Can Anybody Find Me Someone to... Love?

I've been searching for a couple of days for the text version of this clip that I read a couple of months ago. The original (for me) article was Matt Taibbi's in Rolling Stone 

"Taibbi writes:

“On Tuesday, March 11^th, 2008, somebody – nobody knows who – made one of the craziest bets Wall Street has ever seen. The mystery figure spent $1.7 million on a series of options, gambling that shares in the venerable investment bank Bear Stearns would lose more than half of their value in nine days or less. It was madness – “like buying 1.7 million lottery tickets,” according to one financial analyst.”

Bear’s stock would have to drop by more than half in a matter of days for the mystery figure to make a profit. And that is what happened.

As Taibbi explains, “the very next day, March 12, Bear went into a free fall…Whoever bought those options on March 11^th woke up on the morning of March 17^th having made 159 times his money, or roughly $270 million. This trader was either the luckiest guy in the world, the smartest son of a bitch ever or…Or what?” 

You should read the Taibbi article, although he's kind of flaky but funny (he wants to be the new Hunter Thompson). supposedly he gets a lot of his stuff from Deep Capture (I'd never heard of it, but it's good). IMO this is the biggest story ever and the biggest swindle in History so far. I was wondering how hard it would be to find who was making all the shorts (not very hard, I bet, since the gubmint probably knows exactly who). I like this exposure of The Markit Group, a black box for sure run by a Bulgarian/Israeli and I would guess a front for Goldman.  We need to borrow the Russian team that got Kordekovsky and put a whole lot of tribesman in Guantanamo since it's empty or soon will be, and use the not-torture methods until someone sings. Or, alternatively, let goldman go ahead and and eat Morgan, and then nationalize goldman, and use the proceeds to buy the pals a lot of these.

Danny the Car-Wiper is on the Nod

I've always disliked Christmas, but in the last couple of years it seems like every twinkling light and jolly shopper is like a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, every gayly wrapped package a reminder that no one really grows up, every shriek of delight and surprise a passive-aggressive assertion that all's well with the modern world and that Jesus didn't die in vain. Fed up, bloated with existential figgy pudding and heavy gravey, the stupidity and waste piling up like dead Asian catfish on a frozen Chicago beach, I want to spew the contents of ten thousand dead albatross chick-guts on the National Christmas Tree and fill every stocking with 'Cong ears and bandages from limbless Iraqi orphans.

Then, New-Years, the celebration of mindless drunken revelry, the passing and heraldry of another year of death-based consumption as Americans waddle into the future, fat, dumb and happy as cannibalistic chimps on a full moon, unknowing and uncaring of anything beyond what they can eat or fuck or stuff in their pockets. "On Dasher, on Dancer, Comet and Vixen", a turd down every chimney and a rotting corpse under every tree. Let the ball descend on cleaned-up Times Square squares and Williamsburg hipsters celebrating another trip around the old tired sun, while we Surge into another unenlightened Afgan pass; down through all eternity, the whining of humanity, a big mac in one hand and M-16 in the other. Thank god for Burroughs.

Merry Xmas to all, and to all a "Good Night!"