Let’s say Nico, your family’s regular chef, is back in Cyprus for Ferragosto and all you have for lunch is a balogne sandwich and a little antipasto.
A quick look at the sack lunch commodities index in Houston tells you balogne sandwiches are trading well against the salami on news that Oscar Meyer has now purchased the middle name, Salvadore. Gary Schotte, from Ms. Sutton’s third grade, has a salami sandwich on rye bread he hasn’t even touched! He wants to trade short because salami is closing in on a 3-week high. Of course, Gary hasn’t done his Fibonacci retracements. Gary never does his Fibonacci retracements.
You go for it and salami on rye breaks through! You cry out to Gary: “hey, Jew turd! If you’re gonna panic, panic early!”
You don’t even know what that means, and Ms. Pritchard is whacking the back of your head with a yardstick, but no matter. You’re hot! The market is cooking! You notice the Swiss-on-rye 15-minute mid-range Stochastic is going vertical faster than your fourth grade hard-on. You turn to Abita M’tulu and threaten to kill her father – some sort of diplomat at the UN, you think – if she doesn’t give you the Swiss cheese from her smoked tempeh on 9-grain wheat bread. Hippies! Gotta love them!
Terrified, she hands it over and you go long with Henry Ford (yes, that one. The great-great-great-great grandson of) who’s looking for a quick turnaround on a smoked chicken, bacon and gouda on a fresh-baked Kaiser bun. What Henry doesn’t know is that the Hong Kong commodities market has just opened and pork bellies are WAY oversold. Cha-ching! Ching-chong Chinaman!
“Never meet a margin call, you Nazi scumbag!” you cry, as Ms. Pritchard starts chopping on the back of your head again like a goddamned lumberjack.
You break up Henry’s beautiful sandwich and spin the pieces off to various sandwich interests around the table. A check with Bloomberg Online tells you London just closed and liquidity in the sack lunch market is drying up. So you eat quickly and take a helicopter back to your classroom. Nigel, who’s been with you since your preschool days at the Fieldston Academy, drives you to your desk in the Maybach while you finish your spelling homework in the backseat.
But who are the guys at your desk? You recognize those suits – SEC! “Drive, Nigel, drive!” you scream, as the SEC guys try to shoot out your tires. The Maybach careens wildly through the classroom, through the finger-painting area and into the story-time cushions. Bodies are flying. With just one good tire you plow into the Caldecott collection bookcase.
Nigel is slumped over the wheel, blood gulping from a hideous chest wound. The SEC guys close in. Maybe you should have stuck with the balogne sandwich, you think. You check your wallet but you spent your last Monopoly half-G on Park Place. Day trading, you think; it was going to be so easy. Slowly, you light your last candy cigarette and easy the barrel of a squirt gun into your mouth.
Sell down to the sleeping point. Don’t fight the tape. Such is the life.