim
and Larry Fink.
"Bite the billet....
blow your strumpet."
The public speaks and votes,
15,446 registered voters out
of 20,000 sounds fishy...
2777 elect a new mayor
by 51%, avoiding a runoff and
Big Mac and the gang of bullies
are exchanged for another
group of hopefully decent
uncorruptible spirits
with "Natures Bounty."
Imagine the Kings at lunch
discussing their favorite soup,
'Chinese derivative Aigdrop',
Blankfein laughs to Dimon,
"What about those gold derivatives
you dumped on the little buggers,
'they' threaten to renege
and ignore their obligation,"
slopping soup on his tie.
"Not a chance, theyr'e still hiding
the junkbonds from CountryWide
and those ratass MBS derivatives
that Ken got from Lynch, as well
as Freddy and Fanny crapbonds,
communist capitalists are no different
than socialist capitalists, Ha Ha,
TLC, thieving, lying cheats,"
enjoys the king of JPMC.
"Say Ken, that hundred mill payout
to retire silently is sucky, not enough
to start a MooGoo fund, Ha Ha,"
chiding the older man.
"Jamie, your'e getting drunk again,
you know Ken is major short on BA,
we've pumped 'it' up with that
fucking AIGshit for the fall in fall,"
always playing the clever jew.
"You know, I never thought banking
would be such a destuctive profession,
risk management was a hedge originally,
now a casino that games us all,"
a good man not cruel enough
for the primary dealers club.
He would be the Thanksgiving Turkey.
"Hey, 'its' all bullshit, engineered spin,
convince the sucker to buy something
all the time, oil the machine, grease
the wheels of the deals of money,
those sneaky masons used silly George,
gave him an apron and rich wife,
while Ben danced in Paris,
and the Rothschild family watched.
That time of the year again, mindless...
golf, baseball, football, hockey, basketball,
a couch and a cellphone, the Plasma TV,
even brokers sportbet, the bookies heaven,
Vegas betting on betting on betting...
imagine if the Mob was to reappear,
certain assholes might disappear
in dark toxic pools in the shadow
of the Goldie Sox Tower.
A falling dollar, market nervousness,
bank stress levels, price volatility,
investor aloofness, economic stagnation,
horrifying unemployment, tighter money,
sluggish growth, and diarrhea...
of the mouth.
Talking Tits and Jim Cramer.
Hang on to your toilet seat
before FantasyFest.
Fill up the pantry,
stock up on beer,
stop smoking.
A beautiful breeze
in the florida keys.
Inside the Reef.
DOGS 9818 7316 1067 1762.
Greetings from the Hill.
A lovely morning in paradise,
classics and 'Law and Order',
chimes ringing, cats sleeping,
green tea with the laptop.
Blue skies and beautiful.
An Australian pine grows
on the abandoned Flagler Railway,
trees unwanted at Fort Zackary,
by know it alls with caps,
"An invasive and not indigenous,"
something like a tourist.
"Imagine that...a peace price
for conducting two wars at large
and the Hopeless War at home,"
snorts the madone annoyed
with this pompous jackass
who pontificates to the masses
as were they ignorant asses,
lecturing to the uneducated
of government corruption
and corporate fraud
while representing the elements
of the most sinister of cabals.
"A fucking shill on the Hill
playing frontman to the public,
while ignoring the moneymaster
manipulations of M123,"
growls the oldman
getting testy
from sobriety.
The secret deals not so secret,
the stock deals with Barclays Bank,
Goldman Sachs and BlackRock,
a few shares of the Lynchpin
to tie to BofA and CountryWide,
all holding hands walking down
MaidenLane with Tiny Tim
and Larry Fink.
"Bite the billet....
blow your strumpet."
The public speaks and votes,
15,446 registered voters out
of 20,000 sounds fishy...
2777 elect a new mayor
by 51%, avoiding a runoff and
Big Mac and the gang of bullies
are exchanged for another
group of hopefully decent
uncorruptible spirits
with "Natures Bounty."
Imagine the Kings at lunch
discussing their favorite soup,
'Chinese derivative Aigdrop',
Blankfein laughs to Dimon,
"What about those gold derivatives
you dumped on the little buggers,
'they' threaten to renege
and ignore their obligation,"
slopping soup on his tie.
"Not a chance, theyr'e still hiding
the junkbonds from CountryWide
and those ratass MBS derivatives
that Ken got from Lynch, as well
as Freddy and Fanny crapbonds,
communist capitalists are no different
than socialist capitalists, Ha Ha,
TLC, thieving, lying cheats,"
enjoys the king of JPMC.
"Say Ken, that hundred mill payout
to retire silently is sucky, not enough
to start a MooGoo fund, Ha Ha,"
chiding the older man.
"Jamie, your'e getting drunk again,
you know Ken is major short on BA,
we've pumped 'it' up with that
fucking AIGshit for the fall in fall,"
always playing the clever jew.
"You know, I never thought banking
would be such a destuctive profession,
risk management was a hedge originally,
now a casino that games us all,"
a good man not cruel enough
for the primary dealers club.
He would be the Thanksgiving Turkey.
"Hey, 'its' all bullshit, engineered spin,
convince the sucker to buy something
all the time, oil the machine, grease
the wheels of the deals of money,
those sneaky masons used silly George,
gave him an apron and rich wife,
while Ben danced in Paris,
and the Rothschild family watched.
That time of the year again, mindless...
golf, baseball, football, hockey, basketball,
a couch and a cellphone, the Plasma TV,
even brokers sportbet, the bookies heaven,
Vegas betting on betting on betting...
imagine if the Mob was to reappear,
certain assholes might disappear
in dark toxic pools in the shadow
of the Goldie Sox Tower.
A falling dollar, market nervousness,
bank stress levels, price volatility,
investor aloofness, economic stagnation,
horrifying unemployment, tighter money,
sluggish growth, and diarrhea...
of the mouth.
Talking Tits and Jim Cramer.
Hang on to your toilet seat
before FantasyFest.
Fill up the pantry,
stock up on beer,
stop smoking.
A beautiful breeze
in the florida keys.
Inside the Reef.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Vote the Assholes Out!
0721/1908 82/90 Blue Skies ESE/5 75%H.
DOGS 960 7145 1028 1701.
Greetings from the Hill.
A perfect morning in paradise,
oddly busy on the street,
perhaps the early voters
absenting the scondrels from power.
The effects of the recession
seem oblivious to the town council
as plans go forward
for TWENTY MILLION DOLLAR offices
to operate a ghost town
with cruise ship fees.
Kings and Princes of Duncedom
following the great leadership
of Obumboy from whence all comes
through DEBT.
October, the usual month of business,
partimers grooming homes for FantasyFest,
once a weekend, now a monthly
celebration of delusion and illusion,
this years' theme....
BuckFucking.
"Certainly appropriate to Barney Franks
and Bendover Obama, hofuckingho,"
laughs the madone watering roosters
on the sidewalk sending them
flying in front of cars...
"Fly fly, far away from the rooster hag,"
below on the porch enticing them
with her cursed flute.
The roosters were occupying the block
and the empty houses,
perching on the railings,
shitting on the porch floors,
six soldiers sqawking
on each side of the street,
their pecking ground the only
hundred foot lawn in town,
the corner lot.
The school board scandal with
the asshole Acevedo family,
bubba'd in with Fat Mac
who seems to empower influence
despite a hopeless failure at everything,
the corruption of bureaucracy
that sustains through incestuous
blackmail, bribery and patronage
flourishes as an immortal saint
of the Conch Republic.
"Fuck the government, piss on the feds,
take their money and remember to forget,"
the usual theme song of locals
regarding any intrusions of elements
beyond the county line,
public or private.
The hippies had found paradise...
far out islands and choice buds,
Big Mac was in the gang.
Gayboys found the Columbian Connection,
fruity old men gentrified houses,
partying at LaTeDa.
The Days before Aids.
"Thirty years after and your'e alive,
must be a virgin and a drunk,"
suggests the madone,
seen it all, heard it all.
Another week of bullshit from Obama,
"Focusing your life solely on making a buck
shows a certain poverty of ambition.
It asks too little of yourself,
because it is only when
you hitch your wagon to something larger
than yourself that you realize
your true potential."
Once again that mysterious 'it'
and the Wagon Trail.
This silly ass must write
these sorryass scripts himself.
Snorkling in a Sea of Debt...
Treading water in the Toxic Lake.
An amusing site, Stupid Quotes,
by famous people, necessary reference.
"Financial Markets are inherently unstable
and there are social needs that cannot be met
by giving free market free rein.
Unfortunately their defects are not recognized.
Instead there is a widespread belief...
that markets are selfcorrecting,"
George Soros, killer of Jews.
"It is not the resposibility of the Federal Reserve
nor would it be appropriate to protect
leaders and investors from the consequences
of thier financial decisions.....
I expect there will be failures,
I don't expect any serious problems
among large investment banks
that make up the substantial part
of the banking system,"
offered Chairman Ben.
"'It' is one fuck of a mess and less known,
chasing down David X Li
and the Gaussian Copula
or finding the counterparties
in Greenberg's AIGF,
another CFR spy....
and what about the owners
of the twelve Federal Reserve banks
who worry Alger Hart,
yes indeed, that scary unknown
could make one fart
in the black of night,"
worried the oldman,
thirsty at noon.
Hardly a breeze
in the keys.
Inside the Reef.
Above the Horn.
DOGS 960 7145 1028 1701.
Greetings from the Hill.
A perfect morning in paradise,
oddly busy on the street,
perhaps the early voters
absenting the scondrels from power.
The effects of the recession
seem oblivious to the town council
as plans go forward
for TWENTY MILLION DOLLAR offices
to operate a ghost town
with cruise ship fees.
Kings and Princes of Duncedom
following the great leadership
of Obumboy from whence all comes
through DEBT.
October, the usual month of business,
partimers grooming homes for FantasyFest,
once a weekend, now a monthly
celebration of delusion and illusion,
this years' theme....
BuckFucking.
"Certainly appropriate to Barney Franks
and Bendover Obama, hofuckingho,"
laughs the madone watering roosters
on the sidewalk sending them
flying in front of cars...
"Fly fly, far away from the rooster hag,"
below on the porch enticing them
with her cursed flute.
The roosters were occupying the block
and the empty houses,
perching on the railings,
shitting on the porch floors,
six soldiers sqawking
on each side of the street,
their pecking ground the only
hundred foot lawn in town,
the corner lot.
The school board scandal with
the asshole Acevedo family,
bubba'd in with Fat Mac
who seems to empower influence
despite a hopeless failure at everything,
the corruption of bureaucracy
that sustains through incestuous
blackmail, bribery and patronage
flourishes as an immortal saint
of the Conch Republic.
"Fuck the government, piss on the feds,
take their money and remember to forget,"
the usual theme song of locals
regarding any intrusions of elements
beyond the county line,
public or private.
The hippies had found paradise...
far out islands and choice buds,
Big Mac was in the gang.
Gayboys found the Columbian Connection,
fruity old men gentrified houses,
partying at LaTeDa.
The Days before Aids.
"Thirty years after and your'e alive,
must be a virgin and a drunk,"
suggests the madone,
seen it all, heard it all.
Another week of bullshit from Obama,
"Focusing your life solely on making a buck
shows a certain poverty of ambition.
It asks too little of yourself,
because it is only when
you hitch your wagon to something larger
than yourself that you realize
your true potential."
Once again that mysterious 'it'
and the Wagon Trail.
This silly ass must write
these sorryass scripts himself.
Snorkling in a Sea of Debt...
Treading water in the Toxic Lake.
An amusing site, Stupid Quotes,
by famous people, necessary reference.
"Financial Markets are inherently unstable
and there are social needs that cannot be met
by giving free market free rein.
Unfortunately their defects are not recognized.
Instead there is a widespread belief...
that markets are selfcorrecting,"
George Soros, killer of Jews.
"It is not the resposibility of the Federal Reserve
nor would it be appropriate to protect
leaders and investors from the consequences
of thier financial decisions.....
I expect there will be failures,
I don't expect any serious problems
among large investment banks
that make up the substantial part
of the banking system,"
offered Chairman Ben.
"'It' is one fuck of a mess and less known,
chasing down David X Li
and the Gaussian Copula
or finding the counterparties
in Greenberg's AIGF,
another CFR spy....
and what about the owners
of the twelve Federal Reserve banks
who worry Alger Hart,
yes indeed, that scary unknown
could make one fart
in the black of night,"
worried the oldman,
thirsty at noon.
Hardly a breeze
in the keys.
Inside the Reef.
Above the Horn.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Final Words to a Dying Dollar.
0718/1913 75/85 Blue Skies SW/5 0%H
DOGS 9574 702 1003 1651.
Greetings from the Hill.
Another month in paradise,
the garden a delightful change,
improvements of love and beauty,
without the buck's derange.
"There was no buck to arrange,"
snides the madone concerned
about the large type
wondering about the glasses.
The oldman was bored with blogging,
overfilled with the deceit of all,
statistics to boggle the mind,
semantics to confuse the brain,
talking tits with white teeth
sounding bossy smart
to emasculated men.
All a great piece of propaganda
to disguise the War of Poverty,
the demise of consumers
and the middle class.
"Replaced by Big Government,
the All Consumer," growls
the madone.
"If GM had kept up with technology,
like the computer industry has,
we would have $25 cars
with 1000 mpg," says Bill,
adding sagely,
"If you can't make it good,
then make 'it' look good."
So much for the richest man
in the world.
The old fart from Omaha
who disdained derivatives
yet holds tens of trillions
claiming to be a five year keeper
of all things American offered,
"If past history was all
there was to the game,
the richest people
would be librarians."
Certainly makes one wonder
who's ideas 'they' steal
and the lawyers protecting
the theft.
The ingenuity of financial engineering.
"This crisis exposed
very significant problems
in the financial system of the US
and other economies...
innovation got too far in front
of the knowledge of risk,"
says Treasurer Timmy,
"Hofuckingho, because of leverage,
like forty and sixty to one, assholes,
Canada at sixteen to one
has avoided the blind risk,"
the madone enjoyed reports.
"Fucking asshole machine."
DOGS 9574 702 1003 1651.
Greetings from the Hill.
Another month in paradise,
the garden a delightful change,
improvements of love and beauty,
without the buck's derange.
"There was no buck to arrange,"
snides the madone concerned
about the large type
wondering about the glasses.
The oldman was bored with blogging,
overfilled with the deceit of all,
statistics to boggle the mind,
semantics to confuse the brain,
talking tits with white teeth
sounding bossy smart
to emasculated men.
All a great piece of propaganda
to disguise the War of Poverty,
the demise of consumers
and the middle class.
"Replaced by Big Government,
the All Consumer," growls
the madone.
"If GM had kept up with technology,
like the computer industry has,
we would have $25 cars
with 1000 mpg," says Bill,
adding sagely,
"If you can't make it good,
then make 'it' look good."
So much for the richest man
in the world.
The old fart from Omaha
who disdained derivatives
yet holds tens of trillions
claiming to be a five year keeper
of all things American offered,
"If past history was all
there was to the game,
the richest people
would be librarians."
Certainly makes one wonder
who's ideas 'they' steal
and the lawyers protecting
the theft.
The ingenuity of financial engineering.
"This crisis exposed
very significant problems
in the financial system of the US
and other economies...
innovation got too far in front
of the knowledge of risk,"
says Treasurer Timmy,
"Hofuckingho, because of leverage,
like forty and sixty to one, assholes,
Canada at sixteen to one
has avoided the blind risk,"
the madone enjoyed reports.
"Fucking asshole machine."
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Dharma Bums to Pharma Bums.
0716/1927 82/88 Blue Skies E10/15 75%H
DOGS 9739 610 1016 1695.
Greetings from the Hill.
A beautiful day in paradise,
classics in the president's room,
chimes ringing in the breeze,
ties and tits lying on TV,
cats fed and the oldman alive.
The gardens lovelier every day
from nightly rain and morning Tony.
"Too gorgeous a day to get mad
at the fools on CNBC,
it's golf day for the Fedex Cup,
15 Million deferred, hofuckingho,"
laughs the madone in a good mood.
Internetting with the foreign rags,
much more truthful in reporting
than on this soiled soil.
The great symbols of american status
all gone and going from the graft.
"Goodbye Caddilac, Hello Geely
at every Chinese embassy in the world,
the game is lost by the grifters,"
sighs the oldman recalling California,
little red books at Berkeley,
little girls with Mao infatuation
never imagining the outcome
of the revolution,
the marxist capitalist mixture
that would rule without weapons,
using ideas and originality
and the classrooms of Harvard,
Stanford, UofC, MIT, Yale...
"No American will invest where a dictator
can take his investment away,"
and now the 'free market' dictators
of Wall Street and Washington
have rendered the citizens'
pensions and healthcare worthless,
future obligations not payable,
no longer refinanceable,
DEBT defaulted.
Of course Golman Sachs invested
bailout money and 2009 profits
in Geely International,
communist profiteers,
"Money carries no flag,
certainly not the Goldman Gang."
Palm trees swaying in the blue sky,
an hour before tee time at East Lake,
classics and golf in the afternoon,
the oldman was lucky to survive
and contented to be alive
in these contengious times
where twenty million families
cannot pay their bills
while thirty golfers play
this weekend for first prize
of FIFTEEN MILLION dollars.
Dancing contests in the depression,
dancing in the dark,
no mugging in the park,
stoned at home alone,
bean soup
without a ham bone...
They, They, They...
Who the fuck are They?
Lehman suits at JP desks,
Bear Stern ties
at Goldman computers,
Drexel derivative dames
now Washington commuters.
Pimps and whores
at WhiteHouse doors.
The Joker telling the youth
to strive beyond uncouth,
transparency and fake opaque,
the TRUTH and Babe Ruth.
In Clevland, an empty Ford factory
becomes a Roller Derby Palace,
the times are familiar
for oldfarts with memories
and the young still curious,
been there before
be there again,
those benefit packages promoted
by crooked unions conning
Joe Paycheck for deductions
to crooked politicians...
"All for a golden future,
a condo on the beach,
the hospital nearby,
a drugstore downstairs,
and insurance
for the loved ones...
unless Goldie Sox gets it,"
growls the oldman
at seventy.
Boomerboy...
the DEBT you have today..
is your grandfathers,
and your mother and fathers,
better get a snorkel.
The DEBT market, in olden times
the Bond Market before
the financial engineers
with fancy words
improvised from Greenspan
and Ayn Rand,
back to Objectivism
and the secret plot...
"Secure the loan
by spreading the butter thin,
make the jam synthetic,
sell the sandwich twice,
but keep it in the fridge,"
laughed the oldman.
The dilemma in the DEBT
was refinancing things that
were never repaid, only
carried forth by counterparty,
perpetual guarantees to pay
as long as insured by AAA.
The Day is now to Pay.
A sunshower before noon,
roosters crowing,
cats contented.
Inside the Reef,
Above the Horn.
DOGS 9739 610 1016 1695.
Greetings from the Hill.
A beautiful day in paradise,
classics in the president's room,
chimes ringing in the breeze,
ties and tits lying on TV,
cats fed and the oldman alive.
The gardens lovelier every day
from nightly rain and morning Tony.
"Too gorgeous a day to get mad
at the fools on CNBC,
it's golf day for the Fedex Cup,
15 Million deferred, hofuckingho,"
laughs the madone in a good mood.
Internetting with the foreign rags,
much more truthful in reporting
than on this soiled soil.
The great symbols of american status
all gone and going from the graft.
"Goodbye Caddilac, Hello Geely
at every Chinese embassy in the world,
the game is lost by the grifters,"
sighs the oldman recalling California,
little red books at Berkeley,
little girls with Mao infatuation
never imagining the outcome
of the revolution,
the marxist capitalist mixture
that would rule without weapons,
using ideas and originality
and the classrooms of Harvard,
Stanford, UofC, MIT, Yale...
"No American will invest where a dictator
can take his investment away,"
and now the 'free market' dictators
of Wall Street and Washington
have rendered the citizens'
pensions and healthcare worthless,
future obligations not payable,
no longer refinanceable,
DEBT defaulted.
Of course Golman Sachs invested
bailout money and 2009 profits
in Geely International,
communist profiteers,
"Money carries no flag,
certainly not the Goldman Gang."
Palm trees swaying in the blue sky,
an hour before tee time at East Lake,
classics and golf in the afternoon,
the oldman was lucky to survive
and contented to be alive
in these contengious times
where twenty million families
cannot pay their bills
while thirty golfers play
this weekend for first prize
of FIFTEEN MILLION dollars.
Dancing contests in the depression,
dancing in the dark,
no mugging in the park,
stoned at home alone,
bean soup
without a ham bone...
They, They, They...
Who the fuck are They?
Lehman suits at JP desks,
Bear Stern ties
at Goldman computers,
Drexel derivative dames
now Washington commuters.
Pimps and whores
at WhiteHouse doors.
The Joker telling the youth
to strive beyond uncouth,
transparency and fake opaque,
the TRUTH and Babe Ruth.
In Clevland, an empty Ford factory
becomes a Roller Derby Palace,
the times are familiar
for oldfarts with memories
and the young still curious,
been there before
be there again,
those benefit packages promoted
by crooked unions conning
Joe Paycheck for deductions
to crooked politicians...
"All for a golden future,
a condo on the beach,
the hospital nearby,
a drugstore downstairs,
and insurance
for the loved ones...
unless Goldie Sox gets it,"
growls the oldman
at seventy.
Boomerboy...
the DEBT you have today..
is your grandfathers,
and your mother and fathers,
better get a snorkel.
The DEBT market, in olden times
the Bond Market before
the financial engineers
with fancy words
improvised from Greenspan
and Ayn Rand,
back to Objectivism
and the secret plot...
"Secure the loan
by spreading the butter thin,
make the jam synthetic,
sell the sandwich twice,
but keep it in the fridge,"
laughed the oldman.
The dilemma in the DEBT
was refinancing things that
were never repaid, only
carried forth by counterparty,
perpetual guarantees to pay
as long as insured by AAA.
The Day is now to Pay.
A sunshower before noon,
roosters crowing,
cats contented.
Inside the Reef,
Above the Horn.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Justice in Paradise.
0714/1927 83/89 Blue Skies E6 75%H
DOGS 9814 7218 1015 1717.
Greetings from the Hill.
A quiet friday in paradise,
cats sleeping, doves disappeared,
roosters nonrelenting,
Gregory Peck in a classic western,
fuck the CNBC agitators.
No tradesmen, no handymen
or illegal housecleaners.
Local commentors riled and outraged
over Judge Jones' sentencing
of Randy Wade Acevedo...
suspended school superintendent
by Governor Crist himself,
suspended with pay???
to pay the lawyer
but not his wife's,
the dear woman gave him five grand
of stolen school money
to support his reelection,
"Thanks kids."
A strange and dangerous apathy affects
the essence of the proleteriat expanded
to the lost middleclass...defeatists all.
"Who gives a fuck anymore, the system sucks,
from the city and county
to state and federal,
The American Buck buys the Fuck,
with a handshake and the clap,
the dollar hopelessly diseased,
each day dripping away it's health,"
snorts the madone wondering
if this central bank scheme
is as stupid as Greenspan's dream
of risk management
with derivatives
now contangled with gold and silver,
buyers buying promises
of hot air movement.
The Chinese reneging on the Fraud,
another financial engineering scam
from Lloyd and Jamie...
such clever fellows who manage
to steal whatever possible
from whomever gullible
through big check lobbyists.
Imagine the next cons...
Cap and Trade.
Privatization of freeways.
Securitization of insurance.
Corporate management
of Treasury Funds (already done)
and for all, regardless of age,
Citizen Debt Obligation Notes...
hohofucking ho.
"There are believers
and there are relievers...
so go shit yourself, it's over.
This asshole Obama has lied
to a nation of fools who want
to believe the lies, the dunces
who played the game of DEBT
within their own four walls
and now the basement
is flooding from toxic paper
clogging the drain...
is the insurance paid
for fire and flood,
a hurricane perhaps,
no more Fema checks,
the money is being used for
The Homeland Security Headquarters
on a hundred and eighty acres
within Whitehouse pissing distance,
Obama's personal embassy,
a dime store general,"
snorts the madone pissed,
hosing down a rooster.
This greed for ostentation,
the mask of image personified
by objects, a home, symbols of status,
a scorecard of social standing
in a community of realestate agents,
"Dip or flip, every two years,
onwards and upwards with Greenspan,
and then the little nerd...
until, Oh, oh, the smell of a turd,"
laughs the oldman
amused with the plight
of the mentally slight.
This Acevedo pair in foreclosure,
the Mayor, two commissioners,
the county tax collector,
assholes managing hundreds
of millions of dollars
mismanaging personal budgets,
"Put it on the card,
the government card,"
rape of the state,
bunghole Uncle Sam
and buttfuck Miss Liberty...
anything for MONEY,
"Maybe 'it' was the game shows,
everything deductible,
new cards in the mail,
Countrywide and Quicken,
Lehman suits around the world,
bundling those tranches
with AAA branches,
globalizing garbage
before the stink,"
mused the oldman
ready for a cold pint
at noon.
"These fucking asholes,"
steamed the oldman aggravated
with the property tax bill,
the Sheriff's budget up 30 percent,
School budget up 20 percent,
( Acevedo's embezzlement),
city up 10 percent,
total taxes up 20 percent,
market value off 30 percent,
out of the million dollar club,
the homestead exemption
got millrate trumped.
So much for balanced budgets.
"This shit is just beginning,
leaches in the hot tubs for fatso's,
buybacks for clunkers,
back to grandma's house,
memberships cancelled,
television and beer,"
shrugged the poor oldman.
Above the Horn,
inside the Reef,
overlooking
Soleris Hill.
DOGS 9814 7218 1015 1717.
Greetings from the Hill.
A quiet friday in paradise,
cats sleeping, doves disappeared,
roosters nonrelenting,
Gregory Peck in a classic western,
fuck the CNBC agitators.
No tradesmen, no handymen
or illegal housecleaners.
Local commentors riled and outraged
over Judge Jones' sentencing
of Randy Wade Acevedo...
suspended school superintendent
by Governor Crist himself,
suspended with pay???
to pay the lawyer
but not his wife's,
the dear woman gave him five grand
of stolen school money
to support his reelection,
"Thanks kids."
A strange and dangerous apathy affects
the essence of the proleteriat expanded
to the lost middleclass...defeatists all.
"Who gives a fuck anymore, the system sucks,
from the city and county
to state and federal,
The American Buck buys the Fuck,
with a handshake and the clap,
the dollar hopelessly diseased,
each day dripping away it's health,"
snorts the madone wondering
if this central bank scheme
is as stupid as Greenspan's dream
of risk management
with derivatives
now contangled with gold and silver,
buyers buying promises
of hot air movement.
The Chinese reneging on the Fraud,
another financial engineering scam
from Lloyd and Jamie...
such clever fellows who manage
to steal whatever possible
from whomever gullible
through big check lobbyists.
Imagine the next cons...
Cap and Trade.
Privatization of freeways.
Securitization of insurance.
Corporate management
of Treasury Funds (already done)
and for all, regardless of age,
Citizen Debt Obligation Notes...
hohofucking ho.
"There are believers
and there are relievers...
so go shit yourself, it's over.
This asshole Obama has lied
to a nation of fools who want
to believe the lies, the dunces
who played the game of DEBT
within their own four walls
and now the basement
is flooding from toxic paper
clogging the drain...
is the insurance paid
for fire and flood,
a hurricane perhaps,
no more Fema checks,
the money is being used for
The Homeland Security Headquarters
on a hundred and eighty acres
within Whitehouse pissing distance,
Obama's personal embassy,
a dime store general,"
snorts the madone pissed,
hosing down a rooster.
This greed for ostentation,
the mask of image personified
by objects, a home, symbols of status,
a scorecard of social standing
in a community of realestate agents,
"Dip or flip, every two years,
onwards and upwards with Greenspan,
and then the little nerd...
until, Oh, oh, the smell of a turd,"
laughs the oldman
amused with the plight
of the mentally slight.
This Acevedo pair in foreclosure,
the Mayor, two commissioners,
the county tax collector,
assholes managing hundreds
of millions of dollars
mismanaging personal budgets,
"Put it on the card,
the government card,"
rape of the state,
bunghole Uncle Sam
and buttfuck Miss Liberty...
anything for MONEY,
"Maybe 'it' was the game shows,
everything deductible,
new cards in the mail,
Countrywide and Quicken,
Lehman suits around the world,
bundling those tranches
with AAA branches,
globalizing garbage
before the stink,"
mused the oldman
ready for a cold pint
at noon.
"These fucking asholes,"
steamed the oldman aggravated
with the property tax bill,
the Sheriff's budget up 30 percent,
School budget up 20 percent,
( Acevedo's embezzlement),
city up 10 percent,
total taxes up 20 percent,
market value off 30 percent,
out of the million dollar club,
the homestead exemption
got millrate trumped.
So much for balanced budgets.
"This shit is just beginning,
leaches in the hot tubs for fatso's,
buybacks for clunkers,
back to grandma's house,
memberships cancelled,
television and beer,"
shrugged the poor oldman.
Above the Horn,
inside the Reef,
overlooking
Soleris Hill.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
DERIVATIVES...FINANCIAL AIDS.
070 1944 2/90 Blue Skies SSE5/10 75%H.
DOGS 92 670 9652 1430.
Greetings from the Hill.
A beautiful day in paradise,
classics from Havana, lies from CNBC,
doves on the railings,
cats on chairs and roosters
crowing on every corner.
Back on the east side
after a week in the west bay...
change for the oldman.
Bermudagrass growing on the green.
Back to school and the Superintendent
"Guilty on all counts," reckons the jury
in but two hours, Bubba justice.
The wife facing serious time.
Florida's population actually falling
as homeowners flee north,
Key West with more empty homes
fewer children at schools,
"Then why the fuck are taxes up...
phoney appraisals continue and
mill rates escalate, more ripoffs,"
growls the madone,
pissed with cheats and liars,
bureaucrats covering their asses
and benefit free passes.
"The fucking government leaches
in sixty eight degree offices,
air conditioned cars and trucks,
perks for jerks, bucks for fucks,
buttholing Uncle Sam for more,
the revolving money door
to Ben's printing presses,"
mad at noon....
and the Millers man arrives.
The oldman watched another rerun
of 'House of Cards last night,
the story more understandable,
the treachery less tolerable,
the audacity of the senile fool
grinning over his Fed debauchery,
smoothtalking in Randisms,
confusing with obfuscation.
"Did derivatives create this predicament,"
questions the brave young man
to the wizard of financial engineering
who permited this monetary contagion
to infect the economic system
with an unregulated disease
of greed and debt...
Financial Aids.
Risk prevention against default,
insurance and protection
against infection
from dirty dollars.
"Hofuckingho, socialized medicine
will keep the dying longer
in drugged out states
prolonging divestiture of assets,
suck out the inheritence,"
snorts the madone
popping a cold pint.
The oldman wondered when 'it' changed,
was their a time that altered
the conventional wisdom of wealth,
a reason to buy without payment
up front in advance....
finance companies provided white goods
then furniture and carpets,
can anyone remember
the Diners Club card
and life after Lyndon,
the Woodstock Freaks became
bummers in Beamers,
hippies became capitalists,
greedy cowards at heart,
"I need, I want, I deserve,
I fucking I and of course me,"
the mantra of the generation.
Brand names and labels for assholes,
the beginning of something for nothing,
"Smuggle some coke, a free vacation,"
from Key West to New York,
the real gay revolution.
Keeping up with the Joneses
became keeping up with the Gays,
straights had queer haircuts
but didn't know 'it'.
"Maybe 'it' was the cunt's revenge,
all those years of oppression,
the lying, the cheating,
the stupidity of existence,"
considered the oldman
sipping the warming beer.
Talking tits blathering over Sheila Bair
and commercial real estate being
'the next shoe to fall', fucking assholes,
a big boot in the ass,
jerkweed morons flirting on screen
to an audience of gullible goons,
General Electric pitchpeople.
A phoney rollup of stock prices
for the vultures to rape rewards
then short the market down
"To Sixfucking Hundred,"
grumbles the madone,
the traders are traitors
living in a world of quadrillions
where a point is a billion.
"Totally out of control of comprehension,
mathematical models of blindmen,
multinational corporations gone global,
headquartered in New Jersey,
outside the rotten apple.
Bet on a bet on a bet and cover your risk,
hedge your hedge and insure
the counterparties through shorts,
'want to make a billion',
'don't flip your house',
acquire a liitle platinum,
a pocketful of titanium,
and a dash of plutanium,
lots of fresh water and
a pantry of canned goods.
The worst is yet to come.
Above the Horn.
Beyond the reef.
Hardly a breeze in the keys.
DOGS 92 670 9652 1430.
Greetings from the Hill.
A beautiful day in paradise,
classics from Havana, lies from CNBC,
doves on the railings,
cats on chairs and roosters
crowing on every corner.
Back on the east side
after a week in the west bay...
change for the oldman.
Bermudagrass growing on the green.
Back to school and the Superintendent
"Guilty on all counts," reckons the jury
in but two hours, Bubba justice.
The wife facing serious time.
Florida's population actually falling
as homeowners flee north,
Key West with more empty homes
fewer children at schools,
"Then why the fuck are taxes up...
phoney appraisals continue and
mill rates escalate, more ripoffs,"
growls the madone,
pissed with cheats and liars,
bureaucrats covering their asses
and benefit free passes.
"The fucking government leaches
in sixty eight degree offices,
air conditioned cars and trucks,
perks for jerks, bucks for fucks,
buttholing Uncle Sam for more,
the revolving money door
to Ben's printing presses,"
mad at noon....
and the Millers man arrives.
The oldman watched another rerun
of 'House of Cards last night,
the story more understandable,
the treachery less tolerable,
the audacity of the senile fool
grinning over his Fed debauchery,
smoothtalking in Randisms,
confusing with obfuscation.
"Did derivatives create this predicament,"
questions the brave young man
to the wizard of financial engineering
who permited this monetary contagion
to infect the economic system
with an unregulated disease
of greed and debt...
Financial Aids.
Risk prevention against default,
insurance and protection
against infection
from dirty dollars.
"Hofuckingho, socialized medicine
will keep the dying longer
in drugged out states
prolonging divestiture of assets,
suck out the inheritence,"
snorts the madone
popping a cold pint.
The oldman wondered when 'it' changed,
was their a time that altered
the conventional wisdom of wealth,
a reason to buy without payment
up front in advance....
finance companies provided white goods
then furniture and carpets,
can anyone remember
the Diners Club card
and life after Lyndon,
the Woodstock Freaks became
bummers in Beamers,
hippies became capitalists,
greedy cowards at heart,
"I need, I want, I deserve,
I fucking I and of course me,"
the mantra of the generation.
Brand names and labels for assholes,
the beginning of something for nothing,
"Smuggle some coke, a free vacation,"
from Key West to New York,
the real gay revolution.
Keeping up with the Joneses
became keeping up with the Gays,
straights had queer haircuts
but didn't know 'it'.
"Maybe 'it' was the cunt's revenge,
all those years of oppression,
the lying, the cheating,
the stupidity of existence,"
considered the oldman
sipping the warming beer.
Talking tits blathering over Sheila Bair
and commercial real estate being
'the next shoe to fall', fucking assholes,
a big boot in the ass,
jerkweed morons flirting on screen
to an audience of gullible goons,
General Electric pitchpeople.
A phoney rollup of stock prices
for the vultures to rape rewards
then short the market down
"To Sixfucking Hundred,"
grumbles the madone,
the traders are traitors
living in a world of quadrillions
where a point is a billion.
"Totally out of control of comprehension,
mathematical models of blindmen,
multinational corporations gone global,
headquartered in New Jersey,
outside the rotten apple.
Bet on a bet on a bet and cover your risk,
hedge your hedge and insure
the counterparties through shorts,
'want to make a billion',
'don't flip your house',
acquire a liitle platinum,
a pocketful of titanium,
and a dash of plutanium,
lots of fresh water and
a pantry of canned goods.
The worst is yet to come.
Above the Horn.
Beyond the reef.
Hardly a breeze in the keys.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Forty years in the Shadows.
0706/1950 82/90 Blue Skies SE5/10 75%H
DOGS 9505 7028 9442 1460.
Greetings from the Hill.
Up early before a sunset walk,
the CNBC gang eulogizing Ted,
always the advertising for oneself,
idiots in the game of fame,
dating only their rating.
The oldman lived the dream of Camelot.
Santa Barbara in the fifties,
San Francisco in the early sixties,
those Kennedy boys with Marilyn
and the pimp, Peter Lawford.
A gracious young mother in the White House,
Jack's sluts sneaking in all doors,
even a Chicago mobman's mistress,
and always Barbra pulling his honk,
while Teddy took his chair
too young but 'so what',
Papa Joe watched over.
The young man had opened
his first golfcourse that november,
"Who the fuck shot Jack,"
wondered a stunned nation,
shocked and numb,
the beginning of media dumb,
Ford presides over 'the report',
whitewashing all,
the mafia and Castro,
the CIA and KGB,
Johnson and Nixon.
"Maybe 'it' was the hippies,
drug crazed revolutionaries,
undermining Camelot,"
said the warmongers.
Lyndon turned white and quit,
leaving Bulldog Bobbie to challenge
the invisible powers of war,
Teddy running a campaign.
The young man was president
of California Graphics Limited
when the blood flowed again
and black and white dreams
both ended with assasinations,
a nation in chaos.
Dark forces and trained killers
adding acid to the minds
of the dumb.
"Who killed Bobby and Why?."
Teddy never asked.
The middleaged man was married
with three children
living on a lake
smoking pot with Barry
when Teddy went off the bridge
and created the poster,
he was a poster king.
Nixon, Ford and Carter pass,
perhaps the curse as well,
could the drunk sober up and run,
at least stagger through the motions
of reliving the dynasty,
"No fucking way, a loser, a lush,
tar him with another brush,
refugees and amnesty,
eviscerate Intelligence,"
leftwinged liberal.
The patriarch of the family fortune
that no one seems to know about,
the bootleg fortune...
"Horror of horrors, the little boy
who saluted his dead dad
died....that fucking curse
that lets the worthless live,"
growled the madone recalling
that week ten years ago.
The Kennedy's couldn't take the Clintons.
Strange how these shifting dynasties
buttbacked by the Bushes
have brought down the House
of Uncle Sam by Uncle Tom.
By the Jewish House of Goldman.
By the Council of Foreign Relations.
By middleclass morons
believing beyond their means
and bankers providing
the DEBT.
Blue skies and beautiful,
hardly a breeze
in the fabulous florida keys.
DOGS 9505 7028 9442 1460.
Greetings from the Hill.
Up early before a sunset walk,
the CNBC gang eulogizing Ted,
always the advertising for oneself,
idiots in the game of fame,
dating only their rating.
The oldman lived the dream of Camelot.
Santa Barbara in the fifties,
San Francisco in the early sixties,
those Kennedy boys with Marilyn
and the pimp, Peter Lawford.
A gracious young mother in the White House,
Jack's sluts sneaking in all doors,
even a Chicago mobman's mistress,
and always Barbra pulling his honk,
while Teddy took his chair
too young but 'so what',
Papa Joe watched over.
The young man had opened
his first golfcourse that november,
"Who the fuck shot Jack,"
wondered a stunned nation,
shocked and numb,
the beginning of media dumb,
Ford presides over 'the report',
whitewashing all,
the mafia and Castro,
the CIA and KGB,
Johnson and Nixon.
"Maybe 'it' was the hippies,
drug crazed revolutionaries,
undermining Camelot,"
said the warmongers.
Lyndon turned white and quit,
leaving Bulldog Bobbie to challenge
the invisible powers of war,
Teddy running a campaign.
The young man was president
of California Graphics Limited
when the blood flowed again
and black and white dreams
both ended with assasinations,
a nation in chaos.
Dark forces and trained killers
adding acid to the minds
of the dumb.
"Who killed Bobby and Why?."
Teddy never asked.
The middleaged man was married
with three children
living on a lake
smoking pot with Barry
when Teddy went off the bridge
and created the poster,
he was a poster king.
Nixon, Ford and Carter pass,
perhaps the curse as well,
could the drunk sober up and run,
at least stagger through the motions
of reliving the dynasty,
"No fucking way, a loser, a lush,
tar him with another brush,
refugees and amnesty,
eviscerate Intelligence,"
leftwinged liberal.
The patriarch of the family fortune
that no one seems to know about,
the bootleg fortune...
"Horror of horrors, the little boy
who saluted his dead dad
died....that fucking curse
that lets the worthless live,"
growled the madone recalling
that week ten years ago.
The Kennedy's couldn't take the Clintons.
Strange how these shifting dynasties
buttbacked by the Bushes
have brought down the House
of Uncle Sam by Uncle Tom.
By the Jewish House of Goldman.
By the Council of Foreign Relations.
By middleclass morons
believing beyond their means
and bankers providing
the DEBT.
Blue skies and beautiful,
hardly a breeze
in the fabulous florida keys.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Under the Table. Smoking Outside.
0705/1953 82/90 Blue Skies SE5/10 80%H
DOGS 9506 7235 9550 1410.
Greetings from the Hill.
A bit humid in paradise without breeze,
classics to the west, CNBC in the east,
cats on the railing, doves on the table,
the oldman pecking on the Toshiba,
was 'it' just another day...
"Or the end of the Recession."
Echoed the talking tits and twisted ties.
That little halfblack boy
is the most powerful man
in the world.
"Imagine fucking that,"
wonders the madone.
Of course who could believe that only one
might have such power to change
the direction of policy,
that one man could unite all americans
in many beliefs...
then suck up the banker's asses
with hedgefund managed reliefs.
"And this phoney health plan,
fake and pass, a jivetalking ass,
dead bodies fighting a drug war,
trillions of dollars and not one
major infrastructure project,
'it' is all about moving money,"
growls the madone
pissed with liars.
The oldman stretched and walked the balcony
looking down the hill to Bonny's,
empty since her death,
the matriarch of Soleris Hill,
the oldman's friend
since Ford was President.
Across the street,
Dead Ned's house was empty
and also for sale...
only for the ghosts.
The mansion up the street,
empty and now for sale.
"Two million too,"
snorted the madone.
The KCFedparty
at Jackson Hole portended redundance,
"The financial storm that reached
gale force this time last year...
( read a year ago hofuckingho )
has not yet subsided and it's effects
are becoming apparent in the form
of softening economic activity
and rising unemployment,
adding inflation and global commodity boom
creates the most challenging economic
environment
in memory."
"IN memorium, you asswipe,
you fucked up royally, should be fired,
but no, the Obumboy for the thirty jews
directing the CFR, applauds his fuckup
with reappointment for the higher plan,"
two pretentious academics quoting
melodious memories to a hearer
who listens not.
The most insidious tax of all unfolds,
a temporary guest who stays forever,
a relative with a trailer...
"Inflation for the nation,
cigarettes and booze state taxes,
dining and bedding next,
a fee, a charge, a billing,
the agents for the nation's
cashcows, those cash flows,"
spits the madone
at a rooster below.
Record keeping, the biggest lie of all,
"How much did you do today?"
A retailer cheating himself,
a wholesaler paying cash,
a manufacturer outsourcing,
the banker offshoring...
all crooked record keeping.
Enter another superstar from Canada,
this fellow from B.C. went east
to Bay Street and Wood Gundy,
then CIBC and TD, then Europe,
spun off his group to specialize in....
"Those fucking Derivatives."
The oldman had been watching Lance Uggla
since setting his secret little scheme
to become a leading provider of
independent daily portfolio valuation
and OTC derivative trade processing,
after all if your partners provide the info
to the world of billions you may go,
while recording trades in trillions,
within seven years, less than Bush,
a market exploding to 62TRILLION,
figure that number if you own
CDSindex, IIC, ITraxx, IBoxx, CDX,
ICE Trust,on and on....
so some smart fucker convinced
eleven of the biggest houses
to buy ownership
and provide information to
Mark It, now Markit,
fuck you, AIGFP.
Of course, of course, Off course,
what if the Big Lie got out,
imagine if all those dreamers
wanted to dream again
and found out the bankers
had gambled their trust
"And gone Bust, Haha."
"But 'it's all numbers, mere pixels
moving through an electronic world,
and what if some foreign spy
frigged the fuckwadder, but no fear,
the smartones are always near,
those California brains now have
'the Lossy Difference Aggregator',
that's Goldie Sox's alligator
diagnosing fine grain delays
and paquet losses through
hashbased primitive routers
one per million per second,
what a fucking relief,"
laughs the oldman
nearing the Truth.
DOGS 9506 7235 9550 1410.
Greetings from the Hill.
A bit humid in paradise without breeze,
classics to the west, CNBC in the east,
cats on the railing, doves on the table,
the oldman pecking on the Toshiba,
was 'it' just another day...
"Or the end of the Recession."
Echoed the talking tits and twisted ties.
That little halfblack boy
is the most powerful man
in the world.
"Imagine fucking that,"
wonders the madone.
Of course who could believe that only one
might have such power to change
the direction of policy,
that one man could unite all americans
in many beliefs...
then suck up the banker's asses
with hedgefund managed reliefs.
"And this phoney health plan,
fake and pass, a jivetalking ass,
dead bodies fighting a drug war,
trillions of dollars and not one
major infrastructure project,
'it' is all about moving money,"
growls the madone
pissed with liars.
The oldman stretched and walked the balcony
looking down the hill to Bonny's,
empty since her death,
the matriarch of Soleris Hill,
the oldman's friend
since Ford was President.
Across the street,
Dead Ned's house was empty
and also for sale...
only for the ghosts.
The mansion up the street,
empty and now for sale.
"Two million too,"
snorted the madone.
The KCFedparty
at Jackson Hole portended redundance,
"The financial storm that reached
gale force this time last year...
( read a year ago hofuckingho )
has not yet subsided and it's effects
are becoming apparent in the form
of softening economic activity
and rising unemployment,
adding inflation and global commodity boom
creates the most challenging economic
environment
in memory."
"IN memorium, you asswipe,
you fucked up royally, should be fired,
but no, the Obumboy for the thirty jews
directing the CFR, applauds his fuckup
with reappointment for the higher plan,"
two pretentious academics quoting
melodious memories to a hearer
who listens not.
The most insidious tax of all unfolds,
a temporary guest who stays forever,
a relative with a trailer...
"Inflation for the nation,
cigarettes and booze state taxes,
dining and bedding next,
a fee, a charge, a billing,
the agents for the nation's
cashcows, those cash flows,"
spits the madone
at a rooster below.
Record keeping, the biggest lie of all,
"How much did you do today?"
A retailer cheating himself,
a wholesaler paying cash,
a manufacturer outsourcing,
the banker offshoring...
all crooked record keeping.
Enter another superstar from Canada,
this fellow from B.C. went east
to Bay Street and Wood Gundy,
then CIBC and TD, then Europe,
spun off his group to specialize in....
"Those fucking Derivatives."
The oldman had been watching Lance Uggla
since setting his secret little scheme
to become a leading provider of
independent daily portfolio valuation
and OTC derivative trade processing,
after all if your partners provide the info
to the world of billions you may go,
while recording trades in trillions,
within seven years, less than Bush,
a market exploding to 62TRILLION,
figure that number if you own
CDSindex, IIC, ITraxx, IBoxx, CDX,
ICE Trust,on and on....
so some smart fucker convinced
eleven of the biggest houses
to buy ownership
and provide information to
Mark It, now Markit,
fuck you, AIGFP.
Of course, of course, Off course,
what if the Big Lie got out,
imagine if all those dreamers
wanted to dream again
and found out the bankers
had gambled their trust
"And gone Bust, Haha."
"But 'it's all numbers, mere pixels
moving through an electronic world,
and what if some foreign spy
frigged the fuckwadder, but no fear,
the smartones are always near,
those California brains now have
'the Lossy Difference Aggregator',
that's Goldie Sox's alligator
diagnosing fine grain delays
and paquet losses through
hashbased primitive routers
one per million per second,
what a fucking relief,"
laughs the oldman
nearing the Truth.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Sympathy for the Devils.
0703/1957 82/88 Blue Skies ESE15/20 75%H.
DOGS 9300 7263 9465 1390.
Greetings from the Hill.
A breezy beautiful day in paradise,
chimes ringing, CNBC whining,
classics from Havana, cats fed,
Tony seeding the putting green,
Bill gone out to sea,
leaving the home undamaged.
The oldman listened to the Toshiba,
a habit vowed never to do....
"Yeah, yeah, but he was great,"
agreed the madone sharing an hour
with the professor from Montreal,
Global Research.ca.
"Financial Disarmament....",
mused the oldman enjoying the analogy,
the dumbones cannot recall the sixties
and threats of nuclear extermination,
the big bombs on big targets,
"Like Wall Street and Las Vegas,"
thinking of how 'it' was.
The current weapons of mass destruction
are no longer housed at Twin Towers,
a perpetrated terror ruse,
now kept away from the Goldie Tower,
beneath the New Jersey farms,
the financial bomb of econmics,
those fucking derivatives,
strange contracts without accounting,
"Because pirates abide no laws
but the rules of the Seal of the House."
What the fuck are these bets on bets,
gamble on a stock not delivered,
increase holdings through margin,
protect losses with short accounts...
simple shit from the seventies.
Insurance and risk management,
fund managers on marijuana,
salesmen on hash,
investors on acid.
"Hey, there is more money in financials,
spin off the manufacturing and keep the paper,"
the paradigm shift from doers
to dealers.
"Buy, buy, buy..."cackles the Fool in the White House.
Indulge the rape of home ownership
after paying for the prom
and the shotgun wedding.
Privatization and globalization,
old soldiers and bankers
given the keys to the central vaults
in Iraq and America,
"It's all about oil, stupid,"
more media lies.
Greenspan claimed derivatives were 'it',
the magic for risk management,
the world spread of risk,
the gee whiz cheese whiz,
"House prices never fall."
Financial products without regulation,
then the april'04 ultimate bank leverage,
"Thirty fucking to one fractional banking,"
snorted the madone about the con,
done before in Mexico,
mastered in Asia,
now targeted for America,
"The fucking traders are the traitors,"
Blankfein and Dimon pirate scum.
The booty kept in underground caves
beneath the Cayman Islands,
the fourth largest financial centre,
and British Owned.
"Debt is the answer to our wealth,"
agreed those greedy heartless cunts
behind the scheme to ruin the dreams
of blacks, illegals and trailer trash
who dreamed of fireplaces,
SUV's and PlasmaTV's,
a two story McMansion
with Big Macs
on a diningroom table.
"Sign here my man, no worry,
you have privacy rights,
granite tops and a pool,
a backyard with a view,"
the originator
of financial paper.
"What the fuck happened,
a few foreclosures don't mean shit,
something else sunk a ship,
the pirates have no honor,
sink the Bear Stearns and steal
her booty the best traders,
down with Lehman Brothers
and change the flag of Merrill
consolidating the risk of peril,
keep the secret and the model,
don't ever lose the router,
Sniffing and Phisching,
the sisters of Snoop,
ETF's scare you to death,
but something went wrong,
or was 'it' financial engineering,"
wondered the oldman.
"Bonds never default
and homes never lose value,"
now the vultures turn to
servicing of events
of origination...
derivatives appropriately
gambling on spent air,
and carbon waste,
any indice will do
for gambling fools
without brains for tools.
"Well, well, trailertrash, you had
no right pretending,
you could see Elvis in Las Vegas...
you lost your mama's money,
but not your nagging honey."
After the market bell,
beyond the Reef,
above the Horn.
DOGS 9300 7263 9465 1390.
Greetings from the Hill.
A breezy beautiful day in paradise,
chimes ringing, CNBC whining,
classics from Havana, cats fed,
Tony seeding the putting green,
Bill gone out to sea,
leaving the home undamaged.
The oldman listened to the Toshiba,
a habit vowed never to do....
"Yeah, yeah, but he was great,"
agreed the madone sharing an hour
with the professor from Montreal,
Global Research.ca.
"Financial Disarmament....",
mused the oldman enjoying the analogy,
the dumbones cannot recall the sixties
and threats of nuclear extermination,
the big bombs on big targets,
"Like Wall Street and Las Vegas,"
thinking of how 'it' was.
The current weapons of mass destruction
are no longer housed at Twin Towers,
a perpetrated terror ruse,
now kept away from the Goldie Tower,
beneath the New Jersey farms,
the financial bomb of econmics,
those fucking derivatives,
strange contracts without accounting,
"Because pirates abide no laws
but the rules of the Seal of the House."
What the fuck are these bets on bets,
gamble on a stock not delivered,
increase holdings through margin,
protect losses with short accounts...
simple shit from the seventies.
Insurance and risk management,
fund managers on marijuana,
salesmen on hash,
investors on acid.
"Hey, there is more money in financials,
spin off the manufacturing and keep the paper,"
the paradigm shift from doers
to dealers.
"Buy, buy, buy..."cackles the Fool in the White House.
Indulge the rape of home ownership
after paying for the prom
and the shotgun wedding.
Privatization and globalization,
old soldiers and bankers
given the keys to the central vaults
in Iraq and America,
"It's all about oil, stupid,"
more media lies.
Greenspan claimed derivatives were 'it',
the magic for risk management,
the world spread of risk,
the gee whiz cheese whiz,
"House prices never fall."
Financial products without regulation,
then the april'04 ultimate bank leverage,
"Thirty fucking to one fractional banking,"
snorted the madone about the con,
done before in Mexico,
mastered in Asia,
now targeted for America,
"The fucking traders are the traitors,"
Blankfein and Dimon pirate scum.
The booty kept in underground caves
beneath the Cayman Islands,
the fourth largest financial centre,
and British Owned.
"Debt is the answer to our wealth,"
agreed those greedy heartless cunts
behind the scheme to ruin the dreams
of blacks, illegals and trailer trash
who dreamed of fireplaces,
SUV's and PlasmaTV's,
a two story McMansion
with Big Macs
on a diningroom table.
"Sign here my man, no worry,
you have privacy rights,
granite tops and a pool,
a backyard with a view,"
the originator
of financial paper.
"What the fuck happened,
a few foreclosures don't mean shit,
something else sunk a ship,
the pirates have no honor,
sink the Bear Stearns and steal
her booty the best traders,
down with Lehman Brothers
and change the flag of Merrill
consolidating the risk of peril,
keep the secret and the model,
don't ever lose the router,
Sniffing and Phisching,
the sisters of Snoop,
ETF's scare you to death,
but something went wrong,
or was 'it' financial engineering,"
wondered the oldman.
"Bonds never default
and homes never lose value,"
now the vultures turn to
servicing of events
of origination...
derivatives appropriately
gambling on spent air,
and carbon waste,
any indice will do
for gambling fools
without brains for tools.
"Well, well, trailertrash, you had
no right pretending,
you could see Elvis in Las Vegas...
you lost your mama's money,
but not your nagging honey."
After the market bell,
beyond the Reef,
above the Horn.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Hurricane Preparations.
0700/2003 84/90 Blue Skies E10/15 85%H.
DOGS 9409 7032 9504 1454. LIBOR 0450 SP 1010.
Greetings from the Hill.
A very warm day in paradise...
faint winds from Havana,
not even the classics,
CNBC muted for the weather,
Hurricane Anna off Africa.
Tony improving and securing
the Love Lane gardens
ignored by Detective Bill,
off with another dream,
chasing another's scheme.
Two months along without a storm,
not even springtime showers,
the only thing flooding
the drains is money,
Obama Money...
Junker money,
an antique honey,
but mostly american trucks
traded for japmachines.
"Hey, HalfWhite, you dumb shit,
Mister Chicago School of Economics,
Professor of Constitutional Law,
son of two doctors who
bred a bastard,"
growls the madone
pissed with the fraud,
disgusted with an actor
imitating an African American.
DOGS 9409 7032 9504 1454. LIBOR 0450 SP 1010.
Greetings from the Hill.
A very warm day in paradise...
faint winds from Havana,
not even the classics,
CNBC muted for the weather,
Hurricane Anna off Africa.
Tony improving and securing
the Love Lane gardens
ignored by Detective Bill,
off with another dream,
chasing another's scheme.
Two months along without a storm,
not even springtime showers,
the only thing flooding
the drains is money,
Obama Money...
Junker money,
an antique honey,
but mostly american trucks
traded for japmachines.
"Hey, HalfWhite, you dumb shit,
Mister Chicago School of Economics,
Professor of Constitutional Law,
son of two doctors who
bred a bastard,"
growls the madone
pissed with the fraud,
disgusted with an actor
imitating an African American.
"That's enough of the disgusting rants,
and I hate double spacing and machines
I do not understand,"
growls the oldman.
From
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Lobsterfest and half full Conch Trains.
0658/2005 84/92 Blue Skies ESE 10/15 75%H.
DOGS 9370 7047 9560 1462. LIBOR .046.
Greetings from the Hill.
A gorgeous day in paradise...
if one were deaf.
The walking talking fools,
idiots riding mopeds,
drunks on bicycles,
"Fucking asshole tourists,
too drunk to drive back
and too cheap to rent a room,"
rants the madone,
pissed with daytrippers,
passed out crashed
on someone's porch.
How wonderful to take a drive
in an american sportster,
Mustang limited edition for whom,
certainly Steve Bing and Jay Leno,
collectors of the rare
and men of the dare...
americans who share
the spirit of freedom.
"Hofuckingho, dream on oldman,
you haven't had a licence
since Ford was President,"
mocks the madone,
"Barefoot Jack in paradise."
Reading the Fed reports this week
and wondering about the governors
of the economic balance that
levels inflation and employment
and promotes prosperity...
"The Twelve Heads of Duncedom,"
interrupts the cynic knowing
the language of Fedspeak,
the terminology of Greenspan,
the weepings of Bernanke,
the changling lies
of Geithner.
"Love Lane...", gushes a drunken twat,
dreaming of something other
than than her trailer park,
a baldheaded biker shuffling
beside her in sandals.
Walking to Duval Street and the past,
with nothing but memories
and no credit cards.
"Paradise ain't cheap,"
laughs Tony with another fourpack.
"I'm off to the beach,"
loading up the bike,
his van parked below.
An interesting week in the world,
Bubba Bill saving Asshole Al,
who should have been president
were 'it' not been for Crooked George
and the Harris Connection...
would the Miami condos be empty,
should derivatives have become
the diet of banking,
the dessert of Goldie Sox.
"Would, could and should,
if the SEC had not allowed
on 4 4 2004 permitted
bank leverage to 30/1 giving
Paulson the store of DEBT
to Wall Street wholesalers,"
fumes the madone
pissed with lies.
Dear friend Barry back from SF,
returning to Oshawa,
the home of Camaros,
one wonders where the Mustang
is built.
"IT's all about corruption,
wormfucks and conchslugs
thinking no one watches,
no one knows about the ways
of inbred retards with credit cards,
the cock of the rock
and his football flock,"
snorts the madone
walking to the dock
at four o'clock.
"Hey, oldman, have a beer
and forget about the shit,
come take a ride
in my foreign machine,"
laughs Doctor Coy
returning from
Bagdad.
Good friends on the Rock,
always meet again.
Above the Horn.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Love that Bubba Bill.
0657/2007 77/92 Rain and Blue Skies ESE 10/20 80@H
DOGS 9257 7081 9660 1495
Greetings from the Hill.
A wonderful day in paradise,
gusting wind and torrential rain,
blue skies at four o'clock.
Classics from Havana,
Burn Notice in the bedroom,
Tony watching golf in the study,
cats on the balcony.
The oldman brousing the Web,
selecting photos to uncover
and perhaps discover
the Truth.
Watching Current TV online,
the girl is great and convincing,
certainly more balls than
Al who is but money rinsing
through his Goldie Sox guys...
these parasites are all invasive.
"Yeah, check out the directors
of his investment fund and
his Carbon Cap sorryass rap,"
growls the madone
wondering why Bill
saved his lying ass.
Perhaps his service to the country
for two months as a journalist
strengthened his patriotic duty,
while others fought for years,
one of a dozen from Harvard.
Home to Poppa's paper,
then the divinity...
"All for the ratings,"
mused the oldman
watching the reportings
in Mexico and Brazil,
the girl has guts,
trying to outfame her sister.
A day away from the frothing fools
on CNBC, just USA..
NCIS reruns at five
with the roosters.
Kind of strange how Obama
authorizes a mission of diplomacy
circumventing usual channels,
then involving Dow and Bing
coordinated by the common man,
to arrange the old bird's dream,
"A date with the "Hollywood Madam,"
laughed the madone
knowing the Truth.
Blue skies and breezy,
another balcony day,
in the fabulous
florida keys.
Inside the Reef.
Above the Horn.
DOGS 9257 7081 9660 1495
Greetings from the Hill.
A wonderful day in paradise,
gusting wind and torrential rain,
blue skies at four o'clock.
Classics from Havana,
Burn Notice in the bedroom,
Tony watching golf in the study,
cats on the balcony.
The oldman brousing the Web,
selecting photos to uncover
and perhaps discover
the Truth.
Watching Current TV online,
the girl is great and convincing,
certainly more balls than
Al who is but money rinsing
through his Goldie Sox guys...
these parasites are all invasive.
"Yeah, check out the directors
of his investment fund and
his Carbon Cap sorryass rap,"
growls the madone
wondering why Bill
saved his lying ass.
Perhaps his service to the country
for two months as a journalist
strengthened his patriotic duty,
while others fought for years,
one of a dozen from Harvard.
Home to Poppa's paper,
then the divinity...
"All for the ratings,"
mused the oldman
watching the reportings
in Mexico and Brazil,
the girl has guts,
trying to outfame her sister.
A day away from the frothing fools
on CNBC, just USA..
NCIS reruns at five
with the roosters.
Kind of strange how Obama
authorizes a mission of diplomacy
circumventing usual channels,
then involving Dow and Bing
coordinated by the common man,
to arrange the old bird's dream,
"A date with the "Hollywood Madam,"
laughed the madone
knowing the Truth.
Blue skies and breezy,
another balcony day,
in the fabulous
florida keys.
Inside the Reef.
Above the Horn.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Exculpating the Derivative Excresence.
0656/2009 84/90 Blue Skies SE10/15 65%H
DOGS 9235 7130 9580 1425.
Greetings from the Hill.
A beautiful day in paradise,
blue skies and perfect white clouds,
a flag in the putting hole
in the artscaped backyard,
Tony, the golfcourse lover.
The guest who filled the pantry.
One wonders what the Fink's discuss
alone together if ever,
the man who knows 'it' all,
and will not tell,
the innovator of risk management
back in Boston days past...
"Imagine Joe Kennedy at the Bay,"
muses the oldman,
considering the master
of deceit.
Larry is managing the funds
for the three stooges.
"Pretty fucking funny,
the biggest hedge fund
running the Treasury and Fed,"
snorts the madone amazed,
amused and annoyed.
FDR put the biggest crook
to run the SEC, Joe Kennedy,
a criminal consultant.
Another of those derivative dames
has a crew of the Leftovers
from dead investment banks
charting courses for corpses.
Just sitting on his throne,
not yapping like dog Dimon,
apparently beyond the dumb,
those simple shits who know not
of forwards, options, swaps
or time based contracts
on the OTC...
"The Nasdaq blows it's bubble,
hofuckingho, that pirate's den
where Madoff presided learning
his craft of grifting and lifting
the last dollars of suckers,"
rants the madone drinking
warm Miller pints
before dinner.
Six o'clock advertising on CNBC,
GM, ATT, TDTRADE, and Dan Marino.
"This asshole has brainloss, a mockery
of the financial foundation of the nation,
entertainment for Airheads,
MadTV and Goldman Sachs,
where are the skits,
bring on the fits,
send in the clowns,"
fumes the madone
at fuckhead Cramer,
a posing loser
bankrolled by
the shorters.
The dick should be in leather
in a street parade.
Some silly old man
picked up a Miami whore,
took a pecker pill
and went running at sunrise
at the Nude Beach,
'it' was still up at sundown.
"Where was the Viagra cop?"
Swaying palm trees surrounding the house,
fucking roosters always crowing,
cats sleeping on the balcony,
classics from Havana,
chimes in the wind,
above solaris hill.
"You can't have everything,"
smiles the oldman
to himself.
Above the Horn.
DOGS 9235 7130 9580 1425.
Greetings from the Hill.
A beautiful day in paradise,
blue skies and perfect white clouds,
a flag in the putting hole
in the artscaped backyard,
Tony, the golfcourse lover.
The guest who filled the pantry.
One wonders what the Fink's discuss
alone together if ever,
the man who knows 'it' all,
and will not tell,
the innovator of risk management
back in Boston days past...
"Imagine Joe Kennedy at the Bay,"
muses the oldman,
considering the master
of deceit.
Larry is managing the funds
for the three stooges.
"Pretty fucking funny,
the biggest hedge fund
running the Treasury and Fed,"
snorts the madone amazed,
amused and annoyed.
FDR put the biggest crook
to run the SEC, Joe Kennedy,
a criminal consultant.
Another of those derivative dames
has a crew of the Leftovers
from dead investment banks
charting courses for corpses.
Just sitting on his throne,
not yapping like dog Dimon,
apparently beyond the dumb,
those simple shits who know not
of forwards, options, swaps
or time based contracts
on the OTC...
"The Nasdaq blows it's bubble,
hofuckingho, that pirate's den
where Madoff presided learning
his craft of grifting and lifting
the last dollars of suckers,"
rants the madone drinking
warm Miller pints
before dinner.
Six o'clock advertising on CNBC,
GM, ATT, TDTRADE, and Dan Marino.
"This asshole has brainloss, a mockery
of the financial foundation of the nation,
entertainment for Airheads,
MadTV and Goldman Sachs,
where are the skits,
bring on the fits,
send in the clowns,"
fumes the madone
at fuckhead Cramer,
a posing loser
bankrolled by
the shorters.
The dick should be in leather
in a street parade.
Some silly old man
picked up a Miami whore,
took a pecker pill
and went running at sunrise
at the Nude Beach,
'it' was still up at sundown.
"Where was the Viagra cop?"
Swaying palm trees surrounding the house,
fucking roosters always crowing,
cats sleeping on the balcony,
classics from Havana,
chimes in the wind,
above solaris hill.
"You can't have everything,"
smiles the oldman
to himself.
Above the Horn.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
gotta pay the mortgage.
0655/2011 83/90 SE/5 Showers 90%H
DOGS 9096 6450 9720 1450.
Greetings from the Hill.
The oldman was crippled in bed again,
four Hurricanes and a joint
renders his body out of order
the following day.
Raindrops sliding down the window pane,
blue skies to the east with
billowing rain clouds over nude beach,
perhaps a nudecam
for stayathomes.
Thinking about the Great Fraud
and amazed at the extent
of the culpability...everyone.
"Not everyone, just most...
most of the middleclass,
McDonalds and McMansions
'gotta pay the mortgage',
hofuckingho," laughs the madone.
The derivatives coming to light.
Last year a trillion was the new
adventure into a world of worry
and unimaginable debt numbers
created to protect counterparties
who guarantee against default,
if the stock market falls fifty percent,
unemployment rises to ten percent,
foreclosure to eight percent.
"The Models fucked up."
The World of Quadrillions.
Tony arrived with four hundred pounds
of real hurricane insurance,
pantry supplies.
Sunday morning in paradise,
no alcohol til noon,
Good thing there's no mortgage
on this old house.
High on the Hill.
DOGS 9096 6450 9720 1450.
Greetings from the Hill.
The oldman was crippled in bed again,
four Hurricanes and a joint
renders his body out of order
the following day.
Raindrops sliding down the window pane,
blue skies to the east with
billowing rain clouds over nude beach,
perhaps a nudecam
for stayathomes.
Thinking about the Great Fraud
and amazed at the extent
of the culpability...everyone.
"Not everyone, just most...
most of the middleclass,
McDonalds and McMansions
'gotta pay the mortgage',
hofuckingho," laughs the madone.
The derivatives coming to light.
Last year a trillion was the new
adventure into a world of worry
and unimaginable debt numbers
created to protect counterparties
who guarantee against default,
if the stock market falls fifty percent,
unemployment rises to ten percent,
foreclosure to eight percent.
"The Models fucked up."
The World of Quadrillions.
Tony arrived with four hundred pounds
of real hurricane insurance,
pantry supplies.
Sunday morning in paradise,
no alcohol til noon,
Good thing there's no mortgage
on this old house.
High on the Hill.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
welcome the weather channel!
0652/2015 77/87 Showers NE 10/20 80H%
DOGS 9092 6854 9360 1366 LIBOR 0.50
Greetings from the Hill.
A perect day in pardise, lush greenery everywhere,
that smell of tropical air...
a marvelous day to open the beach,
naked butts seeking salt water,
and Famous Al here
to share 'it' all.
Hohofuckingho.
"A five star destination Fat Farm,"
laughs the madone thinking about
little obeise piggys and parents
discovering 'the cure' in Key West,
then running tanned and trim
down a white sand beach
at sunrise.
Viagra is against the Law.
All Curing Homes are licensed,
inspected and permitted,
photographed and filed
before receiving
state tax accounts.
Topless Only.
"Donny said no genitals
of either sex exposed,
tits are good, no hardons,"
explained Sergeant Rodregish
to the local media,
referring to the chief of police,
the first of his kind,
and gay as well.
The Mayor loves to see his wife naked,
"But no one else to covet,"
he claims that nudity should be
at home under a roof
not in public.
The Editor of " The Other Paper",
makes no comment of opinion.
The Candidate for Mayor,
a title in itself.....
Sonny McCoy the most.
Capt. Tony five times
and now, Sloan for Mayor,
if you care,
if you dare,
if you want to share....
A Nude Beach.
A Town Divided...sandels seperated.
The showers end, a light breeze.
Sunshine and blue skies
In the Florida Keys.
Inside the conch horn
abandoned on the beach.
Eighty degrees at noon.
DOGS 9092 6854 9360 1366 LIBOR 0.50
Greetings from the Hill.
A perect day in pardise, lush greenery everywhere,
that smell of tropical air...
a marvelous day to open the beach,
naked butts seeking salt water,
and Famous Al here
to share 'it' all.
Hohofuckingho.
"A five star destination Fat Farm,"
laughs the madone thinking about
little obeise piggys and parents
discovering 'the cure' in Key West,
then running tanned and trim
down a white sand beach
at sunrise.
Viagra is against the Law.
All Curing Homes are licensed,
inspected and permitted,
photographed and filed
before receiving
state tax accounts.
Topless Only.
"Donny said no genitals
of either sex exposed,
tits are good, no hardons,"
explained Sergeant Rodregish
to the local media,
referring to the chief of police,
the first of his kind,
and gay as well.
The Mayor loves to see his wife naked,
"But no one else to covet,"
he claims that nudity should be
at home under a roof
not in public.
The Editor of " The Other Paper",
makes no comment of opinion.
The Candidate for Mayor,
a title in itself.....
Sonny McCoy the most.
Capt. Tony five times
and now, Sloan for Mayor,
if you care,
if you dare,
if you want to share....
A Nude Beach.
A Town Divided...sandels seperated.
The showers end, a light breeze.
Sunshine and blue skies
In the Florida Keys.
Inside the conch horn
abandoned on the beach.
Eighty degrees at noon.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Hemingway Frauds with Viagra rods.
0650/2016 83/90 Hazy S/5 90%H
DOGS 9093 6814 9515 1387. LIBOR 03/05
Greetings from the Hill.
A fucking killer day in paradise,
blue skies and thunder...
stick the shirt to your back,
white bearded fat fucks
ready to chase the Bull,
imitators in illusion,
"Buy a classic car and stay
away from replications,"
snorted Mad Jack,
watched the fraud,
laid the sod.
Another excuse to fill the rooms,
maintain the mortgage payments,
cook an epicureans delight
by CIA's unknown,
and entertain with no ones.
"Who ever wrote a Key West song,
created the poem of lost gold,
manufactured the mystery
of hometown banking theft,"
wonders the madone.
Mendacity, a family bank.
An egg farmer from Mendocino,
a drag queen from the 'Birdcage',
who can recall ' Howies Lounge'
and Bobby at the bar,
the sheriff and the chief,
Bum Farto and Manny James.
"And this is where cocaine
\is as easy to buy
as Key Lime pie,"
broadcasted all networks.
Shrimp boats are coming,
pink gold from Columbia,
"Where is Mikes' nose,
missing with Kennedy's brain,
and OJ's wife's tits,"
growled the madone,
thunder and lightning
on the balcony.
Nothing like a cooling afternoon rain,
cleaning the streets and washing
the sidewalks of dogshit
that male owners
forget about 'it'.
Something about motherhood.
One thing about these pretenders,
these immitators at the feast,
they are all fat and overweight,
most unlike Ernest even late
in his career.
The Wall Street pretenders
are having investigations into trading,
that very fast electronic kind
that the Goldie Sox gang use
to siphon that first wave of buys,
twentyfive cents to a penny
adds up when the 'firm'
does have the action.
"Hey, how long before a foreign spy
infiltrated the system and syphoned
a bit by bit the capital balances
of those phoney pink sheets,
imploding the derivative racket
before the banksters try to coverup
this mockery of finance
with transparent clearinghouses,
Yeahfuckingyeah, when Obumboy
drains the Treasury to finance
the current accounts all empty,
250 Billion this week
and traders laughing,"
rants the madone.
Six months and 'it' gets worse.
The very sight of this pompous ass,
every day pontificating on TV,
selfinflating with arrogance
and posing, posturing to the camera
with his facial routines,
a real fucking fraud.
No wonder fat people pretend.
Time to get 'high' on the Hill.
DOGS 9093 6814 9515 1387. LIBOR 03/05
Greetings from the Hill.
A fucking killer day in paradise,
blue skies and thunder...
stick the shirt to your back,
white bearded fat fucks
ready to chase the Bull,
imitators in illusion,
"Buy a classic car and stay
away from replications,"
snorted Mad Jack,
watched the fraud,
laid the sod.
Another excuse to fill the rooms,
maintain the mortgage payments,
cook an epicureans delight
by CIA's unknown,
and entertain with no ones.
"Who ever wrote a Key West song,
created the poem of lost gold,
manufactured the mystery
of hometown banking theft,"
wonders the madone.
Mendacity, a family bank.
An egg farmer from Mendocino,
a drag queen from the 'Birdcage',
who can recall ' Howies Lounge'
and Bobby at the bar,
the sheriff and the chief,
Bum Farto and Manny James.
"And this is where cocaine
\is as easy to buy
as Key Lime pie,"
broadcasted all networks.
Shrimp boats are coming,
pink gold from Columbia,
"Where is Mikes' nose,
missing with Kennedy's brain,
and OJ's wife's tits,"
growled the madone,
thunder and lightning
on the balcony.
Nothing like a cooling afternoon rain,
cleaning the streets and washing
the sidewalks of dogshit
that male owners
forget about 'it'.
Something about motherhood.
One thing about these pretenders,
these immitators at the feast,
they are all fat and overweight,
most unlike Ernest even late
in his career.
The Wall Street pretenders
are having investigations into trading,
that very fast electronic kind
that the Goldie Sox gang use
to siphon that first wave of buys,
twentyfive cents to a penny
adds up when the 'firm'
does have the action.
"Hey, how long before a foreign spy
infiltrated the system and syphoned
a bit by bit the capital balances
of those phoney pink sheets,
imploding the derivative racket
before the banksters try to coverup
this mockery of finance
with transparent clearinghouses,
Yeahfuckingyeah, when Obumboy
drains the Treasury to finance
the current accounts all empty,
250 Billion this week
and traders laughing,"
rants the madone.
Six months and 'it' gets worse.
The very sight of this pompous ass,
every day pontificating on TV,
selfinflating with arrogance
and posing, posturing to the camera
with his facial routines,
a real fucking fraud.
No wonder fat people pretend.
Time to get 'high' on the Hill.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Substitutability of Securitisation.
0651/2015 83/90 Blue Skies SW/5 75%H
DOGS 8848 6502 9505 1366 LIBOR .30
Greetings from the Hill.
Another beautiful day in paradise,
an early morning ride to the beach
ruminating on BIS #79, good stuff,
get that jargon down and...
"You could be on The Daily Show,
telling lies with a smile,
telling the truth with a laugh,"
smirks the madone
feeding the cats,
hosing the roosters.
A good piece on Clusterfuck,
the comments mostly foolish
or ingratiating, Kuntsler's
obsessions with suburban sprawl
and the fourwheel love affair.
"Hey, hey, the Big Road is back,
from tacos to polar bears,
the shit from China lands on the west,
distribution plants in Mexico,
sorted and shipped throughout
North America on trucks...
no no no, not rail, trucks...
GM trucks made in China,
who the fuck owns those plants
outselling the US dealers, hummm,"
wonders the madone.
Closed windows keeping the room cool,
clear and clean for the guest,
an A/C installed for the night,
the fellow wrote and watched
movies and reruns.
He had been away for five terms,
during the arms for drugs,
sailboats for snow and square grouper days,
Key West at 'its' best.
Before arms became a realestate term
and a New York queer named McDaniel
brought his little dandies
to treat on the nose candies,
flying on Air Sunshine
with baggies of joy.
Key West was Nosetown USA.
The Great Seal of a once great nation.
"The talking tits and dildo heads
arguing in disharmony, interrupting
for attention, scripted, rehersed
for ultimate unnerving, legshots
of cunts in miniskirts, these silly whores
no brighter than weather women,
and those voices," growls the madone,
sneering at CNBC,
cleaning the inside windows.
Mad Jack liked to see out.
He had been inside too long.
Fat fools with beards and even fatter
beardless wives without their knives,
waddling not too far without the car,
larger asses than a black momma,
"We are the Gold Bond girls,"
shouts the madone at the pair
of shorthaired widesterns,
the husbands guts the same size,
one wobbles, the other bobbles.
One wonders how these creatures
came to be so large and portly,
perhaps a donut diet with pizza,
comfortably ensconsed on a couch,
halfway between kitchen and TV,
Lady Woobly serving King Bobble
in their Kingdom of Duncedom
while manipulators and traitors
steal their pensions funds
and embezzle from Medicare
taking away any HOPE
for a comfortable old age...
"And the oldbag can forget about
the fantasies from insurance,
Goldman sucked out the AIG,
nothing but an empty shell,"
cackled the madone
getting goofy by noon,
ninety degrees in the shade.
"This fucking media, an extension
of the National Enquirer by Murdock,
total ignorance by censorship...
finally a hardon on TV, hilarious,
'The Fortyearold Virgin', maybe..
the hidden persuaders behind all,
little messages in your mind that call,"
smiles the oldman pleased
to have Mad Jack back.
Any asshole can read about Obama,
Barry Dunham, sounds corny and Kansas,
granny's boy spoiled by Stanley,
accepted by the Hawaiians,
his mother was a doctor who travelled
in search of a dream, a hippie dream,
porked by a married blackman with children,
but bigamy is legal in Kenya.
The prick leaves boy and wife to carry on
with another white woman at Harvard,
in later years marries and has children
with this teacher in Kenya.
The guy is a firstclass asshole drunk
who DWI's losing both legs and still breeds.
Hits another drunk ditch and ends 'it'.
Barry Dunham Barrack Obama,
sweet memories.
Another day in paradise
without CNBC.
Watch out for forced reintermediation.
"Laws for The Few."
DOGS 8848 6502 9505 1366 LIBOR .30
Greetings from the Hill.
Another beautiful day in paradise,
an early morning ride to the beach
ruminating on BIS #79, good stuff,
get that jargon down and...
"You could be on The Daily Show,
telling lies with a smile,
telling the truth with a laugh,"
smirks the madone
feeding the cats,
hosing the roosters.
A good piece on Clusterfuck,
the comments mostly foolish
or ingratiating, Kuntsler's
obsessions with suburban sprawl
and the fourwheel love affair.
"Hey, hey, the Big Road is back,
from tacos to polar bears,
the shit from China lands on the west,
distribution plants in Mexico,
sorted and shipped throughout
North America on trucks...
no no no, not rail, trucks...
GM trucks made in China,
who the fuck owns those plants
outselling the US dealers, hummm,"
wonders the madone.
Closed windows keeping the room cool,
clear and clean for the guest,
an A/C installed for the night,
the fellow wrote and watched
movies and reruns.
He had been away for five terms,
during the arms for drugs,
sailboats for snow and square grouper days,
Key West at 'its' best.
Before arms became a realestate term
and a New York queer named McDaniel
brought his little dandies
to treat on the nose candies,
flying on Air Sunshine
with baggies of joy.
Key West was Nosetown USA.
The Great Seal of a once great nation.
"The talking tits and dildo heads
arguing in disharmony, interrupting
for attention, scripted, rehersed
for ultimate unnerving, legshots
of cunts in miniskirts, these silly whores
no brighter than weather women,
and those voices," growls the madone,
sneering at CNBC,
cleaning the inside windows.
Mad Jack liked to see out.
He had been inside too long.
Fat fools with beards and even fatter
beardless wives without their knives,
waddling not too far without the car,
larger asses than a black momma,
"We are the Gold Bond girls,"
shouts the madone at the pair
of shorthaired widesterns,
the husbands guts the same size,
one wobbles, the other bobbles.
One wonders how these creatures
came to be so large and portly,
perhaps a donut diet with pizza,
comfortably ensconsed on a couch,
halfway between kitchen and TV,
Lady Woobly serving King Bobble
in their Kingdom of Duncedom
while manipulators and traitors
steal their pensions funds
and embezzle from Medicare
taking away any HOPE
for a comfortable old age...
"And the oldbag can forget about
the fantasies from insurance,
Goldman sucked out the AIG,
nothing but an empty shell,"
cackled the madone
getting goofy by noon,
ninety degrees in the shade.
"This fucking media, an extension
of the National Enquirer by Murdock,
total ignorance by censorship...
finally a hardon on TV, hilarious,
'The Fortyearold Virgin', maybe..
the hidden persuaders behind all,
little messages in your mind that call,"
smiles the oldman pleased
to have Mad Jack back.
Any asshole can read about Obama,
Barry Dunham, sounds corny and Kansas,
granny's boy spoiled by Stanley,
accepted by the Hawaiians,
his mother was a doctor who travelled
in search of a dream, a hippie dream,
porked by a married blackman with children,
but bigamy is legal in Kenya.
The prick leaves boy and wife to carry on
with another white woman at Harvard,
in later years marries and has children
with this teacher in Kenya.
The guy is a firstclass asshole drunk
who DWI's losing both legs and still breeds.
Hits another drunk ditch and ends 'it'.
Barry Dunham Barrack Obama,
sweet memories.
Another day in paradise
without CNBC.
Watch out for forced reintermediation.
"Laws for The Few."
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Tranched Apple Pie from a Binomial Tree.
0650 2016 84/90 Cloudy,Rain E10/15 70%H.
DOGS 8855 6415 9470 1354.
Greetings from the Hill.
Rain, thunder, lightning, and sirens,
the quivering voice of Bernanke on TV,
politicians ingratiating to the mystery
that not one wishes to investigate.
"They brings the covers to hide the body
from the gawking eyes of publicans,
who do not want to know the name,
see the face, hear the crime...
assholes deserve rats like Rattner,
a suckass bumboy for Bloomberg,"
rants the madone knowing about
the weasle's work as bagboy
for the HedgeHogs,
the plunderers
of pension funds.
"It can all be settled with transparency
rather than private, secret, hidden
accounting of offshore assets...
hofuckinghoho, tell that to banksters,
gangsters with shiny shoes and heads."
A weekend read of BIS#79 2008,
explains the situation with clarity,
but to accept the facts is to find
the fuckheads that perpetrate the crime.
"Not a crime, not regulated by the SEC,
crooked lawyers guiding every step,
steering the Golden Ship through all
the naked shorts, the put and call,
the Weinberg barge of one hundred years,
from Sidney and John Whitehead
with FDR and the War Board, Ford's IPO,
John L. and the investment dealer
of Treasury Bonds and partner
in the world of takeovers and buyouts,
John the third W, a token officer
earned but 22Million at Goldie Sox,
where 30T average 880T....
a lot of taxes for NYS,"
muses the oldman working on the bed,
away from the torrential rain,
flooding streets driving tourists
to discuss the economy in bars.
"Go fishing with the mayor,
maybe dive on the Vandenberg,
the 8million dollar destination
and five star fish hotel,
allowing morons to manage money
might be a cause of the crisis...
unable to manage at home,
these incompetent blowhards
determine the operational funds,
select the bond agencies and
manage balanced budgets...
fuck everything up and leave,
real estate values collapse,
appraisals are cut, equity diminished,
and the millrate increased...
crooked government
is a local thing.
Another interesting read was from
FRBSL, a Financial Crisis, Timeline,
absolutely amazing the available knowledge
of the situation but the failure to act,
this collection of economists at the Fed
must be an odd group.
Those things that will not go away,
Greenspan's beautiful balloons,
algorithms, simple equations projected
into ifwhats, couldbes, watchouts,
then beautified into mathematical models.
Probability Theory, Stochastic calculus,
IR correlation, Montecarlo, PRAM, DMM,
and the oldman's favorite by Simon Shaw,
the Binomial Tree, a primer for politicians,
shaking out the leaves and it seems
so much of that derivative shit came from
Cambridge...Hello Hello, where that cunt
from JP Morgan learned her numbers.
Also noticed over the weekend Jamie Boy
cashed some options for 20 or 30 Million,
must be buying some Goldie Sox.
How nice to know the investment bankers
are policing themselves with a fancy report
rationalizing past behavior and covering
the dead trades with granny's opaque blanket.
These lying pricks are protected by the media,
CNBC, owned by GE, one of the gang...
As William K Black offers, "The leaders
are scared shitless the public will learn,"
another exsupporter of Obama,
"Unfortunately this president has reneiged
on his promises and changes, becoming
more reckless than Bush, plunging the nation
into depths of Debt, financial quicksand."
Midday, storms over, blue skies, light breeze,
roosters crowing on all corners,
entertaining tourists.
A beautiful day in paradise,
"Turn those gasping gushing dresses off,
and that fraud Santelli,"
snorts the madone ready for a walk
in the tropical sun and beneath
the royal poinciannas gone green.
Buy canned goods,
grow mushrooms,
store potatoes.
DOGS 8855 6415 9470 1354.
Greetings from the Hill.
Rain, thunder, lightning, and sirens,
the quivering voice of Bernanke on TV,
politicians ingratiating to the mystery
that not one wishes to investigate.
"They brings the covers to hide the body
from the gawking eyes of publicans,
who do not want to know the name,
see the face, hear the crime...
assholes deserve rats like Rattner,
a suckass bumboy for Bloomberg,"
rants the madone knowing about
the weasle's work as bagboy
for the HedgeHogs,
the plunderers
of pension funds.
"It can all be settled with transparency
rather than private, secret, hidden
accounting of offshore assets...
hofuckinghoho, tell that to banksters,
gangsters with shiny shoes and heads."
A weekend read of BIS#79 2008,
explains the situation with clarity,
but to accept the facts is to find
the fuckheads that perpetrate the crime.
"Not a crime, not regulated by the SEC,
crooked lawyers guiding every step,
steering the Golden Ship through all
the naked shorts, the put and call,
the Weinberg barge of one hundred years,
from Sidney and John Whitehead
with FDR and the War Board, Ford's IPO,
John L. and the investment dealer
of Treasury Bonds and partner
in the world of takeovers and buyouts,
John the third W, a token officer
earned but 22Million at Goldie Sox,
where 30T average 880T....
a lot of taxes for NYS,"
muses the oldman working on the bed,
away from the torrential rain,
flooding streets driving tourists
to discuss the economy in bars.
"Go fishing with the mayor,
maybe dive on the Vandenberg,
the 8million dollar destination
and five star fish hotel,
allowing morons to manage money
might be a cause of the crisis...
unable to manage at home,
these incompetent blowhards
determine the operational funds,
select the bond agencies and
manage balanced budgets...
fuck everything up and leave,
real estate values collapse,
appraisals are cut, equity diminished,
and the millrate increased...
crooked government
is a local thing.
Another interesting read was from
FRBSL, a Financial Crisis, Timeline,
absolutely amazing the available knowledge
of the situation but the failure to act,
this collection of economists at the Fed
must be an odd group.
Those things that will not go away,
Greenspan's beautiful balloons,
algorithms, simple equations projected
into ifwhats, couldbes, watchouts,
then beautified into mathematical models.
Probability Theory, Stochastic calculus,
IR correlation, Montecarlo, PRAM, DMM,
and the oldman's favorite by Simon Shaw,
the Binomial Tree, a primer for politicians,
shaking out the leaves and it seems
so much of that derivative shit came from
Cambridge...Hello Hello, where that cunt
from JP Morgan learned her numbers.
Also noticed over the weekend Jamie Boy
cashed some options for 20 or 30 Million,
must be buying some Goldie Sox.
How nice to know the investment bankers
are policing themselves with a fancy report
rationalizing past behavior and covering
the dead trades with granny's opaque blanket.
These lying pricks are protected by the media,
CNBC, owned by GE, one of the gang...
As William K Black offers, "The leaders
are scared shitless the public will learn,"
another exsupporter of Obama,
"Unfortunately this president has reneiged
on his promises and changes, becoming
more reckless than Bush, plunging the nation
into depths of Debt, financial quicksand."
Midday, storms over, blue skies, light breeze,
roosters crowing on all corners,
entertaining tourists.
A beautiful day in paradise,
"Turn those gasping gushing dresses off,
and that fraud Santelli,"
snorts the madone ready for a walk
in the tropical sun and beneath
the royal poinciannas gone green.
Buy canned goods,
grow mushrooms,
store potatoes.
Friday, July 17, 2009
In fraud we trust.
0648/2017 82/91 Blue Skies NSW/5 65%H
DOGS 8733 6358 9370 1335.
Greetings from the Hill.
Peace and quiet in paradise,
the cement truck left,
the bathtub pool makers
back to Miami...
upgrading finished.
Cats on the railings,
classics from Havana,
idiots gushing on CNBC,
roosters back on the street.
The Waterman servicing his customers,
salt, filters and a smile,
with of course a check.
"Ain't life great in Key West."
The oldman was crippled again,
unable to write resting in bed.
"What if the mind is in a state of TV,
would the mood be subjective,
incapable of objectivity, imagine if
a society was hypnotized into believing
that commercials were real....
only consumers of course,"
musing to the cat on the windowsill.
He was watching the movie, 'Ed',
a Meathead parody of Reality TV.
All in the Family of Duncedom.
The lingering doubts of those 'things'
and the schemes of financial engineers,
more and more the idea of deceit, distrust,
magnitudes of money numbers
entering the galaxies of quadrillions,
a timespace differentation into
the conspiracy of currency.
"World devaluation on a numeric scale
by derivative inflation, hofuckingho,
central banks guarantee derivative debt
invented by counterparties' debt,
debt, debt, debt, credit to a bank,
fractional banking and shadow leverage,
based on the price of a home,"
snorts the oldman on the balcony
a slight breeze in the keys
at the closing bell.
"Upward mobility in the middleclass,
sell the house make a profit,
don't plant a garden
or cut the grass,"
growled the madone
surrounded by 'flippers',
no longer equity dippers.
A Trillion Dollars of savings spent
on toys for the boys,
granite tops for the wife with a knife,
all for the lawyers.
"That lying suckass weneed perpetrator
of false promises and bogomoney,"
growls the madone hearing
the preacher teacher deadeying
the spirit hope.
Reggie Jackson smiling and grinning
on CNBC with Maria,
making the weekend better.
Goldman Sachs has holes in their socks.
"Hey Hank, how's your portfolio,
hopefully with polio,"
chuckles Airhead, a bit drunk,
off to Faustos for beer and wine.
Another glorious day
in paradise...
dinner on the balcony,
beyond the reef,
outside the Straits,
high on the hill,
on top of the Rock.
DOGS 8733 6358 9370 1335.
Greetings from the Hill.
Peace and quiet in paradise,
the cement truck left,
the bathtub pool makers
back to Miami...
upgrading finished.
Cats on the railings,
classics from Havana,
idiots gushing on CNBC,
roosters back on the street.
The Waterman servicing his customers,
salt, filters and a smile,
with of course a check.
"Ain't life great in Key West."
The oldman was crippled again,
unable to write resting in bed.
"What if the mind is in a state of TV,
would the mood be subjective,
incapable of objectivity, imagine if
a society was hypnotized into believing
that commercials were real....
only consumers of course,"
musing to the cat on the windowsill.
He was watching the movie, 'Ed',
a Meathead parody of Reality TV.
All in the Family of Duncedom.
The lingering doubts of those 'things'
and the schemes of financial engineers,
more and more the idea of deceit, distrust,
magnitudes of money numbers
entering the galaxies of quadrillions,
a timespace differentation into
the conspiracy of currency.
"World devaluation on a numeric scale
by derivative inflation, hofuckingho,
central banks guarantee derivative debt
invented by counterparties' debt,
debt, debt, debt, credit to a bank,
fractional banking and shadow leverage,
based on the price of a home,"
snorts the oldman on the balcony
a slight breeze in the keys
at the closing bell.
"Upward mobility in the middleclass,
sell the house make a profit,
don't plant a garden
or cut the grass,"
growled the madone
surrounded by 'flippers',
no longer equity dippers.
A Trillion Dollars of savings spent
on toys for the boys,
granite tops for the wife with a knife,
all for the lawyers.
"That lying suckass weneed perpetrator
of false promises and bogomoney,"
growls the madone hearing
the preacher teacher deadeying
the spirit hope.
Reggie Jackson smiling and grinning
on CNBC with Maria,
making the weekend better.
Goldman Sachs has holes in their socks.
"Hey Hank, how's your portfolio,
hopefully with polio,"
chuckles Airhead, a bit drunk,
off to Faustos for beer and wine.
Another glorious day
in paradise...
dinner on the balcony,
beyond the reef,
outside the Straits,
high on the hill,
on top of the Rock.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Lefteyed with Jesus and the CFR.
Greetings from theHill.
No weather..no numerical immaginations.
"Sunset time on the balcony,
a small plane noises overhead,
NCIS reruns on TV,
in the oldmans bedroom,
the AC going in the 'West Wing."
The voice in the unpainted hall...
who knows it all and dreams
when recuperating
from a fall,,,
comma obama.dom....
a hopefree oportunity world dreamn
whofuckinghopes..
"A Jacksso a day..
you ashoole,the indian went,
to Faustos but not Bucko's for water...
No weather..no numerical immaginations.
"Sunset time on the balcony,
a small plane noises overhead,
NCIS reruns on TV,
in the oldmans bedroom,
the AC going in the 'West Wing."
The voice in the unpainted hall...
who knows it all and dreams
when recuperating
from a fall,,,
comma obama.dom....
a hopefree oportunity world dreamn
whofuckinghopes..
"A Jacksso a day..
you ashoole,the indian went,
to Faustos but not Bucko's for water...
Monday, July 13, 2009
Stupid shit again.
Pissing about with the layout.
Can't leave well enough alone.
Googleblog offers no help.
Just spys and secrets.
Chasing down those derivatives.
0646/2018 81/88 Cloudy and Showers E/5 75%H
DOGS 8286 5939 9205 1275.
Greetings from the Hill.
A cooler day on the balcony, a few showers,
keeping the birds under the house,
an investigative day tying in the notes
from the beginning of the Blog.
"Where do you come up with this shit,
sometimes 'its' before the mainstream,"
wonders the madone being polite,
throwing catfood in the garden
for the chickeebees.
Tiny Tim wanted to be a tennis star but..
"The theft began at home,
stealing from the kitchen for the garage,
borrowing from the bedroom for the backyard.
The dream couple became the working couple
and the lies began...
the homemaker became the commuter,
household incomes were coupled and
granny moved into the basement,
spoiling the kids, buying their clothes
with her social security money,"
Tim could be honest, he suffered,
"The dumb dick wasn't getting anywhere,
watching TV, sucking beer,
couldn't get 'it' up until Viagra."
The dream was a nightly passout
as the American Hero wasted away.
A smart limey cunt with a big mouth,
"In bypassing barriers between
different classes, maturities, ratings
and debt seniority levels,
credit derivatives are creating
enormous opportunities to exploit
and profit from associated discontinuities
in the pricing of credit risk, Ha ha ha,"
she laughed to Bill Demchak, Peter Hancock,
Terri Duhon all wasted out of their skulls,
you had to be, it was the old Pothead's
funny way of talking, Fedspeak.
The magic of Objectivism.
So the wiseasses packaged the first deal
pooling 300 loans of 10billion,
"Let's call them Super Seniors,
for a better rating and an exotic label,
a broad index securitised offering,
BISTRO," offered Romita Shetty,
sucking on the columbian gold,
after all they were in Miami.
Acronyms and financial engineering.
"Hey, I know this greedy wop at AIGFP,
he will do anything to get laid...
Joey Cassano, something like that,"
Imagination is funny when one is high.
Of course some people are just sour,
all the different chairs they sit in,
the hats some get to wear
seem to change nothing.
The children often react doing things
just because they can.
"That fucking George, son of George
just kicked out the sheriff and let
the country go to Hell and Hot money,
detirmined to ruin the nation
and end the American Dream,"
growled the madone wondering
how these foreign cunts
outsmarted the jews on Wall Street,
maybe they were spys from
the chinese branch
of the Rothschild family.
Too tired to walk, take a train ride
and think about things in the head...
"Hope..leaves us to invent new fixes
to old messes, elects politicians
with the biggest empty promise,
like greed, fuels the engine of capitalism,"
Margaret Atwood.
"Too many generations that believe
that if they bend over and grunt hard enough,
they'll magically shit gold coins
and pay off their debts."
hofuckingho, too funny.
"Junior AARP's looking at harps,
the last party, the big heart attack,
fat guts, boats, trophy wives
and crumbling McMansions.....
the fuckup was insured
with AIG."
Wannabees, fat hags in denial,
epistomologically unsound.
A note from the geniuses at the Fed.
More than twenty years ago, Hyman Minsky
proposed a financial instability hypothisis,
arguing prosperous times can induce
borrowers to accumulate debt,
beyond their ability to repay
out of current income....
leading to financial crisis
and severe economic contractions.
All since the little lady went to work.
And left the kitchen.
Above Solaris Hill.
Blue skies and beautiful.
DOGS 8286 5939 9205 1275.
Greetings from the Hill.
A cooler day on the balcony, a few showers,
keeping the birds under the house,
an investigative day tying in the notes
from the beginning of the Blog.
"Where do you come up with this shit,
sometimes 'its' before the mainstream,"
wonders the madone being polite,
throwing catfood in the garden
for the chickeebees.
Tiny Tim wanted to be a tennis star but..
"The theft began at home,
stealing from the kitchen for the garage,
borrowing from the bedroom for the backyard.
The dream couple became the working couple
and the lies began...
the homemaker became the commuter,
household incomes were coupled and
granny moved into the basement,
spoiling the kids, buying their clothes
with her social security money,"
Tim could be honest, he suffered,
"The dumb dick wasn't getting anywhere,
watching TV, sucking beer,
couldn't get 'it' up until Viagra."
The dream was a nightly passout
as the American Hero wasted away.
A smart limey cunt with a big mouth,
"In bypassing barriers between
different classes, maturities, ratings
and debt seniority levels,
credit derivatives are creating
enormous opportunities to exploit
and profit from associated discontinuities
in the pricing of credit risk, Ha ha ha,"
she laughed to Bill Demchak, Peter Hancock,
Terri Duhon all wasted out of their skulls,
you had to be, it was the old Pothead's
funny way of talking, Fedspeak.
The magic of Objectivism.
So the wiseasses packaged the first deal
pooling 300 loans of 10billion,
"Let's call them Super Seniors,
for a better rating and an exotic label,
a broad index securitised offering,
BISTRO," offered Romita Shetty,
sucking on the columbian gold,
after all they were in Miami.
Acronyms and financial engineering.
"Hey, I know this greedy wop at AIGFP,
he will do anything to get laid...
Joey Cassano, something like that,"
Imagination is funny when one is high.
Of course some people are just sour,
all the different chairs they sit in,
the hats some get to wear
seem to change nothing.
The children often react doing things
just because they can.
"That fucking George, son of George
just kicked out the sheriff and let
the country go to Hell and Hot money,
detirmined to ruin the nation
and end the American Dream,"
growled the madone wondering
how these foreign cunts
outsmarted the jews on Wall Street,
maybe they were spys from
the chinese branch
of the Rothschild family.
Too tired to walk, take a train ride
and think about things in the head...
"Hope..leaves us to invent new fixes
to old messes, elects politicians
with the biggest empty promise,
like greed, fuels the engine of capitalism,"
Margaret Atwood.
"Too many generations that believe
that if they bend over and grunt hard enough,
they'll magically shit gold coins
and pay off their debts."
hofuckingho, too funny.
"Junior AARP's looking at harps,
the last party, the big heart attack,
fat guts, boats, trophy wives
and crumbling McMansions.....
the fuckup was insured
with AIG."
Wannabees, fat hags in denial,
epistomologically unsound.
A note from the geniuses at the Fed.
More than twenty years ago, Hyman Minsky
proposed a financial instability hypothisis,
arguing prosperous times can induce
borrowers to accumulate debt,
beyond their ability to repay
out of current income....
leading to financial crisis
and severe economic contractions.
All since the little lady went to work.
And left the kitchen.
Above Solaris Hill.
Blue skies and beautiful.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Ruminations and Faraway Nations.
0645/2019 82/90 hazy E10/15 60@H.
DOGS 8146 5973 9130 1260.
Greetings from the Hill.
Another early morning
rising with the eastern star
"And the fucking roosters,"
growls the madone pissed
and popping a Hurricane
leftover last night.
He was leaving again.
Going to buy himself a new car,
a bright red convertible,
hot off the line...
with Ontario license plates,
no asshole american hybird,
made in Canada, all canadian,
even the gasoline.
"Fuck that Obama horses ass,
next he'll be preaching in Africa,
promoting a kingdom of Change,
getting the spearchuckers enraged,"
growls the madone distrustful
of the teacher preacher.
"Yes sir allfuckingright....
right from Barry's backyard, Oshawa,
the canadian government bailed
the company out to save the plant,
Michigan can't save Detroit,"
disgusted with the lot.
A beautiful day in paradise, cats fed,
classics from Havana, chimes ringing,
a twenty knot wind from the east.
Tea, toast and juice on the balcony.
Another walkabout to the waterfront,
saturday morning drunks on stools
sucking suds at the Schooner Wharf,
behind an empty lot blows sand
where a great dream was foreclosed,
how many more to come when
"The commercial paper hits shit,"
rants a knowitall from the bar.
Serendipity, kismit, coincidence,
accident, oddity....Key West.
"I helped invent that machine, you know,
yes sir, back at Princeton, before...
we had a good plan too, far advanced,
long before Google, and that's another,
Serkie and I were roomates, I speak russian,
I also taught him ballroom dancing,
Sniffing and Phishing were my expertise,
I was a hightech Seal...."
it was the 'breakfast club'
and tales of old keywesters.
onceonce
One never knows who really knows,
so many stories told, so many secrets kept,
even at the 'Little Whitehouse'
that Harry enjoyed so much
and many presidents thereafter.
"Get a fresh lease on life."
"You can rent..but you're not trusted to own."
"But I was great once," boasts the Dunce,
now merely a resident,
no longer a citizen of Duncedom.
"Bad habits," frowned the banker
disdaining the predicament,
the very one who provided the loans
to buy the toxins that poisoned the system,
refused to pay doctor bills,
let alone offering hospital insurance,
but himself insured if the patient passes.
"How horrible that Uncle Sam died..
he was such a kindly gentleman before
taking up with the daughters of DEBT,"
sighed the niece with a box of derivatives
and counterparties to pay...
a polite chinaman in suit and tie
waiting at the front door,
a nasty oldjew from Goldman Sachs
already in the kitchen,
russians in the winecellar stealing inventory
arabs sitting in the Escalade.
Funny thoughts on a walkabout.
Inside the Reef.
High on the Rock.
DOGS 8146 5973 9130 1260.
Greetings from the Hill.
Another early morning
rising with the eastern star
"And the fucking roosters,"
growls the madone pissed
and popping a Hurricane
leftover last night.
He was leaving again.
Going to buy himself a new car,
a bright red convertible,
hot off the line...
with Ontario license plates,
no asshole american hybird,
made in Canada, all canadian,
even the gasoline.
"Fuck that Obama horses ass,
next he'll be preaching in Africa,
promoting a kingdom of Change,
getting the spearchuckers enraged,"
growls the madone distrustful
of the teacher preacher.
"Yes sir allfuckingright....
right from Barry's backyard, Oshawa,
the canadian government bailed
the company out to save the plant,
Michigan can't save Detroit,"
disgusted with the lot.
A beautiful day in paradise, cats fed,
classics from Havana, chimes ringing,
a twenty knot wind from the east.
Tea, toast and juice on the balcony.
Another walkabout to the waterfront,
saturday morning drunks on stools
sucking suds at the Schooner Wharf,
behind an empty lot blows sand
where a great dream was foreclosed,
how many more to come when
"The commercial paper hits shit,"
rants a knowitall from the bar.
Serendipity, kismit, coincidence,
accident, oddity....Key West.
"I helped invent that machine, you know,
yes sir, back at Princeton, before...
we had a good plan too, far advanced,
long before Google, and that's another,
Serkie and I were roomates, I speak russian,
I also taught him ballroom dancing,
Sniffing and Phishing were my expertise,
I was a hightech Seal...."
it was the 'breakfast club'
and tales of old keywesters.
onceonce
One never knows who really knows,
so many stories told, so many secrets kept,
even at the 'Little Whitehouse'
that Harry enjoyed so much
and many presidents thereafter.
"Get a fresh lease on life."
"You can rent..but you're not trusted to own."
"But I was great once," boasts the Dunce,
now merely a resident,
no longer a citizen of Duncedom.
"Bad habits," frowned the banker
disdaining the predicament,
the very one who provided the loans
to buy the toxins that poisoned the system,
refused to pay doctor bills,
let alone offering hospital insurance,
but himself insured if the patient passes.
"How horrible that Uncle Sam died..
he was such a kindly gentleman before
taking up with the daughters of DEBT,"
sighed the niece with a box of derivatives
and counterparties to pay...
a polite chinaman in suit and tie
waiting at the front door,
a nasty oldjew from Goldman Sachs
already in the kitchen,
russians in the winecellar stealing inventory
arabs sitting in the Escalade.
Funny thoughts on a walkabout.
Inside the Reef.
High on the Rock.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Another walkabout with old friends.
0645/2019 82/90 Hazy S5/10 80%H
DOGS 8211 6028 9158 1298.
Greetings from the Hill.
The lazy hazy days of summer,
hard to imagine that chickens
are an endangered species
in Key West.
"Why not the drunks and homeless,"
rants the oldman from the balcony
getting the hose ready.
The breeding bastards communicate
from all corners of the lot
and the block...
arrogant red assholes
with their fucking wives,
and that crazy old indianwoman
midwife to the breed,
a blogger now
sitting on her ass
telling lies
avoiding reality.
Off to the waterfront and gawk
at the tourists who walk
a short block to Duval Street,
"And buy a stupid Tshirt,"
growls the madone hating crowds
of gullible people
expecting something original.
"Visit the Custom House and learn,
you worthless dumbfucks," screaming
and making a scene among
the senseless sheep.
His brain was filled with conspiracies,
secret plots and encrypted codes,
sniffers and phishing,
fastflux botnets,
unique shings of URL's,
the Obama spam and...
the malcode gang.
Someone would understand hopefully,
a glass of wine with a friend,
recollections of days past.
"Hey, Mad Jack, you old fucker,
come on in, I heard you were dead,"
laughing and offering a chair
and a clean glass
with cat hair.
Some things never change.
"Hey, I read your blog..
too bad you never learned to write,
let alone type....you see, I had to,
when I was a reporter with
the Toronto Star, Eh..Ha,Ha,"
emptying the bottle of wine.
Tourists and cats passed unseeing.
His head was dizzy and he had a date.
"Well, sweetie, you're late as usual,
getting drunk with that fraud,"
pretending outrage and rejection,
"Everyone knows everything
in our queer community, we talk..
on telephones,..heh heh heh,"
offering a foamy glass of beer
with dog hair.
They moved to the gazebo
joining other guests
who seemed ageless,
"I say, Ten," boomed
the manly Gore Vidal,
"Let's have a gay day."
And so 'it' became.
Finally arriving on the beach
and the patient lady.
"Visiting old friends from the past,"
that knowing smile,
enquiring for more.
"The current crisis is not only the bust
that follows the housing boom,
its basically the end
of a sixty year period
of continuing credit expansion
of the dollar as reserve currency.
Following the pound.
Now the rest of the world
is increasingly unwilling
to accumulate dollars...",
she sighed, gazing towards Cuba.
"No longer a reserve currency globally..
maybe the renmindi, the euro,
maybe the world buck,
or simply VISA,"
smiled the oldman
with youthful thoughts,
adlibbing a George Soros speech.
A strange day in paradise
where memories never age
and dreams dance
with the wind
talking in the night.
A summer breeze in the keys.
Hofuckingho,
pretty funny.
DOGS 8211 6028 9158 1298.
Greetings from the Hill.
The lazy hazy days of summer,
hard to imagine that chickens
are an endangered species
in Key West.
"Why not the drunks and homeless,"
rants the oldman from the balcony
getting the hose ready.
The breeding bastards communicate
from all corners of the lot
and the block...
arrogant red assholes
with their fucking wives,
and that crazy old indianwoman
midwife to the breed,
a blogger now
sitting on her ass
telling lies
avoiding reality.
Off to the waterfront and gawk
at the tourists who walk
a short block to Duval Street,
"And buy a stupid Tshirt,"
growls the madone hating crowds
of gullible people
expecting something original.
"Visit the Custom House and learn,
you worthless dumbfucks," screaming
and making a scene among
the senseless sheep.
His brain was filled with conspiracies,
secret plots and encrypted codes,
sniffers and phishing,
fastflux botnets,
unique shings of URL's,
the Obama spam and...
the malcode gang.
Someone would understand hopefully,
a glass of wine with a friend,
recollections of days past.
"Hey, Mad Jack, you old fucker,
come on in, I heard you were dead,"
laughing and offering a chair
and a clean glass
with cat hair.
Some things never change.
"Hey, I read your blog..
too bad you never learned to write,
let alone type....you see, I had to,
when I was a reporter with
the Toronto Star, Eh..Ha,Ha,"
emptying the bottle of wine.
Tourists and cats passed unseeing.
His head was dizzy and he had a date.
"Well, sweetie, you're late as usual,
getting drunk with that fraud,"
pretending outrage and rejection,
"Everyone knows everything
in our queer community, we talk..
on telephones,..heh heh heh,"
offering a foamy glass of beer
with dog hair.
They moved to the gazebo
joining other guests
who seemed ageless,
"I say, Ten," boomed
the manly Gore Vidal,
"Let's have a gay day."
And so 'it' became.
Finally arriving on the beach
and the patient lady.
"Visiting old friends from the past,"
that knowing smile,
enquiring for more.
"The current crisis is not only the bust
that follows the housing boom,
its basically the end
of a sixty year period
of continuing credit expansion
of the dollar as reserve currency.
Following the pound.
Now the rest of the world
is increasingly unwilling
to accumulate dollars...",
she sighed, gazing towards Cuba.
"No longer a reserve currency globally..
maybe the renmindi, the euro,
maybe the world buck,
or simply VISA,"
smiled the oldman
with youthful thoughts,
adlibbing a George Soros speech.
A strange day in paradise
where memories never age
and dreams dance
with the wind
talking in the night.
A summer breeze in the keys.
Hofuckingho,
pretty funny.
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