Women and the Insurance Industry

Gooooooood MORNING MIDDLE AMERICAAAAA!!!!! Short posting today. The following is a great quote (although the sperm part is cringeworthy) from Erick Gray:

“Whatever you give a woman, she will make greater. If you give her sperm, she’ll give you a baby.. If you give her a house, she’ll give you a home. If you give her groceries, she’ll give you a meal. If you give her a smile, she’ll give you her heart. She multiplies and enlarges what is given to her. So, if you give her any crap, be ready to receive a ton of shit!”

Pushing right along here. Making great time! The following is a terrific diagram of the pharma cash flow process:

Stay thirsty, mis amigos. I’ll be back when Bitcoin hits $100,000 or $100…whichever comes first.

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The Flow Show…Feasting on TIPS!!!

I don’t really have anything to add here.  Is there too much liquidity in the pipeline…and customers need to eat the finished goods?  Do auditors really want to see their bonded positions?  Let’s talk about TIP inflows…well sound the horn!  (If you need to, don’t Google this one).  BofA:Merrill Lynch = Bull:Bear?  Never mind, we’re done here, WE’RE DONE HERE!

Up to this point, the entire blog has been written on a mobile phone (Sent from my tiny keyboard, please excuse any grammatical errors…as my hands type like a 7 year old’s on a keyboard assembled by a 5 year old’s).  However, I may from time to time, going forward, from now on, occasionally use a keyboard and monitor as my hammer and sickle.  Forgive me Reagan, some men just want to see the world burn.

For those of you who prefer a more wholesome, cleaner finish to the posting, please enjoy I Can’t Help Myself by The Four Tops.

This is your last chance.  After this…there is no turning back.  You take the oldies song, the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe…whatever you want to believe.  You take the photograph of the gratuitous and organically thriving fecal matter, you stay in Wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes…

Jackson.  Fucking.  Pollock.

You best be STOKED that I didn’t take an iPhone “Live Photo” of this thing because it was literally CRAWLING up the fucking porcelain.  It took Adam 3.8 BILLION years to climb out of the primordial soup, slop up onto land, and fully erect.  Based on third party observation of the bathroom door, it took this thing fewer than 15 MINUTES to transcend chemosynthesis entirely, develop an advanced set of lungs with exceedingly efficient oxygen-for-carbon dioxide exchange, and aggressively spring from the murk with reckless abandon.

Happy Thanksgiving!  Shitter was full.

Song of the Day (11/18/2017)

hey Hey HEY! I may have used this before but it’s a good one – today’s song of the day is Tunnel of Love by the Dire Straits. Unlike the Dire Straits love tunnel, which has seen little action since it’s release, Lynn Tilton’s has been on full display for pub(l)ic consumption. The section of readership knowledgeable on finance will be familiar with her antics. Here’s a photo for the rest of you:

Contrary to your initial reactions, this chick is all woman. Although her Wikipedia page raises some concerns on the matter:

I’m not so sure I’m ready to accept “TransCare” from the likes of Lynn (Lance?) Tilton. She’s a shifty one. When the SEC brought her in for questioning, it took four guys to finger her in the lineup. Imagine Tilton falling back into a pile of produce:

To steal a term from a close amigo, I’m loath to be the one to find the Sacajawea in Tilton’s canoe. If you do end up hopping into that monoxylon, remember to

And finally. I give you the greatest gift of all…American Flag contact lenses.

BACK THE FUCK OFF. She’s spoken for. Problem is… she’s stuck in the 1940’s and making me use a diaphragm. I keep arguing for a different contraceptive but I feel like I’m just banging my head against the wall. Write that down. Well that’s it for tonight, I’m off to buy the worlds trashiest/most baller couch:

You See That New Movie, “Constipation?”

No? That’s because it never came out! ZINGGGGG.

Here are two photos I found amusing:

And for my finance friends in media M&A, I found a synergistic opportunity for the Trump Corp. to expand into the music industry with literally zero rebranding effort needed:

Closing deals, broseph. And for my hombres doing hard time for white collar crimes, here’s an epic license plate for ya:

HOOOOOOOCH!!!

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.

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.