Fly on WallStreet

Naturally, when you’re young, aging is a mere artifice of the mind, used to explain away the sullying of a once sharp wit and body. Everything is a laugh, as you dance the midnight dance, then awake fresh-faced and prime, ready to do Spartan battle on the day. I am a one-man phalanx, I always say. Time, however illusory, passes.

Then, one day, you’re thirty—no matter, you say—I feel the same. I am the same. Yet, you’re no longer the spry energetic embodiment of youth, and even mundane activities like swatting flies around the house makes you sore--and for some reason, bitter.

Oh, and my wife is having twins, so she’s an angry blimp, and all she will eat is cayenne peppers, peanut butter, and sun-dried tomatoes.

Happy Birthday dear Danny, Happy Birthday to you, and many moooooore

Holy fuckistan, did I just nap through my 40th?

Ok, this is ridiculous. I am 44. I didn’t accomplish even 1/5 of the dreams of my youth. I am not a rich as want, and I am not philandering women in the South Baltic sea, and the hair that fell out of my head, in some sick sleight-of-genetic hand, has re-grown on my ass. I tried to do my morning fifty—fifty pushups, fifty sit-ups—I was unable to walk or lift my arms for 6 days.

Now, I am fifty, and time has slowed to a snail’s crawl. I am embittered, having experienced firsthand a number of ass-kickings and financial fuckings doled out by this “great” life of mine. I now organize my pills by day and time. I cannot join AARP, and they won’t let me anywhere near the aerobics lesson at the gymnasium—there was some unpleasantness—I can never go back.

Right around 55, the brain changes yet again. I begin to abhor contractions and abbreviations, and start to smatter my verbiage with increasingly grandiose accoutrements, in a vain attempt to sound like I am something, or to recapture the power of my youth. Oh and I play a LOT of crosswords.

Then, you turn sixty, and life’s caustic condition pushes your bitterness of the top the UCLA’s John C. Dvorak old senile fuck scale. You have resigned to salvage what is left by warning young people of the impending doom and challenges they face. Shouting in the street, “THE END IS NIGH,” seems a viable option, but you do not want to be recognized by the other bridge players around town.

I know, I will open a webpage, goinglikesenility.com!

I suppose that brings us up to speed, so without further adieu, the top five things I disliked about the last poster:

1.) It pissed me the fuck off that he would say "We boomers have $403040506506 in the market," and he would link that number, but not to anything relevant, just to his site. The only times I actually clicked that old fuck’s links, thinking in vain that I'd get a pertinent article, or even a related part of his website, he has to make a mockery of me by simply linking to the home page of goinglikesenility.com

2.)Numerous spelloing and gramatical errors, viz., totally disregarded numerical comma conventions. 44000 or 440000, you tell me, turkey throat.

3.) Was steadfast in the face of resounding opposition. And not in an honorable way, in the 'I am in over my head posting on this site" way. Tell us, once more time why you think, you know what, nevermind.

4.) Ducati-like ability to use one's own horribly skewed persicope to see and assess the world. Incorrectly.

5.) Stocks are the PV of future cash flow. If you can anticipate an increase in future CF and it happens, the stock goes up—magical. Tell me how you pulling 44k out of the market or moving it to fixed income affects the cash flow, of fuck, it doesn’t even have to be creative, MCD, ADM, VLO, BBD. The world is getting smaller.

You claim, in no uncertain words, that double-digit growth is dead, yet, suggest buying a basket of stocks--that for all intents and purposes--tracks the market.

Healthcare, real estate, retail, and cyclical industrial.

Bra-fucking-vo.

I bet the boomers caused the end of montgomery wards, hula hoops, jellies, and clearly canadienne [sic]. Growth stocks come and go, but some things stay the same--Sorry boomer--story of your life, but you're not special enough to be the cause of any precipitous declines in anything.

Hopefully you old farks can use this post as a primer on how to avoid prime suckage at the many crossroads of life.

Oh and a stock tip related to this horseshit?

ALLERGAN.