A Letter to Wall Street
And then the good days ended, for the poor shithead in the middle class anyway. While you assholes on Wall Street were lining up for your first round at the government trough, the poor fuckers that had been using credit cards to maintain their standard of living from the 1990s were beginning to lose everything. Their houses, cars, health care, and even their jobs were disappearing. Fuckers at Merrill-Lynch, A.I.G., Citi Group, Bank of America, and on, and on, and fucking on were taking huge bonuses or executive compensation packages. They were "retiring" to third world countries where their fortunes would set them up like kings.
And listen up motherfuckers, because we fucking paid for it. Us. The fucking taxpaying public. The dudes you have been grinding beneath your heels since you first read Ayn Rand and sociopathed your way through econ 101. We're your paymasters now, fuckers. And yeah, your tools in the government and in the press are between you and us for now, but we've got one trick up our sleeve. One and only recourse while you're raping us for our last fucking dollars.
We can get pissed. We can let the hate take over and form a fucking mob. When you take home bonuses from our money, when you get our bailouts and have your lobster luncheons or your strippers and coke parties at the Mirage, we'll be there with our torches and our fucking pitchforks. And just because you got your little crybaby letter in the New York Times, just because "the media narrative" is turning back in your favor, doesn't mean we have forgotten. We're pissed and we know what you did.
Jake DeSantis, you fucking narcissist, don't give me that bullshit self-pitying resignation letter. Don't tell me you weren't the dick that has been fucking this country, just the hand on its throat. Don't make me laugh with your charity donation lesson in life. Let me give you a life lesson. We'll go through the Red Cross and the March of Dimes to get to you. We'll leave Jerry's Kids mewling and thrashing in the gutters and overturn the Salvation Army Kettle to get our fucking money back.
You're all scum. Villains. And before this is through blood will be shed. Human blood that doesn't come out of a gigantic fucking vagina like yours, DeSantis. It's not a threat, it's a promise you're making to us.
"Come get us," you're sneering.
"I hope you like to eat turds from a human butt," we're sneering right back.
Your offices will be lit from within by the fires of a thousand burning evil motherfuckers and their evil personal assistants. There will be chaos. Triple chaos. Saigon all over again. They'll be pushing G5s off the deck of an aircraft carrier to make room for the next private jet escaping New York. We'll string the filth of the NYSE from lamp posts and Rick Santelli's empty sockets will look out on the streets, choked with useless paper and cars torched for insurance money.
The orgy of our outrage will be legendary. We'll cut off hands and feet and gouge out tender parts. We'll feed chopped up guts to dogs and rotting carcasses can fertilize urban gardens. Remember that tree they put Conan on? No, that's not for you, that's for your wives! You should be so lucky!
The last of you, the scarred remnants of your horrible tribe, can read this to a congressional hearing, your voices quivering with indignation while pale fists hammer on the glass and cry to see your blood spill out in a red gush across the steps of the Capitol.
You motherfuckers had better be afraid. You haven't learned your lesson yet, but we have.
DEATH TO WALL STREET!
Sincerely and with warmest regards,