Tuesday, 10 January 2012

John Zwaanstra is giving money away!

Yes, millions of dollars. Billions, maybe. Millions, probably. And I'm not the greedy type. But I want some. I deserve some millions and billions, don't I? Well, millions, anyway. After all the work I've done? Of course I do! Zwaanstra's had enough of Penta Investment Advisers. It's too much hassle. He wants to take it easy at his time of life, so he's calling it a day. Obviously, Penta won't need all that money now. About $2 billion. That's a lot! I just hope John gives me some. He better! I've never been an investor, but does that matter? No, I don't think so. Not if John, Mr Zwaanstra, is in a generous mood. And I know he's a very generous man. I see no reason why one or two million dollars shouldn't head in my direction. It's not as if I don't deserve it. Of course I deserve it! How long have I been a mystical capitalist? Too long! How much money have I made? Too little! It's a real shame. A tragedy, almost. Shit! The sacrifices! What was I doing, while everyone else was getting rich? I was making sure everything ran smoothly. I was making sure no bankers or hedgies got burnt up on the astral plane. (Burnt to a fucking crisp?! Imagine it! It could have happened. It would have done, without me.) Oh, I deserve a reward.

[Of course, there were some phoney pricks I should have let burn to a crisp. (I'm not talking bankers or hedgies.) And they're still around. I'll settle their hash one day. Some people think I'm vindictive, and that I have a mean streak. Well, maybe. But that's not the whole story. I just don't like phoneys. I guess my problem is that I read The Catcher in the Rye at an impressionable age. When people say something to me, I like them to mean it. And then I like to see some action on their part. I judge people by their actions, not their words. If someone says they love me, I want to see proof. And if they hate me - so what? I don't mind. Just don't lie to me. Don't pretend to be my friend. Because that stuff pisses me off, and I never, ever forget it. And I never, ever forgive.]

I'll have to look through my archive. Maybe some poor souls were burnt to a crisp. My memory is not what it was. I forget and ... Actually, I can remember a few things that didn't happen. But that's the price I pay for living between dreams and reality, visions and this cold world. I'm a shaman, ain't I? It goes with the territory.