Well fuck. Now the real fun begins, doesn’t it? Take heed assholes, for I am Henry "The Fist" Paulson and it is my civic duty to inform you that you are now entering bear country. The economic tsunami is upon us. A financial shitstorm of biblical proportions. How do I know this? Well there are of course a myriad of ways of measuring this nation's financial health, but personally, I like to jam my head up the economy's ass and see things firsthand for myself. How do I do this? Fuck you. It's all very technical, but it involves a ton of flat screen displays, some of that nifty warming KY stuff (for the economy's pleasure) and some Bachman-Turner Overdrive playing in the background. And after doing so, I have come to the conclusion that the economy is fucked. Look, I just spent an hour on the phone with Canada's frantic Minister of Finance. The grizzly prick is freaking. Is it my fault that this flanneled fuck hasn't upgraded his nation's economy to run on something other than maple syrup and flapjack revenue? Fuck no, it is not.
Now I know, I said the congressional bailout would stop the panic. That the Dow would bounce back. Well, things happened. The credit crisis worsened. Overseas markets slid. “Beverly Hills Chihuahua” came out this weekend. Shit happens. You goofy little fucks are probably hearing a lot of numbers being tossed around right now, so let me break it down for you in the simplest terms possible for your tiny lizard brains: a decade of wealth has evaporated in the span of a few weeks. Poof, gone, just like a David Copperfield magic act, only with a shitload more bears. We are no longer first in the global economy. And guess what third prize is? A set of steak knives and traumatic ocular fucking at the hands of Hank Paulson, that's what. Today the Dow dipped below 10,000. Remember where you were the last time the Dow Jones was at 10,000? I’ll fucking tell you: It was ’99 and “The Matrix” had just come out. Holy shit I loved that fucking movie. Neo was the balls. That bullet time thing melted my eyeballs and blew my fucking mind. Fuck yes.
But back to the matter at hand here douchenozzles. No longer will I play sugar daddy to pouting trollops in the banking system like yourselves. And pardon me if I don’t hold my breath for Congress’ latest offering to come through: "Bailout 2: Financial Boogaloo." What good would it do for you miserable pricks? All you want is another roll of the dice and another tilt of the roulette wheel. You think this shit affects me? Think again, fuckos, I moved all my money to razor blades and window ledge futures months ago. I’m rock solid. Sure, my neighbors called me crazy when I stared burying 55 gallon drums of ammo, rice, and black pepper in my back yard. Guess old Hank Paulson’s not so crazy now, eh? For tax purposes, I’ve started up my own religion with a few buddies from Bear Stearns and AIG. We worship hermit crabs. Each time one of ‘em switches shells, we have a crazy orgy. It’s terrific. I’m heavily invested in Ramen noodles and scurvy related medicines. I’m fucking bulletproof. What in the shit is that? Is that Sarah Palin on Fox News saying that the stock market hates America? This from the daffy broad who confuses “Trading Places” with the show where strangers come into your house and take down all the ceiling fans? Damn.
So good night and good luck you bastards. In the meantime, I’d be perfectly happy to share my own personal recipe for rock soup with you ingrates:
You put the rocks in the water, then you bring it a boil while attempting to fend off roaming bands of post apocalyptic ruffians. Presto, fucking rock soup. It’s a secret Paulson Family recipe, enjoy it in good health. Me? I prefer my hobo soup to consist of actual hobos. Which is why I’m polishing up my boomerang skills in anticipation of going hobo hunting in the coming weeks. I'll bet you shitheads haven't seen anyone hunt a hobo with a boomerang before. And something tells me there’s going to be a shitload of ‘em walking around. You want some high falutin’ financial advice? Brush up on your hunter-gatherer skills. Familiarize yourself with bartering. Get over your fondness for brand-name canned goods. Now pardon me while I go outside and chop some wood. And perhaps rob a local liquor store. Paulson, out.
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