Maverick

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Unbranded and home on the range.

Random cranial diarrhea

Okay. I have way too much random crap floating around in the space formerly known as the Dark Abyss, a.k.a my brain. Usually the self-eject mechanism goes on every Friday evening but last week there was a nuclear meltdown and cranial reactors B4 through D9 went belly up. Which is why all the overflow is going here. Read the rest of this entry »

Filed under: Exhaust, Ghetto

Don Corleone is Laughing in his Grave.

The United Nations and other authorities are getting increasingly worried about the fact that the Mafia may have found the perfect storm to launder their $300 billion worth of dirty money – the global finance crisis. Banks desperate for cash to maintain liquidity are either bending the rules or looking the other way when mafia finance chiefs come calling, dangling their billions in front of them.

Don Corleone must be laughing uncontrollably in his grave.

Read more here: Mafia millions buoying banks: UN

 

Hat tip to Pact for the link.

Filed under: Exhaust, Ghetto

Foreign Interventions and Ethical Paradoxes … a la office.

I decided I’m split 50-50 on this issue.

Do you stay out of arguments that you aren’t a part of, even if it happens right in front of you in such an insulting manner [see below] or do you stand up and intervene to preserve law and order?

Here I am at the office and usually I eat my lunch at my desk, while surfing the internet or flipping through an issue of any one of the numerous Conde Nast publications – GQ, Portfolio, Details, etc. It makes for interesting viewing, as the less-privileged, clock-bound serfs from other business units walk by, muttering all sorts of insults under their breath about me and how I have it so seemingly easy. Today however I decided to saunter over to the large cafeteria and harass the natives. Its a sport, and today is Friday so all my contacts at client companies had gone home for the weekend by lunch time.

I spotted Alena* the young Greek receptionist sitting at a table with Lilly, the short lady who did cleaning work around the office and took care of the staff lunchroom’s coffee supplies. We all respected her by default. She’s a hardworking, middle-aged, petite Albanian lady. Speaks in European / Italian-accented broken English but nice to a fault. There is literally nothing about her for you to dislike or pick on.

As I sat down at the adjacent table, slouching slightly in the chair and propping up one foot on the other knee, Alena asked me if I had heard about anymore lay-offs and cutbacks. Ah yes, time for the usual water-cooler variety of gossip. I told her I had, that some of the sales directors in one of the finance divisions at the corporate HQ were gone. No two-week notice, no advance warning. The guillotine had come down and heads were rolling on the floor.

Alena gasped as she recognized some of the names I had mentioned. “But he was such a nice guy!! How could they let him go?”
I shrugged and rolled my eyes. “That’s the nature of the beast. We’re a public company. Shareholders want results. They don’t care who gets fired.”

Lilly asked about others who had recently been let go and if there were any more cuts coming. I said of course, more are expected. We ain’t done trimming the fat just yet.

At this point some black girl – maybe Jamaican, who knows – who was sitting at another table got up and walked over full of pomp and self-inflated importance, stiletto heels clicking sharply on the hard floor.

Lets call her Queen B.

I had seen her before a few times, working in a division that serviced a large Canadian bank. Once, I had laughed at her when she was walking around wearing her designer shades inside the office. I asked her pointedly in front of other co-workers if the shades were genuine or were they imitation? It’s a loaded trick question – if the person replies they’ll get publicly torched either way. I had tried to give her the benefit of doubt by asking her if it was because she couldn’t get a proper glare screen for her monitor. But that incident had bruised her ego badly enough that she could barely hide the contempt on her face whenever I was around. I didn’t mind; I knew I could dish out far more than she had the ability to take. So the feeling was probably mutual.

Fast forward to the present scene.

Queen B comes and stands directly between my table and Alena’s. Directly between me and Lilly, disrupting the conversation. No permission asked to interrupt, no apologies given. Not even a glance indicating the same.

Queen B in her heels, is clearly at a towering 5’9 or so above Lilly who is seated. And even when Lilly is walking around in her non-slip Ecco work shoes, she’s maybe 5’0. Without any greetings or pleasantries, she started interrogating Lilly about some incident earlier in the day. Apparently, earlier in the day Queen B had complained to Lilly that one of the vending machines had swallowed her five-dollar bill and given no change when she pressed the change button. If this was true, then Lilly’s job required that she post a notice indicating that the machine was out of order, and thus forbidding further use until repair. At that time, Lilly had walked over and inserted her own five-dollar bill to commit her own due diligence and test the machine. She pressed the change button and the machine dutifully spit out change as expected. That had apparently insulted Queen B, so here she was grilling Lilly about those actions and the attendant motives of the same, charging Lilly of trying to portray her as a liar or scammer. And to Lilly’s credit, there were a few cheapskates in the office who had tried all manner of attempts, including some bordering on outright extortion, of getting their money back from the vending machines or their managing vendor. She had no choice but to double-check each complaint.

Queen B was growing increasingly agitated. Her body posture gradually became more aggressive, leaning forward with one hand on her hips and the other hand stabbing an accusing finger in the air towards Lilly. Her questions grew more and more accusatory; and to which she demanded black-and-white “Yes” or No” answers. Her voice kept rising until she was screaming at Lilly, who in response was asking Queen B to cease talking in such a manner or else she would go complain to Queen B’s manager. There were probably 20 other people in the cafeteria watching the ruckus, and more co-workers coming in for their own lunch. In the meantime, Lilly was able to maintain her composure and voice, while explaining procedure for such incidents. I exchanged looks with Alena, trying to figure out what sparked this seemingly random outburst. Alena rolled her eyes, shook her head, and kept listening to the exchange. I remained slouched in my chair with an amused look on my face and one eyebrow arched.

During the stellar, one-woman performance which had all the beauty of a reeking sewer drain in a filthy gutter, I contemplated several times about actually intervening. Initially my reaction was just to stand up and come between Queen B and Lilly, look her in the face and tell her to “take a number and get in line”, because in case she hadn’t noticed, I was the one currently talking to Lilly. Well … scratch that.

Then I thought about commenting loudly how “it must be that time of the month!” or maybe a “well, looks like SOMEONE’s surfing the red wave … eh boys?!” – remarks like that are usually guaranteed to cut real deep and make the target so publicly embarrassed that she’ll want to hide in a dark corner and just die. And if Queen B had redirected her pathetic venom on me, it would have been a simple matter of silencing her by reminding her who pays her salary [sales & marketing]. But again, I kept my peace. This show was after all, very amusing. It would provide plenty of fodder later on for office politics, drama, soap operas, and so on. The joker in me was asking: “… why kill perfectly good source material?”

As the temper tantrum continued unchecked, I knew I could have simply knocked out the entire hall with a deep, earth-shaking, incontestable command to “SHADDUP, SIDDOWN and LEARN SOME MANNERS!!” On my feet and with one arm extended, finger pointing to an empty chair. In the tense few seconds of locked eyeballs that would have followed, it would have been a game of brinkmanship that she knew she would have had a snowball’s chance in Hell of winning – being as it was that she was employed in an aging business unit that was a cost center, and I was working in a unit that was a profit center, the mechanics of it all would have boiled down real fast to rank. I report directly to a vice president, she reports to some lowly supervisor. Plain, cold, and simple political math that everyone knew like 1+1=2. If the HR folks got involved, she was expendable, I was not. Particularly given that she was the clear aggressor with so many witnesses present.

And yet I remained amused but calm, choosing to stay silent.

Queen B had finished her screeching and posturing. With a dramatic flourish of her arms, she stomped off. Without even looking at her direction, I mustered an extremely annoyed look on my face and began clapping my hands very slowly but loudly. With everyone still watching, I took out my wallet and gave Lilly a five-dollar bill to test the machine again. She took it and arose without a word and walked over to the machine. It worked perfectly, spitting out two $2 coins and a single $1 coin, which Lilly then collected and handed back to me.

Later, more developments were unvcovered – Queen B had stomped off to Laurie’s office, the HR rep. I’m guessing she wanted to pre-empt any visit by Lilly. Hmmm … sneaky. Or maybe she was rattled and wanted to spin her story to Laurie, who already knew of Queen B’s reputation. Lilly of course was called in as well to explain her side of the story, after which Laurie counseled everyone to calm. Queen B walked out of Laurie’s office and back to her area of the cubicle farm, proudly boasting that she had put Lilly “in her place”.

Um, yeah.

::: – ::: – ::: – :::

The oh-so agonizing quandary such incidents place me in, is as follows – what do you do?

You see one person clearly aggressing against another. Berating them in public, shouting and acting in an uncivilized manner, in a manner unbecoming of a gentleman, or of a lady, in this case. Add to that the obvious physical disparity – Queen B would have had much softer words and tone had Lilly been her size or taller – and it seems you have a cut and dry case of an office bully getting off by venting some steam on the little janitor lady. She wants to go on a power trip? Maybe I should have told her to stick her vitriolic tongue in an electrical socket and suck on it till she dropped dead.

Do you choose to stay out of such arguments because … ? It’s someone else’s problem? No need to get involved and make things worse? Not my problem? Are you afriad of being labeled as nosy?

Or do you stand up because you don’t want to be someone who was silent and complicit in the face of such improper behavior? What if you knew that a polite, firm rebuke would have no effect, and that the only way to get someone like Queen B to cease and desist from such future behavior was to publicly rip a strip off of her [or him] in front of your co-workers? I’m sure public humiliation in such a case has its benefits and most might even argue its justified, but then … aren’t you dragging yourself down to their level? In the defense of civility and workplace professionalism, are you willing to abandon civil behavior and resort to crass behavior … just to stop the same thing?

Where do you draw the line?

______________________________________________________________________

*all names have been changed for privacy.

Filed under: Exhaust, Ghetto, Uncategorized

Oh you think you’re funny huh?

A while back, in an effort to get my baby brother [now 15 years of age] to build some thicker skin, I told him to take any insult someone threw at him and roll it right back with a lighthearted add-on intended to show the insulter that he wasn’t hurt or fazed by the insult, and rather, was having fun with the insult. So for example if someone called him a “LOSER!”, he should just crack a smile, make a goofy face and correct the person by saying “Loser with a Life, yo!” or if someone called him a “RETARD!”, he might reply back saying “Retard keepin’ it Real, baybeh!” and perhaps accentuate the retort with a snap of the fingers, or pointing at himself, or shrugging his shoulders, etc. The idea was to not only show complete indifference to the insult, but to even toss it back with his own spin on it.

So tonight at the dinner table as I was scooping my rice and meat out onto my plate, my sister made some stale sarcastic joke, and I forced a stunted, artificial stream of laughter and followed up with “WHAT A FUNNY!” while keeping a poker face. And then that reminded me of the odd time I’ve heard my parents toss the term “mutafunnee” about when one or both of them were angry at us. Its a term in both Arabiy and Hindi that loosely translated, means “troublemaker”.

Well, you can guess what happened next.

My face lit up like I had just discovered the cure for cancer as I looked over at my baby brother who was sitting on the computer in the breakfast area. “OMG! Next time Mom calls you mutafunnee, you can just laugh and say “VAT-A-FUNNY!” … I found this proposal to be so hilarious I nearly collapsed from laughing so hard. I had to first cover my face with my hands because I couldn’t stop laughing, and then I slapped my hands on the countertop and then buried my face in my arms, still laughing my head off. My mom, standing behind me was slightly amused at the proposal, but moreso at my uncontrollable laughter. She couldn’t resist slapping my back while laughing herself. My sister and my baby brother were snickering either with me or at me, I didn’t care.

What’s even more funny was that I had no clue what “mutafunnee” means. My mom said she had never seen it actually written in literature, but only heard people saying it. She vaguely recalled it meaning something like troublemaker or rascal. We had a brief discussion at the dinner table about what the root word was. My sister suggested fitnah or fitan, but I said no because the root didn’t seem to be F T N.

A little while later I was asking an associate  – Basboosa  – what the word meant. Here’s our brief exchange:

Salmaan says:
I have a question
Salmaan says:
do you know what the urdu term “mutafunni” means?
Basboosa says:
I have a answer
Salmaan says:
i know its like, an insult or something
Basboosa says:
someone is fat and funny
Salmaan says:
but i’m not sure what it means
Basboosa says:
AHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA
Basboosa says:
HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA

… lawlz.

Get it? MOTA + FUNNY …. fat and funny?

That was good.

Gosh I love turning my brain off and becoming an airhead. The laughs come so easily at anything and everything.

Anyways. Later I asked Dr. Saima if she had the answer and here’s what she said:

Mari  – says:
mutafannin : crafty [fanna] Hin mutafanni
Mari  – says:
mutafanni itself is arabic
Salmaan says:
mutafanneen is from arabiy?
Mari  – says:
yep
Salmaan says:
and in hindi it became mutafannee?
Salmaan says:
meaning? crafty? troublemaker?
Salmaan says:
what?
Mari  – says:
fanna=thats hindi, but i dont know what exactly that means
Mari  – says:
mutafannin
Mari  – says:
is arabic

Filed under: Ghetto, Laced, Miscellany, MSN Ejecta

I see dead people.

So, beause today’s Friday and because I closed a good opportunity that had been in the pipeline for quite a while, I was of course, kinda happy and walking on cloud nine. The kid inside of me felt like celebrating so I started spinning myself around and around in my chair, getting delieriously drunk on the dizzyness until … I fell outta my chair. All 170 pounds of me came tumbling onto the floor, limbs splayed out, and then I was clutching my head with both hands, moaning and trying to get up off the floor.

I tried but fell over again.

A colleague several cubicles away, was walking by and stopped, sipping on a drink with one hand and the other hand stuffed in his pocket. I heard him sarcastically quip about calling 9-1-1, and then he nonchalantly walked off. Then a minute later another colleague thought to extract his face away from his monitor and looked over at me and asked in a distant voice “oh did you just fall outta yer chair?” and then promptly went back to laughing at whatever stuff was on his screen.

…. annnnd, that was it. Everyone was either cold and heartless and didn’t give a jack about anyone else because they’re all scared of getting sued for being nice and helpful. Or, they’re thought I was well within my standard parameters of normal behavior.

But, hey! Social experimentation is cool!

Filed under: Ghetto, Laced, Miscellany

Legally Rude

You can understand a lawyer’s being brusque with opposing counsel on a tough case. But to be obnoxious to a man offering you a job? That’s what one applicant at a law firm in Boston did in 2006.

Dianna Abdala, a young attorney, had been offered a position at the firm, but the job didn’t come with the salary and benefits she was expecting. Just before her start date, Abdala e-mailed the lawyer who had made the offer, William Korman, and declined it. The subsequent e-mail exchange degenerated to such a shocking extent that the entire thread made its way to inboxes around the country and eventually ended up in the hands of ABC’s “Nightline”–which published the messages for all to see:

Abdala: Dear Attorney Korman, At this time, I am writing to inform you that I will not be accepting your offer. After careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that the pay you are offering would neither fulfill me nor support the lifestyle I am living in light of the work I would be doing for you. I have decided instead to work for myself, and reap 100% of the benefits that I sow. Thank you for the interviews.

Korman: Dianna — Given that you had two interviews, were offered and accepted the job (indeed, you had a definite start date), I am surprised that you chose an e-mail and a 9:30 PM voicemail message to convey this information to me. It smacks of immaturity and is quite unprofessional. Indeed, I did rely upon your acceptance by ordering stationary [sic] and business cards with your name, reformatting a computer and setting up both internal and external e-mails for you here at the office. While I do not quarrel with your reasoning, I am extremely disappointed in the way this played out. I sincerely wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.

Abdala: A real lawyer would have put the contract into writing and not exercised any such reliance until he did so. Again, thank you.

Korman: Thank you for the refresher course on contracts. This is not a bar exam question. You need to realize that this is a very small legal community, especially the criminal defense bar. Do you really want to start pissing off more experienced lawyers at this early stage of your career?

Abdala: bla bla bla

[source]

Filed under: Ghetto

So retarded you couldn’t even kill yourself?

This is one of those stories that’s true and yet, so unbelievably bizzare that it leaves you fearful for the human race – I don’t think we want genes as retarded as these getting mixed into the human race:

“A young male entered the walk-in entrance to our ER one busy Sunday afternoon shift, holding a hand over a bloodstained shirt. When the overwhelmed triage nurse didn’t acknowledge him for several minutes, he calmly walked to the registration desk and informed the startled clerk that he had been shot in the chest. After the man was rushed into our trauma room, his unluckiest-ever story unfolded.

It seems that he had been depressed for several weeks, and two days earlier had decided to commit suicide. He took a bottle of Valium and a fifth of vodka and fell asleep in his bed, fully intending to never wake up again. Unfortunately, the combination was not lethal, and he did wake up, albeit thirty-six hours later, with a tremendous hangover. Deciding that something else was needed to complete the job, he filled up the bathtub, got in, and slit both wrists with a razor blade. Alas, the bleeding was all venous and clotted off after several minutes, leaving him sitting in a pink-tinged lukewarm bathtub.

He climbed out of the bathtub and decided to hang himself from the dining-room light fixture using his belt. the light fixture tore from the ceiling and he crashed to the floor with such force that he fell through the dining-room floor into the basement. Battered but not beaten, he looked around the basement for something to finish the job. He found a .22 caliber bullet but no gun. He decided to hold the bullet with a pair of pliers and, pressing it against his sternum, took several whacks at the compression end of it with a ball-peen hammer. On the third whack the bullet went off. He fell to the floor and looked down to see a bullet hole on the left side of his chest. After lying on the floor for twenty minutes, he decided that maybe he really did not want to die and drove himself to the ER.

Our evaluation showed that the bullet had harmlessly bounced off a rib and was lying in the subcutaneous tissue of the left chest.”

AAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA STUPID RETARD.

On a much heavier and more serious note, I think this just goes to show that really, when it’s not your time to die, then you CANNOT move your time forwards by even a split-second. It wasn’t his time to die and no matter how hard he tried to kill himself, it just wouldn’t happen.

(Does the Angel of Death ever laugh? If not, he does now)

(Hat tip to Saima M., for writing it up, from the book “True Stories from the Nation’s ER”, by Mark Brown, M.D.)

Filed under: Ghetto, Miscellany

At the Gates

So I just started my new job last week and it’s been pretty hectic, as expected.

For starters, there’s the travel time and distance. Its over 40 km / 25 miles away which is within an average range for commuting to work, but the fact is, Toronto has the busiest highways in North America. So at first I thought of taking the bus and subway to work, but even with the express routes, that turned out to be a staggering two-and-half-hour trip, EACH way. Five hours a day commuting back and forth? Sounds like my college days. I used to skip sleep at home and make up for it on the bus and subway.

Anyways, screw that.

I went to SmartCommute.ca and found two commuters who live close to me and also happen to work near my new office. Coupled with my flexibility of work hours – I told my boss I’d do 9:30 to 5:30 and he agreed – and working from home if I want by just hooking the laptop up to the corporate network, commuting to the office is easy now alhamdulillaah. And I’ll pay them $160 /mth, which is less than what I’d pay for the bus and subway tickets, and definitely less than the gas + insurance I’d be paying if I were driving to work by myself each and every day. So that’s one problem off my back.

Then there was all the mental cramming to do – because of my job as an account manager at the company, which has its HQs stateside, we up here at its Canadian branch are subject to all American laws governing American corporations, including laws such as Sarbanes-Oxley, HIPAA, and more … especially a slew of American export laws. We can’t export to Cuba and Syria and North Korea, and a few other countries, etc, blah blah blah. Financial regulations, getting upto spec on pretty much all the lines of businesses / services that I’ll be handling.

And then there’s the issue of my diet [haha] – I skip breakfast at home and I get to work and this is an example of what I’ve eaten in a day, for breakfast and lunch:

– Spicy Dritos chips with Tostitos salsa sauce
– Haagen Daz ice cream bar
– A slice of potatoe bread [made by a co-worker, she gave me some as she was passing by]
… that’s all for breakfast

Had some macaroni and meat leftovers for lunch, from the day before. THen the Marketing guys came by and told us all to head down to a conference room because they were having some big new product launch and wanted us to check it out. So I go there and of course, refreshments were available so I helped myself to some more Doritos, a Mars chocolate bar, and a cup of really strong Starbucks coffee with like ten pounds of sugar dumped into it, because I never really drink coffee or even tea. That kept me awake for the next house and then the downer came, my body just crashed, and I tried to fight off sleep. That same high metabolism which keeps me in shape automatically with no exercies required, also uses up the energy so fast that it leads to such crashes.

Oh well.

All I ask is that God make me so good at what I do that I make it look ridiculously easy. Because if I can do it, so can you, so can anyone else.

Filed under: Current Affairs, Food, Ghetto

Spread the word, Big Bird!

Spent all day today at Dundas Square down at the Yonge St. and Dundas intersection. Basically, it’s Toronto’s equivalent of NYC’s Times Square.

I felt like one of those newspaper kids of the 1920s standing on the street yelling “EXTRA EXTRA READ ALL ABOUT IT!!”

It was at the Islam da’wah booth, which has basically two long tables end to end, with a large patio umbrella standing upright in between, with black and white text saying Free Info on Islam” plus the phone number to call. Its right out on the sidewalk in front of the Eaton’s Centre and right across Dundas Square, on Yonge St. itself, just a few steps from the corner. Its always busy, with dozens of people going by every minute when its slow, and hundreds passing by during the busier times. Most of the day it was just me and Br. Abdul-Rahman. We had lots of free literature, ranging from English-only copies of the Qur’an, pamphlets covering specific issues like womens’ rights and hijab, to various informational books about Islam for those unfamiliar with it.

It was my first time doing something like that but I’d have to say I was prepared for it – it was so much like a sales job – me presenting a service or product to potential customers which I believe will be of benefit to them. Many people curiously approaching the booth, some simply took the books or pamphlets and walked away, some politely declined with a slight wave of the hand, while others stayed and asked a few questions. Some voiced their appreciation at our efforts, saying they were indeed aware of the massive amount of stereotype and misrepresentation that exists in the media about Islam and Muslims. And some stayed even longer, to talk. These three Spanish Catholic chicks up for a visit from Mexico spent nearly two hours sitting and talking to Abdul-Rahman about Islam. They were definitely interested, in fact he even set up an appointment the next day [tomorrow] to have them come back to the booth at 12pm so that he and his wife could take them to a restaurant so they could talk more about Islam while eating, in a casual setting as opposed to out on the street.

The experience was made all the more amusing by the fact that today was an international day of protests against the war in Iraq and Afghanistan, in major cities around North America and in Europe. The folks protesting in Toronto numbered less than 2,000 as I estimated. They were at the US consulate in downtown Toronto and then they marched south along Yonge St. towards the lake-shore, with the cops totally blocking the southbound lanes and intersecting traffic to let the protesters pass. Me and Abdul-Rahman grabbed as many copies of the About Islam books as we could and ran right out into the street, moving through the crowd like fish through water, passing out the booklets to the protesters who snapped them up like hotcakes. After I ran out of copies to hand out, I stood back and gave the marching protesters two big thumbs up while cheering them on.

And then of course you had the weirdos of Toronto, the poor hobos and the buskers and the street performers, all near us on the same sidewalk. This one really tall guy was dressed up like a witch with white long hair and a pointy hat, and some oriental-looking lady was 1walking around in a brightly-colored kimono, with her hair done up all Japanese style with some chopsticks through her hair. Yeah. I guess Halloween comes early in this part of town.

Fun.

Filed under: Ghetto, Miscellany

Appreciating vs. Depreciating Assets

THE FOLLOWING APPEARED ON CRAIG’S LIST :

What am I doing wrong?

Okay, I’m tired of beating around the bush. I’m a beautiful (spectacularly beautiful) 25 year old girl. I’m articulate and classy.I’m not from New York. I’m looking to get married to a guy who makes at least half a million a year. I know how that sounds, but keep in mind that a million a year is middle class in New York City, so I don’t think I’m overreaching at all.

Are there any guys who make 500K or more on this board? Any wives? Could you send me some tips? I dated a business man who makes average around 200 – 250. But that’s where I seem to hit a roadblock. 250,000 won’t get me to central park west. I know a woman in my yoga class who was married to an investment banker and lives in Tribeca, and she’s not as pretty as I am, nor is she a great genius. So what is she doing right? How do I get to her level?

Here are my questions specifically:

– Where do you single rich men hang out? Give me specifics- bars, restaurants, gyms, etc.

– What are you looking for in a mate? Be honest guys, you won’t hurt my feelings

– Is there an age range I should be targeting (I’m 25)?

– Why are some of the women living lavish lifestyles on the upper east side so plain? I’ve seen really ‘plain jane’ boring types who have nothing to offer married to incredibly wealthy guys. I’ve seen drop dead gorgeous girls in singles bars in the east village. What’s the story there?

– Jobs I should look out for? Everyone knows – lawyer, investment banker, doctor. How much do those guys really make? And where do they hang out? Where do the hedge fund guys hang out?

– How you decide marriage vs. just a girlfriend? I am looking for MARRIAGE ONLY.

Please hold your insults – I’m putting myself out there in an honest way. Most beautiful women are superficial; at least I’m being up front about it. I wouldn’t be searching for these kind of guys if I wasn’t
able to match them – in looks, culture, sophistication, and keeping a nice home and hearth.

* it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 432279810

THE ANSWER: Dear Pers-431649184:

I read your posting with great interest and have thought meaningfully about your dilemma. I offer the following analysis of your predicament. Firstly, I’m not wasting your time, I qualify as a guy who fits your bill; that is I make more than $500K per year. That said here’s how I see it.

Your offer, from the prospective of a guy like me, is plain and simple a crappy business deal. Here’s why. Cutting through all the B.S., what you suggest is a simple trade: you bring your looks to the party and I bring my money. Fine, simple. But here’s the rub, your looks will fade and my money will likely continue into perpetuity…in fact, it is very likely that my income increases but it is an absolute certainty that you won’t be getting any more beautiful!

So, in economic terms you are a depreciating asset and I am an earning asset. Not only are you a depreciating asset, your depreciation accelerates! Let me explain, you’re 25 now and will likely stay pretty hot for the next 5 years, but less so each year. Then the fade begins in earnest. By 35 stick a fork in you! So in Wall Street terms, we would call you a trading position, not a buy and hold…hence the rub…marriage. It doesn’t make good business sense to “buy you” (which is what you’re asking) so I’d rather lease. In case you think I’m being cruel, I would say the following. If my money were to go away, so would you, so when your beauty fades I need an out. It’s as simple as that. So a deal that makes sense is dating, not marriage.

Separately, I was taught early in my career about efficient markets. So, I wonder why a girl as “articulate, classy and spectacularly beautiful” as you has been unable to find your sugar daddy. I find it hard to believe that if you are as gorgeous as you say you are that the $500K hasn’t found you, if not only for a tryout.

By the way, you could always find a way to make your own money and then we wouldn’t need to have this difficult conversation.

With all that said, I must say you’re going about it the right way. Classic “pump and dump.”

I hope this is helpful, and if you want to enter into some sort of lease, let me know.

Filed under: Ghetto, Riposte