As the whole country sweats this financial bailout stuff, New York Magazine has turned its focus on the story we’ve so desperately wanted uncovered: “Golly, what ever has happened to those poor Lehman Brothers traders?”  The whole story is worth your complete disdain, but here are a few choice selections:

Like many on Wall Street, the Trader’s career was moving along briskly. By 2006, he had settled into a new $2 million house in Connecticut with a pool, and kept a pied-à-terre in Manhattan. With two young children, he had private-school tuition to cover. He had recently completed a home renovation, and now there was talk of a new porch with a built-in stainless-steel barbecue. The Trader estimated that he was two years from making enough money to retire and never have to work again.

In other words, the guy next door. A real average joe. I hardly know him, yet I already have a bottomless well of sympathy for him.

(more…)

Just a quick heads up about a suspicious e-mail that showed up in my inbox a few hours ago. Consider yourself warned:

SUBJECT: REQUEST FOR URGENT BUSINESS RELATIONSHIP

DEAR AMERICAN:
I NEED TO ASK YOU TO SUPPORT AN URGENT SECRET BUSINESS RELATIONSHIP WITH A TRANSFER OF FUNDS OF GREAT MAGNITUDE.

I AM MINISTRY OF THE TREASURY OF THE REPUBLIC OF AMERICA. MY COUNTRY HAS HAD CRISIS THAT HAS CAUSED THE NEED FOR LARGE TRANSFER OF FUNDS OF 800 BILLION DOLLARS US. IF YOU WOULD ASSIST ME IN THIS TRANSFER, IT WOULD BE MOST PROFITABLE TO YOU.

I AM WORKING WITH MR. PHIL GRAM, LOBBYIST FOR UBS, WHO WILL BE MY REPLACEMENT AS MINISTRY OF THE TREASURY IN JANUARY. AS A SENATOR, YOU MAY KNOW HIM AS THE LEADER OF THE AMERICAN BANKING DEREGULATION MOVEMENT IN THE 1990S. THIS TRANSACTIN IS 100% SAFE.

THIS IS A MATTER OF GREAT URGENCY. WE NEED A BLANK CHECK. WE NEED THE FUNDS AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE. WE CANNOT DIRECTLY TRANSFER THESE FUNDS IN THE NAMES OF OUR CLOSE FRIENDS BECAUSE WE ARE CONSTANTLY UNDER SURVEILLANCE. MY FAMILY LAWYER ADVISED ME THAT I SHOULD LOOK FOR A RELIABLE AND TRUSTWORTHY PERSON WHO WILL ACT AS A NEXT OF KIN SO THE FUNDS CAN BE TRANSFERRED.

PLEASE REPLY WITH ALL OF YOUR BANK ACCOUNT, IRA AND COLLEGE FUND ACCOUNT NUMBERS AND THOSE OF YOUR CHILDREN AND GRANDCHILDREN TO WALLSTREETBAILOUT@TREASURY.GOV SO THAT WE MAY TRANSFER YOUR COMMISSION FOR THIS TRANSACTION. AFTER I RECEIVE THAT INFORMATION, I WILL RESPOND WITH DETAILED INFORMATION ABOUT SAFEGUARDS THAT WILL BE USED TO PROTECT THE FUNDS.

YOURS FAITHFULLY MINISTER OF TREASURY PAULSON

You don’t become a grade-A asshole like myself without having at least some level of obsessive-compulsive disorder, and for me it’s worst in the morning. I’m especially prone to earworms that become verbal tics. Today I woke up with a mash-up of Ann Curry’s “good morning” spiel and “The King of Wishful Thinking.”

I’ll get over you, I know I will
Good morning good morning
I’ll pretend my ship’s not si-inking
Everyone in the news this morning

Just wanted to share. It helps me relieve the tic. In fact, I feel a little better already. Thanks.

Stand by for NFL-related programming.

This is a brilliant mash-up of Bert & Ernie with M.O.P.’s “Ante Up.” Because any NFL blog that doesn’t bring you fetus humor, Chris Cooley’s bag of dicks and Sesame Street gangsta rap in the same day, isn’t worth reading.

George Carlin died yesterday. He was 71. You certainly don’t need us to tell you that he was the progenitor of the pissed-off comic that has been copied with varying degrees of success over the past several decades. Furthermore, it was Carlin who officially codified the seven dirty words. And as the LA Times could tell you, KSK wouldn’t be around except for those bon mots.

Carlin was right about many things, including his observation that everyone who drives slower than I do is an asshole and everyone who drives faster than I do is a maniac. This is one of his better known bits, and our favorite. Enjoy, all you assholes and maniacs…

“Listen to this dude Rufus. He knows what he’s talking about.”

Back by popular Ape’s demand is your friendly nabeyhood uomo ragno! There are not as many jokes as in previous installments, but who am I to argue with plot advancement? There are only supposed to be 10 of these things, so they gotta move it along, I guess. Time is money and whatnot. You guys you should probably find some former owners of a hip-hop label. They’ll throw money at anything!

It comes as news to me that the filmmakers are from Australia and are therefore probably related to Heath Ledger. Sorry, blokes, at least it looks like he did a good job in The Dark Knight, which the cream in my pants just creamed itself as soon as I thought about it.

I was on a conference call phone interview with Ledger when he was promoting The Four Feathers in 2002. Some other college writer dipshit asked if people in his hometown of Perth built cannons and fired them as a celebratory rite. He laughed and called the kid an idiot. That’s when I knew he’d die of an OD. It’s all in the intonation.

Dear USGA,

What the fuck? From Friday through Sunday fans on the east coast were able to watch Tiger play the Open in primetime, and now you’re just fucking us in the ass. Some people can’t stand the idea of an anti-climactic 18-hole playoff to settle the tournament, but fuck, I’m not one to complain about such things. One thing I am wont to complain about is an 18-hole playoff played at a time that guarantees my 8-5 ass won’t see a single blade of that badass kikuya.

You need to man the fuck up and tell NBC that shit needs to be on after work. I know that Jeff Zucker has a hard-on for all of those households in middle America that are clamoring for their night of American Gladiators and Nashville Star, but fuck those people. Would the advertisers even care if those piece of shit shows were preempted for some primetime Tiger? Fans of golf buy new kitchens, planes, and all of the other expensive shit made by NBC’s parent company. Fans of shitty third-rate reality programming spend their disposable income on lottery tickets, Bonnie Raitt albums, and WrestleMania tickets. To whom should you really be catering?

In the end, the USGA and NBC should ask themselves, “What would Russert do?” I think the answer is clear.

Yours in Christ,
Maj

Hey, it’s a slow day, so it’s time for some off-topicality. Apparently I’m the only one who likes this Italian Spiderman series, but when I like something, I force it on people endlessly, like Peruvian chicken and butt sex. It’s only half as gay as Planet Unicorn but twice as nonsensical. We pushed the shit out of Planet Unicorn so I’ll post these until the rest of the Gay Mafia ties me to a stop sign and beats me with rainbow dildos. In other words, tomorrow.

Italian Spiderman has totally made my summer and summer hasn’t even started yet. This being the fourth episdoe, if your interest is sufficiently piqued, I encourage you to check out the first three installments here. You shan’t be disappointed, ragazza.

Brooklyn, New York, present day

Actually, no. This isn’t a guide at all. It’s too fucking hot to piece together the necessary expository skills to create something as useful as a guide.

Maybe you’re in one of the places in the country that isn’t having its fourth consecutive humid day in the high 90s. If that’s the case, fuck you. But for those of you who ARE suffering at the moment, you’re no doubt having to withstand the insipid and inevitable small-talk conversation that always, always, ALWAYS goes like this:

Guy: “Man, it’s hot.”
You: “SO hot.”
Guy: “I mean really hot.”
You: “Seriously.”

Well, fuck that. Spice it up. Show that fucker that he doesn’t know hot, YOU know hot. Mix it up with these handy phrases:

- “It’s Africa hot.”
- “It’s Do The Right Thing hot.”
- “It’s Officer Miller hot.” (”A man’s not supposed to notice or say anything, he’s just supposed to stand there with a big smile on his face. Stand there, in his thick, scratchy, blue uniform. Maybe he forgot to wear his t-shirt that day, and his nipples are on fire! Because they’ve been rubbed raw against the stiff wool…” )
- “Tarzan couldn’t take dis kinda hot!” (Biloxi Blues)
- “Hotter’n two cats fucking in a wool sock.”
- “Today on the countryside it was a-hotter than a crotch/I stood alone upon the ridge and all I did was watch” (Bob Dylan, “Tough Mama”)
- “What is this, a Faulkner novel?”
- “I can’t tell whether my ass is sweating or if this is just diarrhea.”
- “I feel like Korey Stringer.”

So… maybe not that last one.