Quote of the Day:
If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world. —JRR Tolkien
….FIVE. GOLD. ADS.
(Before continuing, please be advised the following was written and is intended to be read with the shrillest, most manic manner possible. If you are pregnant or nursing, or if you are under the care of a physician for high blood pressure, depression, OCD, random tics, chronic apathy or the Clap, please leave the TBU immediately.)
At least. Every day. Gold is up to something like twenty-two thousand dollars per ounce for cryin’ out loud and they tell me to BUYBUYBUY! On the radio, on tv, via smoke signal…I can’t escape this message. The economy is ready to implode. ANY DAY NOW! Why these ads didn’t bother me from when they really took off in November ’08 up til the present, I can’t explain. Maybe it’s because we just incurred another enormous “co-pay” for those four precious stitches. Maybe it’s because of tension in Korea, or Wikileaks, or the ongoing bloody war on the winter solstice, or maybe it’s the sudden realization the credit card bill for the one Sally Slutzzz I bought and the three I had to pay for thanks to Rajhib, or Marceau, or Herm or whatever the hell his name was, or maybe I’ve spent a few minutes too long in line waiting to get my batteries or too little time in lounges the last few years; I can’t pinpoint exactly the genesis of this, my season of discontent, only that these ads imploring me to buy gold have created a sudden urgent desire to exodus the hell away from it all!*
Ok. I gotta protect me and mine. Better get some gold. But where in the wide world of sports am I supposed to come up with the cash to buy it in the first place? And who in their right mind will trade real, tangible, shiny pieces of paper that say I get gold if the world loses it’s final tenuous links with rationality in exchange for my hypothetical greenbacks? Will my scraps of paper that say I own gold protect me from the marauding hordes? Will they come in handy in my bunker? Perhaps, if there is no running water. Hell I don’t even have a bunker yet! Don’t I need one of those before I get my gold slips?
Ok, forget the paper. I want the real thing baby. Does that cost extra? Because the hordes will surely leave me alone if I hold up my beautiful rocks to ward them off when they start marauding. Or does that only work with vampires? I just don’t know. I just know I need gold, gold I tells ya! And bullets! And Spam!
But I can’t get any gold. My meager funds are rather tied up at the moment. As a matter of fact, so are everybody else’s, not counting the people with so much damn money they can afford to go on a gold buying spree and consequently have absolutely no reason to. So screw you Comcast and Sirius and USA Today and the Penny Pincher at Burger King and Phil from down the hall, neoconservative zealots and pseudo-liberal appeasers! I can’t get any gold. I wish I could. ‘Cause I guaran-damn-tee you if I did get enough to have a rootin’ interest the karma would be strong enough to break off in your ass right along with mine when the investment crashes. So shut the fudge up** for a few days and let me try to maintain the tatters of a positive mental attitude just long enough to make it through Christmas with a smile on my face.***
(sigh) On the upside, if it all crashes down in the next couple of weeks and I still don’t have any gold, or a bunker, I will have a mint condition Sally Slutttz and her rarely seen sidekick Barbara Boooty. And plenty of batteries. And a happy Scamp. You’ll be beggin’ me to trade, Phil, but I think I’ll pass.
*the following was omitted, due to a momentary use of judgment, “All these numbers in my head…it’s confusing. What’s my duty-ronomy as a husband and father?
**except I didn’t say “fudge.” It was the queen mother of all curse words.
***If you would like to have more information on how I feel about these ads and those who profit from them, send a self-addressed stamped envelope to “Kissmyass, S.A., a Himalayan Corporation”, 6971 F.U. Boulevard, Grand Junction, Colorado. I will send you a richly bound, full color glossy photocopy of (allegedly) my ass taken during a mid-90’s office party. Lips not included.
…..FOUR freakin stitches, THREE triple AAA’s, TWO billing errors and a lounge in a mall ain’t no lounge.