This afternoon, a thought struck me that was paralyzing in its accuracy:
If it is true that we all die alone in the end, then what am I waiting for?
*By the way, I'll write something nice for anybody that can tell me the name of the philosopher who coined the term "existential dread".
Yesterday I was a little depressed when I found out that I had lost $215,130,439 after Lehman Brothers (my EX-favorite bank in the whole wide world) collapsed just outside my Park Avenue window.
In desperation, I took the $15 I had stuffed into an old sock long ago in case of an emergency (like the one that happened on Monday!) and bought a fifth of cheap gin and an Entemenn's single-serve honey bun. After a long night of celebrating my misery between shots and bites, I woke up late this morning to discover yet another bit of bad news.
The stock market had plunged 504 points! Oy vey!! If only I had gotten up early and been to the market on time, I could have prevented the loss of an additional $3,798,134,041 in imaginary liquid assets!!!!
Boy, was my boss hopping mad when I finally showed up to work!
"JENKINS!! Get your ass in here!!!" shouted my boss when I arrived at the stock market at 12:30 in the afternoon, unwashed and unshaven.
"It's Franken, Mr. Beaswell" I sputtered, out of breath from running all the way up the stairs from Missouri.
"I don't give a fuck about your goddamn!!! Here your in get ass!!!"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Sir." I said, shifting my weight nervously from one foot to my hand.
"We're ruined, Franken!! Absolutely ruined!!!" said my boss as he cheated on his wife with another girl whose tits he was snorting coke off of at some club with a velvet rope and a bouncer in the naughty confines of his diabolical mind.
"I know, sir," I said, "But fuck it. Money's all bullshit anyway, isn't it?"
"Franken, you are a dumb worthless fuck of a shithead!!! Money's what made God create the earth in a literal six days!!! You stupid pansy cunt, Franken!!! Boy, when's the last time you ate some pussy???"
"Well, sir" I said,"with the market being unstable like it is, I haven't been able to afford any pussy these past few months. At least not any Manhattan pussy"
"Judy!!!!" shouted my boss into his Interberry, "You stupid fucking slut, bring me some goddamn coffee before I beat your children to death!!!!!"
"Yes, sir," giggled Judy on the other end.
"And get in here and fuck Franken!!!!"
"Aw, do I have to, Mr. Beaswell?" protested Judy.
"Goddamnit, Judy, do what the fuck I say or I'll strangle you to death outside of a Soho nightclub and dump your body in the East River!!!!"
"Yes, Mr. Beaswell."
"Franken," said my boss, turning to me, "what time does the stock market open in New York City?"
"Um. . .I know I'm late sir, but I promise it won't happen again."
"You're fucking-A right, it won't happen again, because there won't be a goddamn stock market next time!!!! We're ruined, Franken!!! Ruined, you stupid fucking worthless shitshed cuntscape!!! If you would have been here at seven in the morning with the keys like I asked, I wouldn't have had to let myself into the stock market through the goddamned fire escape!!!! Now my silk stocking Champari suit is ruined!!!! Ruined, you creamy bit of cappucinafuck!!!! Ruined!!! Ruined!!!! Just like Stonehenge!!!!"
I furrowed my brow. "I don't understand. Stonehenge, sir?"
"RUINS!!! RUINS!!!!! GET IT, FRANKEN???? I THOUGHT YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE THE FUCKING COMEDIAN AROUND HERE!!!! STONEHENGE IS RUINS AND MY SUIT IS RUINED JUST LIKE WE ARE FUCKING RUINED!!!! WE'RE RUINED!!!! RUINED!!!!!"
There was a knock at the door. Judy appeared, carrying two cups of coffee on two trays. In fact, Judy herself was actually two people. The other one was Jenny. Jenny approached me while Judy poured the coffee.
"So Mr. Beaswell says I have to fuck you now," sighed Jenny.
"Cool. How are you? My name's Will."
"Whatever," she said, undoing my fly.
"What kind of music do you like, Jenny?"
"Whatever," said Jenny as she slowly stroked me to a vertical position and pathetically sighed at my remarkable girth,"I like everything but anything that isn't rap or techno."
I turned limp.
"What's the matter?" she pouted, "Are you a faggot or something?"
"No. Cultural supremacist."
"So, baby, are you excited about the upcoming election?"she asked as she slid off her free-range hydroponic panties.
"You bet your sweet Irish ass I am," I said, getting erect once more.
Jenny licked my neck as she guided my bulbous and pulsating cock inside of her, "I'm a total Obama girl."
I turned limp again and fell out.
"You are a faggot!"
"No, I'm sorry. I'm just not really into Marxism. Too kinky."
"Goddamnit!!!" thundered Mr. Beaswell from across his wide oak golf course, "Franken, are you even listening to me????"
"I wasn't aware you were talking anymore, sir."
"I said get on the Textifi and call the US Government and tell them to bail our goddamn asses out!!!! We need welfare, Franken!!! WELFARE!!!!"
"Shouldn't I be fucking Jenny right now, sir?"
"I'll fuck Jenny. I've still got a wife and kids to cheat on!! You've got nothing, Franken!!! You're a failure as a comedian and you're a failure as a stock market worker!!!! Now call the fucking government!!!"
"Thank god," huffed Jenny as she switched from one dick to another, "omg, Mr. Beaswell, he was all like, 'what music do you like' and like 'tell me about yourself' and stuff!"
Having finished pouring the coffe, Judy filmed the ensuing doggie-style intercourse between Mr. Beaswell and Jenny with some help from the guys down at O & T for a future roundtable focus group on IFRS technologies.
"Franken!!!" grunted Beaswell as he smacked Jenny's ass mercilessly, "I don't hear any dialing!!!!!"
"But sir," I said, "I'm not sure I believe in corporate welfare for this current situation."
"Goddamnit, Franken!!!! Who in the fuck do you think you are??? MILTON FUCKING FRIEDMAN???!!! GET ON THE GODDAMN PHONE AND CALL THE FUCKING GOVERNMENT NOW!!!!!!"
"But sir, what about the taxpayers?"
"FUCK THE TAXPAYERS!!!! TAXPAYERS CAN SUCK MY DICK, FRANKEN!!!! NOW CALL THE FUCKING GOVERNMENT!!!!"
"Sir," I cleared my throat nervously before zipping up my pinstripe trousers, "You see, I'm an economic libertarian. Don't you remember? I put that on my application before you hired me to work here at the stock market."
"Franken, I think I should tell you something. There's a Muslim in Jenny's cunt with a bomb that's set to explode the moment I cum on her face. If you ever want to see my wife and kids alive again, you'll do the smart thing and CALL THE FUCKING GOVERNMENT!!! NOW!!!!"
"Yes, sir," I gulped. At that point, I did as I was ordered and texted in my wordspeak to the digidex of the iPlacebo and waited patiently for someone to answer.
After an interminable length of time, a deep-voiced black woman on the other end answered. "'Nited States Govuhment."
"Yeah, I was interested in applying for some public assistance."
"Okay. Would this be foh an individual or a household?"
"It would be for a private financial sector of the free marketplace."
Jenny moaned dramatically as Mr. Beaswell salivated in my ear, "Be sure to ask them for a golden parachute, Franken. . ."
"My boss wants to know if you guys do golden parachutes."
"We do," said the black woman on the other end, "but only if your total income is less than $5,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000."
"Yeah," I sighed, feeling like a total sell-out, "That'd be us, all right."
"Don't be ashamed, chile," the black woman assured me, "Dey's a lot of people in yo same sityeeation. Hell, it's getting to where a person cain't even live off of $5,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 anymore."
"Well," I said, "I'm sure there are ways. That is, if you believe in the good ol' American spirit of rugged individualism."
"SHUT YOUR FUCKING TRAITOROUS MOUTH, COMRADE FRANKEN!!!!!!" climaxed Beaswell all over Jenny's face as the Muslim inside of her cunt set off the bomb that blew me into smithereens and took along the rest of the freethinking Western World through a space/time vortex where American exceptionalism was converted irrevocably into Eurotrash socialism.
Or was this all just a dream?
Did Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson really refuse a bailout to Lehman Brothers?
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Existential Dread* On Wall Sreet
This afternoon, a thought struck me that was paralyzing in its accuracy: