Stock Market Takes a Major Shit

he stock market took a major shit Monday, with big-shot tycoons throwing their concubines out skyscraper windows and countless pairs of silk boxers being clenched in nervous buttocks at the close of trading. Hundreds of snotty assholes lost a bundle and had to be chauffeured home to cry themselves to sleep on their pillows sewn with golden thread.

Day traders could be heard pissing and moaning loudly up and down Wall Street all day, and the world’s tiniest violin played just for them as little orphaned children brought them steaming cups of hot chicken noodle soup.

The NASDAQ closed down 53.17 points, at its lowest close since the last time those mama’s boys took it on the chin and their counterparts, the man-dressing woman traders, were kicked in the cock-socket.

Trading volume was so-so, with stuffed shirts milling around restlessly all day, slapping each other’s asses and trying to get a rally started to save their precious timeshares in the Hamptons.

After an ass-dragging start, stock prices got a momentary boost from data released early Monday that showed a great sale going on at a nearby Mercedes-Benz dealership, exciting the day traders and convincing them that this was their lucky day and they should buy anything that smelled like a stock.

But the early rally crapped out by lunchtime when traders received a dispiriting report of dour financial news, casting a shadow over the market. Tyco International Chief Executive L. Dennis Kozlowski announced that he had a paper cut, and everybody stopped trading for at least a half an hour while they made wincing faces and told stories of other times when they’d had paper cuts. It was announced that John Fort, Tyco’s CEO from 1982 to 1992, will take control of the whole shebang until Kozlowski gets out of the hospital.

Tyco’s stock price plunged while everyone was farting around and getting donuts or whatever, and other stocks began to plummet as traders who hadn’t been paying attention began a selling frenzy to make it look like they were on top of the ball. Overall stocks slumped 26.9 percent in the next hour until the heads of two investment firms got into a heated argument over whose turn it was with the remote and if it was okay to watch the 1985 Oliver Stone film Wall Street on the Big Board.

Kent Engelke, markets strategist at Burntwhistle & Limey, said the strong sell-off was due to confusion among traders about data on the nation’s economic recovery. That afternoon’s agricultural report sparked arguments over whether peanuts grow on bushes or on trees, and data from the manufacturing sector confused traders who assumed that toasters were made in the back of the toaster store. Traders also could not agree on what Mexican money was called, if it was pesos or guapos, he added.

“We were hit with some big shocks today, that’s for sure. Like, did you know they have people working in factories nowadays? Actually putting together toys and cars and what have you. It’s not all robots like you’d think. Talk about some poor bastards,� Engelke said after having the silver spoon slapped out of his mouth.

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Goddammit! Another V-Day, come and gone.

According to nebulous website statistics, one in five Americans is single, but as we know, polls taken at pornographic sites are debatable. The truth is probably somewhere in between—all my neighbors are married or in serious relationships, yet nobody at the commune can maintain a significant other for more than a week. All I know is, if those estimates are anywhere near close, that leaves a lot of pissed off people who spent last Valentine's Day stewing in their homes.

Somehow another Valentine's Day passed and I survived, and more over, I didn't get drunk and call up any ex-girlfriends on the phone. Sure, I browsed the internet looking for the loneliest blogs I could find, just for company, then I searched for a while to see if anyone else remembered that show Tales of the Gold Monkey, but that isn't really on topic. What's important is I maintained some level of dignity by keeping my indignity within the walls of my apartment.

There are different arguments about Valentine's Day, I suppose. Some would say it's a soulless commercial enterprise driven by the almighty dollar to shill tiny greeting cards, flowers, chocolates, and chalk-flavored hearts; others are retarded, and disagree. These fucks are hopelessly whipped by whatever gender's genitalia they're dating.

Whoever first expressed the need for love, for one human being to find that special connection to another and build a lasting relationship with, is a total schmendrick. If he had been born in another era St. Valentine probably would have gone on to invent the dog whistle, another device with more espoused about it than proven. So what if a dog comes running when you blow it? Have you ever seen a dog that didn't come running to a person? They're stupid dogs. They see people and want to lick them, for whatever dog reason mandates.

Likewise, I say love is a myth. If I believed in the devil I would propose he started it as a way to complicate what could have been party city for sexual relationships in this world. You don't see animals exchanging phone numbers or discussing long-distance relationships. They know what they want and they don't confuse it with their self-esteem or worrying about how a partner reflects on them. It's not a coincidence either that animals don't suffer from broken hearts, depression, midlife crises, weight issues, or impotency—and I've seen enough websites to verify it.

I don't claim to be a genius; I may only be a seven-inch pixie with a surly attitude, but I can tell right from wrong. People who are not in relationships are miserable. People who are in relationships are miserable. If you're lucky enough to catch people during that brief period of ignorance when they think they are going to be in a relationship and find excitement in their partner and are fresh from loneliness enough so they dread going back to it, then you'll find them happy. The intelligence of dedicating your life to seeking out that one-to-two-week period in a life that lasts about 80 years, give or take cigarette consumption, it's not the brightest way to go.

Not that I have an alternative at this point. Or, I do have alternatives, but they usually end up with me getting drinks thrown in my face. I'm not advocating we drop the whole "love" deal right off the bat, but I say it wouldn't necessarily be a bad idea to re-evaluate the idea of monogamy. Elvis Costello asked what was so funny with peace, love, and understanding? That's a big question, with lots of possible answers. I'm only asking what's so wrong about paying money for sex a couple of times a month? Both you, the column reader, and the potential jurors out there I might be seeing next month.

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Americans, believe me when I say I would much rather spend this column outlining our plans to advertise on the commune. Or, more sincerely, would rather spend this column demonstrating how I've tracked the money trail from a major American defense manufacturer to weapons sold to Syria and Iran. Or at the very least tell you how Rascal and I spent the weekend getting thrown out of a NASCAR race (the Bagel car is still in one piece, you'll be glad to hear). But no, unfortunately I have to deliver some bad news about a diminishing of the commune's reputation.

We have tried, since the very launch of the commune, to maintain a certain standard of credibility. We have fact-checkers, and they appear to always be doing their jobs. Not that I'm going to look over their shoulder or anything—I've got a life, you know. Even so, I was dismayed to find out a certain unnamed reporter has been fabricating information to complete his stories. "His"? Did I say "his"? Oh, damn, cat's out of the bag. That's right, it's Raoul Dunkin, former commune reporter.

You may know, if you're a faithful commune reader (unlike that harlot Stacy Carmichael), that Raoul and I have had a very complicated relationship, and haven't always been the best of friends. Nonetheless, we've always had a mutual respect for each other's work—I respect his work, and he respects being paid for it. You can imagine how I was stunned and shocked, yea, even flabbergasted, to find out it's all been a fraud.

After Raoul announced his resignation in December, Office Manager (at the time) Ramrod Hurley jumped in to hire a new reporter to fill out the staff. Elmore Sacks was the best he could do. However, Elmore's been a great addition to the commune; true, he doesn't so much write as sit in the break room and doze most of the day away, blocking the vending machine, I might add, but there is one more of us, which surely makes it an addition. The staff was all quite happy Raoul was gone, though, since everyone had a problem with him, and he didn't exactly make friends. Even when I heaped more and more work on them, they still seemed glad Raoul had been sent packing, even though he had taken some of the worst assignments that are now left to them. I didn't ask them if they were still glad, but I'm happier presuming it's true.

But Raoul's legacy was not the solid reporting I seemed to once think. At the urging of all the other reporters, I reviewed some of his past articles at random and checked them against his notes. I even tracked down the political figures and quote-donators, what they call "fact-checking" at other papers. I was quite outraged to find a glaring mistake in a previous article, "Presidential Debate Offers No Clear Loser." A man, describing himself as Norm Chauncey of Newark University, was in fact Norm Chancey. And, as far as I can tell, he doesn't even know what a college is.

Sir, I'm disgusted. It's just this kind of sloppy reporting that can forever mar the reputation of the commune. I asked several people on the street, where I coincidentally found Norm Chancey once again, and found out several of them had never even heard of the commune. I can't blame them. I'm nearly ashamed to admit it myself, in the wake of this scandal.

I can only apologize to you, faithful readers, and promise we'll make every effort to get our facts right in the future. I can do only that and, of course, sending warning letters to every news organization in the country and warn them against hiring Mr. Dunkin. He is not the kind of journalist a credible news organization should employ, and I want everyone to know it.

That said, at the reporters' urging, I'm offering Mr. Dunkin an open door here to come back to the commune. Not so he can besmirch us with his substandard reporting again, but so that he may work to repair the damage he has done to our news department. And everyone says he's the only one who does what he's told when he's sent to cover a story, so we'll try it their way. They're getting sick of all this work.

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