Dear Wall Street, Choke to Death on Your Mom's Bloody Cunt Rag, You Miserable Shits!
The following is a fucking letter sent right fucking now to the New York Goddamn Times, another dying newspaper that is spending its final years ignominiously lurching between the rotten crotch of Wall Street and the ghastly juice pit of its political patrons. The Fourth Fucking Estate lives on the Internet now, you simpering whores and charlatans!
This is a response to an actual publicity stunt of a letter puked out by the biggest dickbag in recent history, Jake DeSantis, and then published by America's paper of dumb fucking record. This ass polyp DeSantis worked for the patient zero of the ebola currently running rampant through the rupturing vessels and blown veins of our country's financial circulatory system. This is a dude who helped us move a couple clicks closer to some Road Warrior 12 Monkeys shit and now he's crying because he didn't get his prostate massaged thoroughly enough by the taxpayers. When I address this shit to Wall Street, I mean specifically Jake DeSantis, formerly of A.I.G., but also all of the rest of these dumbfucks who just don't fucking get it.
DEAR Wall Street,
What a bunch of whiny fucking babies. John Galt would be puking blood for 200-pages over this load of shit, you bunch of sobbing welfare queens. You fucked up. You ruined everything. You broke it, and we fucking bought it, because big baby was too big baby to fail.
We get it all ways from you motherfuckers. You're robbing us of our present and future now, but first you stepped on our throats on your way to the top. You raked in the money with a bunch of made up fantasyland bullshit that wouldn't fool a counting horse on America's Funniest Home Videos, but somehow suckered in every major bank in the world.
Credit default swaps.
Those things are so fucking dumb that when you explain them to somebody and they laugh about how dumb they are you've got to act like ooooh they're so magical and complicated. Far too complex for the plebes to get. No! Wrong! Go into OTB and put fifty dollars on Rambo's Beautiful Blood. You just bought a credit default swap. Whoaaa you're blowing my simple pea brain with your fancy Wall Street talkin'. You sadsack fuckers.
So everybody bought into your big scheme, even when they didn't know they were playing, and now the whole thing has come crashing down because too many people won the fucking unbelievably obvious bet that a million illegal immigrants were going to default on million dollar home loans. Suddenly all your stupid fake money is gone, but if it's gone the whole system of bullshit lies collapses and you look like dickheads. So whoopty-doo, now we gotta make the fake money turn real or else the house of shitty cunt cards comes crashing down, only there isn't enough real money to cover all the fake money, so we're making more real money.
Then there's A.I.G., the bad seed, the carbuncle on our anus, the weeping wound in our tit, the sorry source of all our misery and woe. This is the monster garage full of miscreants that dreamed up the fire-breathing nitro-gulping predicament we're in right fucking now. Their financial products division created the derivatives market from lies and their executives raked in billions in bonuses and easy money. While they were peddling bad bets, median wages in the US stagnated and poor working schmucks leaned increasingly on credit to get by. Prices on everything were going up, but credit was easy to come by what with all that bullshit money to throw around.
Elliot said my breakup must have been due to the sweater curse, an unexplained phenomenon where anyone who gives their significant other a hand-knit sweater gets dumped. The only way to break the curse, Elliot said, was to destroy the sweater.
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