Up Late Writing a CIM?

You’re just 10mg of addy away from that vFINAL!

Also, this two minute video (Everyone’s Upstairs Neighbor) should be required reading for all boys and girls entering the multi family housing world.  What shouldn’t be required reading, yet was required for a roommate back in my colleeeeege years:

Brought to you by the labor movement.  Like any movement, it smells a little funny at first but then rapidly turns to shit.

Advertisements

Most Ballin Uber Driver Ever and Other Potty Jokes

A) Sorry to block out the location info.  It is Uber, so she’s not in London.  It is not an UberBoat, so she’s not in Puerto Rico.  There is a functioning street lamp, so she’s not in North Korea.  She does speak English, so she’s not in Miami or SoCal.  She is driving, so she’s not in Saudi Arabia (for now).  She does like restaurants, so she’s not in the Upper East Side.

B):

Eh, fuck it.  Today’s song of the day is Movin’ Like Bernie by ISA.  Watch the video.

And finally:

This might be too gay even for the Hot Cops:

Oh and this:

And this complete sack of shit:

And finally, finally, they finally made a shirt for I-banking’s Technology, Media, and Telecom group:

About damn time.  These TMT guys labor harder than anyone else, had to fight to get to the top against all odds, and pull themselves up by their bootstraps.  About damn time the world finally recognizes the TMT industry group for all the blood, sweat, and tears it took to make it on top.

Oh, and apparently I live in the same building as America’s next top starving actress:

…METAPHORICALLY, of course.  What are we if not self aware and intellectually honest?  Anyone hear of any casting calls for SuperSize Me 2.0?  Perhaps we can star her in a movie as a confused Helios, chasing a cheese curd across the sky.

The Most Embarrassing Private Jet Flight Of All Time

This story is stolen from this source.

Before a company goes public, the highest level executives embark on a multi-city tour with their investment bankers to drum up support for the upcoming IPO. This trip is called a roadshow and since the group will typically visit dozens of cities on a tight schedule, a private jet is the preferred means of transportation. During a roadshow, it’s not unusual to visit two or three cities in a single day so work starts at the crack of dawn. That doesn’t mean the group goes to bed early. Every night, the bankers treat their clients to a wild night out in whatever town they are in, complete with thousand dollar dinners and endless alcohol. No matter how hard the group parties the night before, the private jet will lift them off to their next destination very early the next morning.

Just for a minute, pretend you’re an investment banker traveling with some very important clients on one of these roadshows. Now imagine that you spent the previous night drinking way beyond your limit only to be startled out of bed by a piercing 6:30 am wake up call. In an attempt to get your head and body feeling remotely human again, you scarf down some waffles, eggs, bacon and at least two glasses of coffee at the hotel’s breakfast buffet before jumping on the shuttle to the private airport. Within a few minutes of arriving at the airport, your entire group is seated and the plane begins to taxi down the runway. At this point you might feel a bit of relief as the morning’s blur subsides. All you have to do is sit back and relax for the one hour flight to the next city.

There’s just one problem. In your rush to get out of the hotel, down to breakfast and onto the plane you forgot to do one very crucial thing. Go to the bathroom. And I’m not talking about peeing. You have a stomach full of dinner, desert, drinks, eggs, waffles and coffee churning around your lower intestine at 30,000 feet. But that’s not the worst part. True horror sets in when you realize you’re not on a spacious 20 person G5 with couches, beds, lay-z boys and a fully tucked away private bathroom. No, on this day you are traveling on a six-person puddle jumper sitting shoulder to shoulder with your clients and co-workers. But wait, somehow the story gets even worse…

This following nightmare is a 100% fully verified true story. It that happened to a very unlucky investment banker who has asked to remain anonymous for obvious reasons. He sent the story in to the amazing satirical twitter page “Goldman Sachs Elevator” (@GSElevator) which you need to follow immediately if you aren’t already. GSElevator was kind enough to let us re-post the full account of this incredible real life horror story below…

Just over halfway through the flight, all the coffee in my stomach feels like it’s percolating its way down into my lower intestine. I hunker down and try and focus on other things. What feels like an hour, but probably isn’t more than twenty minutes, passes. We then enter what turns out to be pretty violent turbulence. With each bounce, I have to fight my body, trying not to shit my pants. “Thirty minutes to landing, maybe forty five” I try and tell myself, each jostle a gamble I can’t afford to lose. I signal to [the flight attendant] and she heads toward me.

“Excuse me, where is the bathroom, because I don’t see a door?” I ask while still devoting considerable energy to fighting off what starts to feel like someone shook a seltzer bottle and shoved it up my ass. She looks at me, bemused, and says, “Well, we don’t really have one per se.” She continues, “Technically, we have one, but it’s really just for emergencies. Don’t worry, we’re landing shortly anyway.”

“I’m pretty sure this qualifies as an emergency,” I manage to mutter through my grimace. I can see the fear in her face as she points nervously to the back seat. The turbulence outside is matched only by the cyclone that is ravaging my bowels. She points to the back of the plane and says, “There. The toilet is there.” For a brief instant, relief passes over my face. She continues, “If you pull away the leather cushion from that seat, it’s under there. There’s a small privacy screen that pulls up around it, but that’s it.” At this point, I was committed. She had just lit the dynamite and the mine shaft was set to blow.

I turn to look where she is pointing and I get the urge to cry. I do cry, but my face is so tightly clenched it makes no difference. The “toilet” seat is occupied by the CFO, i.e. our fucking client. Our fucking female fucking client!

Up to this point, nobody has observed my struggle or my exchange with the flight attendant. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” That’s all I can say as I limp toward her like Quasimodo impersonating a penguin, and begin my explanation. Of course, as soon as my competitors see me talking to the CFO, they all perk up to find out what the hell I’m doing.

Given my jovial nature and fun-loving attitude thus far on the roadshow, almost everybody thinks I’m joking. She, however, knows right away that I am anything but and jumps up, moving quickly to where I had been sitting. I now had to remove the seat top – no easy task when you can barely stand upright, are getting tossed around like a hoodrat at a block party, and are fighting against a gastrointestinal Mt. Vesuvius.

I manage to peel back the leather seat top to find a rather luxurious looking commode, with a nice cherry or walnut frame. It had obviously never been used, ever. Why this moment of clarity came to me, I do not know. Perhaps it was the realization that I was going to take this toilet’s virginity with a fury and savagery that was an abomination to its delicate craftsmanship and quality. I imagined some poor Italian carpenter weeping over the violently soiled remains of his once beautiful creation. The lament lasted only a second as I was quickly back to concentrating on the tiny muscle that stood between me and molten hot lava.

I reach down and pull up the privacy screens, with only seconds to spare before I erupt. It’s an alka-seltzer bomb, nothing but air and liquid spraying out in all directions – a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. The pressure is now reversed. I feel like I’m going to have a stroke, I push so hard to end the relief, the tormented sublime relief.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” My apologies do nothing to drown out the heinous noises that seem to carry on and reverberate throughout the small cabin indefinitely. If that’s not bad enough, I have one more major problem. The privacy screen stops right around shoulder level. I am sitting there, a disembodied head, in the back of the plane, on a bucking bronco for a toilet, all while looking my colleagues, competitors, and clients directly in the eyes. “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!” briefly comes to mind.

I literally could reach out with my left hand and rest it on the shoulder of the person adjacent to me. It was virtually impossible for him, or any of the others, and by others I mean high profile business partners and clients, to avert their eyes. They squirm and try not to look, inclined to do their best to carry on and pretend as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, that they weren’t sharing a stall with some guy crapping his intestines out. Releasing smelly, sweaty, shame at 100 feet per second.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry” is all the ashamed disembodied head can say…over and over again. Not that it mattered.

Random Bidtits (8/17/2017)

Not much here other than a collection of some solid (although not in the case of my poops) things I’ve come across in recent weeks.  Unfortunately, I’ve been busy splitting my time between working (a novel concept) and splitting the porcelain (more of a navel concept).  I spent this morning perched on the throne, feeling something like Yertle the Turtle meets Lord of the Flies.  I finished up, looked down, and realized I could probably use that bad boy as a starter log.  Anyone want to go camping/grilling?

Separately, it’s been a struggle waking up ever since I cut substances out of my life, excluding caffeine.  Today, I’m stuck waking up from the light bursting through my window.  In yesteryear, I was up at 4:00am, 6:00am, and 7:00am, shitting my brains out from the prior evening’s munchies raid on the fridge.  Oy vey, adulthood.  Although it’s nice to wake up gradually in the morning rather than hastily respond to my colon’s every beck and call.  And I won’t have to watch my friends light up their “bowls” and say “that’s a nice crescent moon rising” as the fire burns its way across the bowl.  Still, I continue to shit my brains out like a pro, sweating on the seat like a Puerto Rican at a traffic stop.  This morning, for a brief moment in time, I even considered using my girlfriend’s Waterpik to get the caked shit off the porcelain.  I ended up wrestling that puppy down the toilet – even had the log in a headlock for a brief time.  Looking forward to sending this brown beast to the municipal water and sewage department – what a way to kickoff Trump’s $1 trillion infrastructure plan!  Hopefully they’re shovel-ready.

Next is a great DIY item for keeping your headphones organized:

You need two clothes pins, some super glue, and some child labor headphones from the good people at Apple.  You’d think Tim Cook would throw in the clothes pins for free given his affinity for wood.  And per the glue, “don’t just stand there!  Go and get some glue” – Judge Elihu Smails.

Next, came across the following in my travels to Texas (reminds me of the old “butt cheeks a-flexin’, squeezing out another Texan”):

Reminded me of:

Speaking of cool references, I found what appears to be a super cool house:

Wow.  Cool.  Now for something that’s actually cool.  For all my homies who support laissez faire economics, this next photo carries a great message:

Another thought is the Federal Reserve keeping interest rates low for as long as they have…what other avenues can they pursue if we enter another prolonged recession?  Much like the original purpose of the Prince Albert during the middle ages, the Fed won’t have much wiggle room (please, please get that joke.  And credit me when you use it down the road).

Another bullshit license plate for which I can’t think of anything clever or witty:

And finally, for my Arrested Development fans who are far too committed to the first three seasons (as I am) and have far too much knowledge of obscure jokes from the show, guest commentator and all around good guy Dr. Bluman shared this photo with me:

…it’s an inner beauty salon in Japan.  And for those of you struggling, hopefully you’ll remember that Annabelle (because her body is shaped like a…she’s the belle of the ball!) Veal was in an inner beauty pageant.  Great find, Dr. Bluman.  I’ll make sure the shout out gets to you in Phoenix.

Well I’m off to cover myself and some buddies in velcro.  We’re putting on velcro suits and running through Chinatown.  The bro with the most Asians stuck to him at the end wins.  Although I’ll probably pound my pud before I go.  I should’ve been a sperm donor…I’d be making money hand over fist!  Like the joke?  Then give me a fist bump!

Seattle Workers Pay for the Minimum Wage

Wonderful OpEd piece from the Wall Street Journal today:

Seattle Workers Pay for the Minimum Wage
A new study says the $13 wage is a killer for lower-wage workers.

Some laws of economics are so obvious that they require hundreds of papers to prove, and a classic example is the minimum wage, which increases the cost of labor and in most cases prices some workers out of jobs. Fresh evidence comes from Seattle’s minimum-wage climb to a $15 an hour.

A study from researchers at the University of Washington published in the National Bureau of Economic Research looked at how Seattle’s minimum-wage increase in 2016 to $13 an hour from $11 affected low-wage workers. The results? Hours worked fell 9%—3.5 million hours a quarter—and low-wage employees lost $125 a month on average.

Let that sink in: A campaign predicated on giving workers a raise lowered paychecks. The increase to $13 from $11 also “yielded more substantial disemployment effects” than an earlier jump to $11 from $9.47, the study found.

Note that Seattle’s minimum will continue to rise to $15, with varying deadlines for small and large businesses. Later increases will almost certainly be more damaging, as businesses try to absorb costs by automating more tasks or raising prices for consumers. As for workers, some may even ask for reduced hours: Benefits like Medicaid phase out as income rises, which means a worker’s next dollar of income can be taxed above 100%.

The labor unions underwriting the Fight for $15 campaign have activated the phone trees to impugn the study’s credibility. Proponents of the increase point to a report released last week from the University of California-Berkeley that purported to find no adverse effects from Seattle’s move. Yet the Washington study relied on sophisticated and detailed data about hours and earning, while Berkeley deployed the restaurant industry as a proxy.

One political subplot: Last week wage and employment expert Michael Saltsman wondered why Seattle Mayor Ed Murray’s office was pumping the Berkeley report when the city had commissioned its own studies from the Washington researchers. According to reporting in the Seattle Weekly, the mayor’s office knew the damning report was coming. Berkeley scholars were offered an advance copy to rebut the claims. This looks more like coordinating press releases than honestly addressing the Seattle evidence.

Other attempts to avoid reality include complaints that the study did not adequately control for Seattle’s booming labor market, which liberals say is displacing low-wage jobs for better opportunities. The study did include a control, and this is the tension for the left: Wages are growing so fast in Seattle that the government needs to intervene to increase them?

Still another progressive impulse is to say that perhaps $15 an hour is too disruptive to the labor market, but with more data the government can pinpoint the precise wage that benefits workers. That would certainly raise the demand for labor consultants and Berkeley professors, if not for waiters. The real and eternal lesson is that political wage-setting hurts the least skilled and lowest-paid workers, as the evidence in Seattle shows.

Ellen Pao: Making a Difference, One Frivolous Lawsuit at a Time

When some people hear the terms Ellen Pao and Frivolous Lawsuit in the same breath, their minds go to Ellen’s husband and better half, Alphonse “Buddy” Fletcher Jr.  Nice man, nice man.  Made a fortune in filing frivolous racial discrimination lawsuits (reference below:).

So now that you have good-guy Buddy’s background and you know that he’s the better half of the two, let’s dive in, lift up the skirt, and grab Ellen Pao by the ego, shall we?  And here. We. Go.

1). 

Making a difference?  Yup, Reddit community really loved her.  This woman has followers?!?  WTF?!?  I thought only Mohamed El-Erian and Jeff Bezos had followers.  Like most people, her only power lies in you remaining a willing audience.  Walk away and this woman has nothing.  Secondly, HER MIDDLE INITIAL IS “K”?!?  K. Pao? Really?!?

There!  How is it, feeling like the in-house counsel at Kleiner Perkins?  Just a barrage of fucking letters and lawsuits from very ambitious and very disgruntled Ellen K-Pao.

2). 

Ugh, skills and endorsements.  I’ll refrain as I have good pals who do this but it’s taking me a fair amount of restraint.  Anyway.  Back to EP, Phone Gender Discrimination Lawyer.  Her first skill is strategic partnership.  I literally cannot think of a single more strategic partnership than sleeping around the office to climb the corporate ladder, which she did…with a married coworker.  And she still fucked that up.  Alas, it turns out her sleeping around was with the wrong individual(s).  Evidently, Yellin’ Ellen fails to understand how to sleep around with the “right” senior partners.  Dock her a second round interview for overexaggerating her ability to execute on strategic partnerships and for lying on her LinkedIn page.

3). 

That’s just the problem, Mark: she’s crammed but it was with the wrong partner!  Don’t you get it?  She’s never going to make senior investment professional until she puts out with the “right” person.  And Vittorio, dude, we all know that Pao is going to be analytical but we know for a fact that she’s absolutely not a pleasure – hence the missed promotions!

The title of “corporate whistleblower” sounds a lot hotter than it is, just ask Ajit Nazre’s sushi slammer.

Also, destined to be a leader in her industry?  This part could be true. She’s one of the first women in VC.  She’s a canary in the coal mine.  I’d even go as far as to call her a guinea pig if I didn’t think she’d go and bite into herself.

4). 

That’s it?  That’s all Carl gets?  She spent more time with her coworker’s balls in her mouth than she did helping a close friend.  Great gal.  I suppose it’s on to the next deep pocketed employer.