“That Line in My Stomach is From HOTS”

Never before has a nerdier line been uttered at 8am.  My neckbeard twitched with giddy amusement as he lifted his shirt this morning to show a quasi-permanent lateral line across his stomach.  Battle scars from the night before, hunched behind the glow of the Asus as enemy mana regens and ultimates danced across our monitors.  I’m speaking, of course, of Heroes of the Storm.  And if you haven’t yet played it, I highly encourage you to go out and download the free game.  I also encourage you to avoid partying up with us because we’re absolute dogshit.  Laning, cooperative communicating, and hero-specific focused attacking are some of the things we can’t do.  Simply put, we’re a motley crew of divas, prima donnas, and hotshots.  This theme will come up time and time again as this blog moves forward.  We’ll revisit the realm of the neckbeard (video games and hot pockets) in time, most likely culminating in an expose of how tres cuatro tres (better known in the gaming world as 343 Industries) has royaly fucked Halo fanboy/girls.  But that will come in time.

Congratulations!  You successfully made it to the second paragraph!  Here is a mildly-entertaining Bloomberg article on Trump’s unpredictability as it relates to foreign policy, including a comparison to Tricky Dick who, if he were alive today following the recent large takeovers of American companies by Chinese state-backed conglomerates, would likely go by Tricky Dong.  It’s a different world today than the early seventies.  Mostly because forty years has passed.

And finally, after feeling a lazy sack yesterday morning, I balled up what little energy I had and went to the pharmacy so do some shopping.  Came across the following and loved the utility and smell of the product – the only wrinkle was the price.

The problem is you need to keep the lid on the thing at all times or it loses its moisture too quickly.  I haven’t figured out a way to keep the lid on the can AND my balls in the can at the same time.


¡Carlos Danger for Mayor!


Hope everything had an enjoyable and relaxing Thanksgiving with friends and loved ones.  It was brought to my attention that I failed to make a blog post about the election.  So here you go: Trump won.  Yes, a huge surprise, I wrote him off during the final 1v1 debates and the Comey letter.  I was wrong, but I was definitely right about this amazing video titled Winter is Trumping (3 minutes long and well worth your time).  Trump won.  Shocker.  We’ll see what comes of all this – I expect he’ll prove much more moderate and presidential than people fear.   Hopes are high that he’ll also move on fiscal policy like a bitch.

Now.  Let’s get into the real “meat” of this thread.

On a hot summer night, would you offer your throat to the wolf with the 12 megapixel camera phone?  (Okay, shout out to Meat Loaf’s You Took The Words Right Out Of My Mouth)  Yes, Carlos Danger is back in the news for lewd photos and texts.  Quick tangent – I was recently at the bank with some people at the drive up window with the tube.  The teller on the camera was pretty cute and it occurred to us that the first dick pic was probably sent in the 1980’s as a Polaroid and sent up the tube to the unsuspecting bank teller.

Okay, have less time than I expected so need to end it here.  Sorry to see Anthony Weiner’s political career is now tainted, emphasis on that last word.  Actually sad about their marriage, too bad Huma couldn’t “stick it out” as well as Carlos.  I highly recommend everyone check out the Anthony Weiner memes on google images but below are some of the better photos:




Finally, found the below earlier today and thought it was pretty cool (but was also thoroughly amused):


Song of the Day (11/17/2016)…and more


Definitely not scrounging for song ideas – have some great ones to share in the coming weeks/months.  I’ll do my best to keep the music style and period varied but there are some bands and songs that are absolutely off limits: mainly Gnarls Barkley, Bob Dylan, and Bryan Adams’ Summer of 69 which left a rather bitter and unpleasant taste in my mouth.

However, let’s put this brief toxic rencounter and allusion to palate play/tongue action (can we please bring back “tongue action”?!?) behind us and enjoy the beautiful weather and the fact that the holidays are nearly here!  As such, today we have TWO songs of the day, both of which are positively moving:

  1. Something In The Way You Move – Ellie Goulding
  2. Hold On Tight – Electric Light Orchestra (ELO)

And that’s all she wrote!  (- Carl Spackler)  Okay, not quite.  Watched Star Wars Episode III this week and holy cow, Ewan McGregor just CRUSHES it as Obi-Wan.  Wow.

Related and coincidentally, I came across the following photo this week.


So.  Um.  Did the original Obi-Wan (Sir Alec Guinness) moonlight as a member of the clergy?  Let’s just hope he leaves his saber at the door.

And finally.  The best Amazon product reviews you will ever read:

  1. Haribo Sugar Free Gummy Bears (aka, the “gummy bear cleanse”)
  2. 3 Ballerina Tea – Dieters Tea (I can attest to this one)

Actually, both of these remind me of the story of the Goldman Sachs Vice President who had to drop a poop AT HIS SEAT/COMMODE on a private jet:

“Quite a few years ago, we were in the middle of an investor roadshow, marketing a new high-yield corporate bond offering. Sound exciting? Well, it’s anything but.

In a nutshell, a roadshow involves taking borrowers (bond issuers) to meet potential investors. A roadshow is a series of back-to-back investor meetings and group investor lunches, all sandwiched in between market update calls and flights to the next city, where the process repeats itself. They are arduous, grueling and sometimes very stressful. It’s a nonstop scramble from hotel to meetings to airports. There are dozens of reasons why a deal can go sour, and angry clients don’t want to hear any of them.

A typical roadshow investor meeting entails bankers and clients going through a hard-copy PowerPoint presentation, addressing any structural, disclosure or financial issues in the offering prospectus, and taking Q&A. By the time this spectacle concludes, I’ll have heard the same presentation more than twenty times.

The worst job, by far, on any roadshow is that of the analyst. Analysts are the pledges of the financial world. It’s where everyone has to take his two or three years of licks after coming out of the training program. It’s masochism born out of stupidity. What at first seems like the big time soon turns into eighteen hour days, seven days a week, all of it mindless crap like churning out pitch books and just about any other shit work the Associates don’t want to do.

On roadshows, analysts are responsible for carrying pitch books and prospectuses, which can be fucking heavy. In addition, they oversee all logistics (hotels, flights, cars, etc.) and most importantly, do anything the client asks. All of this has to be done without fucking up – period. The job fucking sucks, but all analysts want to do it.

When I was an analyst, if another bank was responsible for roadshow logistics and I wasn’t traveling with them, I would often give their analyst intentionally incorrect information, the wrong floor, or the wrong tower, anything to make them look bad. Although the banks may be working together on one deal, we’re always competing for the next one.

I was senior enough on this offering that I was there to represent the firm’s relationship with the investors, as well as to help sell the deal. For this roadshow, given the schedule of meetings and travel logistics, it made sense to travel by private plane. Flying private with a bunch of bankers is nothing like being Vinny Chase.

On a commercial flight, with some basic preparation, you can make sure you aren’t seated anywhere near a more senior colleague or a client. Instead of working, or reading the latest copy of IFR (look it up, it sucks) or some other industry periodical, you can watch a movie, get some sleep and have a few drinks. The best part of any airport lounge or any first-class cabin is that no matter what time of day it’s generally socially acceptable to drink.

My routine is as monotonous as the roadshow. Phone alarm clock goes off at six-thirty in the morning. Blackberry alarm clock goes off at six-forty five. The first wake-up call comes at six-fifty five, and the “waffle wakeup call” arrives at seven sharp. A “waffle wakeup call” is something that many of us do on a business trip. Upon first checking into a hotel, I pre-arrange breakfast room service with strict instructions to come in and make sure that I am awake and/or still alive. You can’t risk waiting to do this before you go to sleep, in the likely event that you won’t have any recollection of getting back to the hotel that night.

Six-thirty isn’t particularly early by my standards, but it is after the typical night out on a roadshow – wining and dining the client over dinner and drinks and then more drinks and more drinks. Banks usually pay for the roadshow expenses out of deal fees (1-2% for a decent high-yield deal), so the client wants to, and expects to, have a good time, especially if the deal is going well. In many cases, it’s the most exciting thing these fucks will do all year, so they want to make the most of it.

The client festivities usually wrap up by midnight. Corporate execs are not cut from the same cloth as investment bankers. From there I’ll get into the elevator with the clients, talk about what a big day we have coming up and drop them off on their floor before doubling back downstairs. I usually have pre-made arrangements to meet anyone I can – friends, colleagues, competitors, or even other clients for more drinks. We’ll carry on as long as we can, then work our way back to the hotel for a nightcap (two-ish), where we can sit back and watch the whores-on-parade, as they escort the drunken businessmen back up to their rooms. Anyone who has spent any time in continental Europe or Asia knows that this is not in any way an exaggeration.

The client breakfast usually starts downstairs at 8:00am. Having scarfed down two coffees and some waffles in my room, this is when I’ll order a jasmine tea and a fruit plate just to make a point to the client that I’m a dedicated professional. I usually accompany that with a quick line about how shitty the hotel gym is. “The treadmill shakes too much at high speeds” is a fan favorite. The client is almost always impressed, unless he was actually at the gym.

The first meeting, and my third coffee of the day, starts at 9:00am. Four hours, three meetings, one shitty investor lunch, and an unknown number of coffees later, we’re only halfway through with our day. Come 6:00pm it’s finally time to head to the airport. I’m fucking exhausted, and I feel like shit. Here would seemingly end yet another tedious day of the roadshow.

I’m a really nervous flyer to begin with, and I am immediately reminded of the endless number of statistics that say flying private is substantially more dangerous than flying commercial. Not to mention all the anecdotal evidence running through my mind, thanks to The Discovery Channel and Aaliyah’s “Behind the Music.” We pack into the plane. There are six of us, two people from each bank, and two clients. Every seat on the plane is occupied. As exhausted as I am, I don’t think too much about it, and quickly try to settle into my seat ahead of the three-hour flight to our next city.

Just over halfway through the flight, all the coffee in my stomach feels like it’s percolating its way down into my lower intestine. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, and my internal clock comforts me with the knowledge that the timing of my future BM will be right around ten minutes after hotel check-in. After all, I haven’t taken a dump on a plane in about ten years, no reason to think that streak will end on a relatively short trip in a private plane. I try and fight through it, having mastered Cosmo Cramer-like skills for being able to push it back for hours and sometimes days at a time.

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.

On a plane like this, the flight attendant isn’t really as much an attendant as someone who keeps the pilots company. Trying not to draw attention to myself, I signal to her and she heads toward me. I start to think about insurance, had I worn boxers or boxer-briefs? I had no fucking clue.

“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.” At this point she reads my mind, or just couldn’t miss the fact that I looked like Alec Baldwin after a 3-day coke binge. 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 mineshaft 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 to the middle 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 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.”

Song of the Day (11/2/2016)

In the face of some wanton stubbornness in the last post, and prior posts, I’ll attempt to strike a cheerier tone going forward.  As such, please find below a terrific first song for the song of the day!

Icona Pop – All Night

As well, for my hot sauce connoisseurs, I highly recommend El Yucateco’s Caribbean Habanero Hot Sauce.  At 5,400 scoville units, it’s not too hot (Tobasco is estimated to be 2,500 – 5,000, although some sources have it going up to 7,000) and it doesn’t have too strong of a vinegar taste.  Absolutely delicious on virtually everything.

Hope you enjoy the song!

A Quick Vent on Organized Religion

But first.  Read a good one today:  Two jews find out that Hitler walks past a certain alley every morning at 8am.  So they decide to wait in the alley and kill Hitler and save the world.  They get to this alley at 5am and wait…6am…they wait.  7am…they wait.  8am…still no Hitler.  So they decide to wait a bit more.  9am…11am…2pm…4pm…  At this point one turns to the other and says, “I hope he’s okay!”

I like that one – will use it from now on.  These not-terribly-offensive jokes are always worth a hearty shekel.

Separately, I came across the following sign last weekend in America’s heartland.

I was SO FUCKING tempted to knock on their front door and tell them of the time when a close friend was rolling joints in a hotel room, ran out of rolling papers, and proceeded to rip a page from the Bible for his next joint.  That’s a true story.

I’m miffed, no, livid, that bible thumpers still have a vote in this country.  And it’s not just the dyed in the wool fanboys that shoehorn religion into every hole of the evolutionary process.  It’s also the people who pay homage for a single hour each week.  It’s ditzily unreal.  In protest, I’ve decided to camp out at the following location:

And set up a booth, pamphlets and all, promoting the Flying Spaghetti Monster as a palatable alternative to their “God.”  My scam is no more shamelessly invented.  It’s akin to intellectual high treason, to steal a term.  And yet, I can’t overlook the economic genius of the church.  As a raging capitalist, I appreciate the fact that the church is simply polishing the heels of well-heeled people.  But to join these milksops in their ill-fated quest for higher understanding in the pages of the Bible?  I’d rather eat my hat.  Assuming its kosher.

That’s probably enough venting for now.  I’ll leave you with these two quotes:

“Some people have views of God that are so broad and flexible that it is inevitable that they will find God wherever they look for him. One hears it said that ‘God is the ultimate’ or ‘God is our better nature’ or ‘God is the universe.’ Of course, like any other word, the word ‘God’ can be given any meaning we like. If you want to say that ‘God is energy,’ then you can find God in a lump of coal.” – Steven Weinberg

“There is in every village a torch – the teacher; and an extinguisher – the priest.” – Victor Hugo

In reality and in all honesty, I delineate between religion and spirituality/higher power.  I have no issue with the latter.  None.  Only the former, organized religion, that naturally assumes your religion is right and the others must be wrong.  This is the progressive, twenty first century.  Organized religion, like vaginal intercourse, is better left to Amish puritans and luddites.

Side thought, has anyone ever considered bringing the church public via IPO?

Trump, Fake Ejaculate, and True Love


Today, like many, will be a random collection of links, photos, and directionless insights.  But first, we begin with a shoutout to our old friend and soothsayer, Donald Trump.  Although he was grabbing at straws throughout much of the third debate (better he grab at straws than the alternative…), his performance was more muted and focused than previous encounters with his much more skilled and experienced vagina-wielding counterpart.  Kudos, Donny T.  Quick side note: no educated, empathetic person (bearing a vagina or otherwise) in his or her right mind would ever round up and deport the 12 million+ illegal immigrants within the United States.  Hillary threatened that Trump would have ‘mass deportations via planes, trains, and any other means.’  Um.  Perhaps we could avoid the whole packing people onto trains concept for just a bit longer.  It carries a lesson of history with the same degree of importance as Trump carries Tic-Tacs.

However, huge shoutout to Hillbeast for her recent spot on Between Two Ferns.  Word on the crumbling, underinvested street is that even Bill stepped away from a private meeting with a campaign intern to watch the segment.  It seems a democrat in the hand isn’t worth as much as two in the bush.  Hillary likely has this one in the bag but The Donald still had a chance to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.  Emphasis on snatch.

In mid-September, I was having a thoughtful conversation with an old school chum about “faking it” in the bedroom (the devotees will recall a Seinfeld episode in which previously not-racist Cosmo Kramer claims he has faked orgasms with women on numerous occasions).  Again, one more enormous benefit of being a woman but I’ll leave that intensely academic discussion for another day.  But honestly.  Why are women fortunate enough to be in a position where they can “fake it”; however, men either have to put their head down and grind it out or risk being called a fruit by their dame in wait?  Well.  NOT ANYMORE!!!  Patent pending, I’ve invented a clever device that will help men give the illusion of an explosive orgasm without any of the arduously repetitive hard labor.  Many will recall the scene from Dumb and Dumber in which Jim Carrey uses a ketchup packet on his neck to fake a bloody incision by his barber.  And then it hit me – tartar sauce!  Tartar sauce packets can be neatly stowed beneath the bollocks and with an elaborate system of rubber tubes, tartar sauce can be pumped and ejaculated at will.  Reusable cartridges can be picked up at popular chain restaurants, VFW fish frys, and Heinz factory tours.  Seeing as how the food allusions are primarily taken (I’m looking at you, Gentleman’s Relish), I call it Tartar Tit Paste.  Let me metaphorically work this out on you: are YOU down with TTP?  If so, join me in my quest to get tumultuously-explosive tartar testicles onto CNBC’s Shark Tank for some “seed” funding.  To quote Bill Shakespeare’s Henry V, Act III, Scene I (which could not have been done without the brilliant mention of a friend), “Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.”

If the Romans could invent an elaborate system of aqueducts to move freshwater around the empire, surely we can invent a system to move tartar sauce around the dick.

Also relevant, a photo taken at Whole Paycheck TONIGHT:

Next.  Came across the following in a home goods store which reminded me of a great scene between Bill Murray and Chevy Chase.

And finally, because I enjoy leaving on a positive note and without having to put in too much work (see Tartar Tit Paste), here is a great link about love and happiness.  It says it’s a ten minute read but many of my readers can likely get through it in under 20 seconds if they simply don’t give a fuck.  I suggest giving a fuck as it’s a great message and likely worth your tiempo.

“RELIGION.  Together, we can find the cure.” – Richard Dawkins