Guest Blogger: Mister Fedward Hyde

Some of the regular readers here at Z:S might be wondering, what the hell is going on with Jason? Where has he been? Where are the incisive critiques of society that he mustered for weeks on end before devolving into sporadic posts of increasing randomness and decreasing practical relevance? Truth be told, I have been trying to recover from the shock to the old system from exams and beginning what I estimate will be a long and tiring jobhunt. Also, I have my two papers to write this summer, one dissertation for LSE and that 100 page research paper from Paris, so my ability to fill this space will be increasingly limited. However, in an effort to keep this site high up in the Google rankings and to provide those few devoted readers with a steady stream of reading material, I have granted, on a temporary basis, this page to my friend, the talented Mister Fedward Hyde, giving him complete creative control over the content of his posts. This small fragment is to precede his entry, and henceforth I shall have no input into the editorial process on this post.

Regards,

Jason

Hi all,

Today at the office, Tommy X, another one of our brilliant team of self-motivated brokers (grrrrr stinking hippie leftists) decided that the time was up for him to leave the team.


Tommy's the third from the left.

This was particularly saddening for me because from an early date he was there blessing me with his brilliance, straightening out the differences between fully funded quasi-chartered fiduciary unsubsidized Stafford bonds and the less known but equally complicated partially funded standard chartered fiat-box spread married put and stock option barter bond. Anyway, it was a sad day: the onset of an superfluous anomaly into my (True) Bayesian probabilistic model of future success in the company thanks to my departing hommie was quashed by the imminent and inchoate formalization of the scalar vector to my own calculations of gratification (i.e. my assessment of assistance from future matriculations to the august oeconomical edifice that is my own perniciously supercilious ego).

Anyway, to celebrate, we rolled to my favourite spot on the strip, “Me Love You Long Time,” a slice of tasteful colonial nostalgia which features exotic titty dancers who pour a wicked assortment of full-body Mai-Tais from a foam rubber hat which all employees of said institution are obliged to don. Me and Wang-Chin had formerly hit the place (Chez Fedward readers, might recall--with appropriate horror--the incident where your faithful narrator used a single paperclip, a rubber band, a drinking straw, and a rolled bunch of navel lint, performed a bewitching feat of amazing dexterityt that entranced and seduced the lovely blonde girl who ended up being anything but a girl at this very venerable and vaguely venereal venue). Despite the loud music that could have come straihgt from a canteen on Tatooine, it was a good time. Peggy Q from the finance department and Herbert Kornfeld from Accounts Receevable ended up bumping and grinding after a couple of rounds and after that everything got a bit hazy.

I awoke with a start in my palatial digs, after a dream, where I dreamt that I was being chased by a crowd of Make Poverty History protestors wielding torches, pitchforks, and copies of the Communist Manifesto and Globalisation and Its Discontents, until I was finally caught, beaten, and bidden to drink from the udders of a bowlegged bovine like Indiana Jones has to drink the blood of Kali Ma from the skill in Temple pf Doom so that I would join their foul cause). Interlaced in my sweaty limbs were the Tang Triplets that you might have read about earlier last month—to refresh your memory, I met them at the trampoline bar where I engaged them with a fierce, unrelenting attack on liberals and where they submitted with due feminine deference before retiring to the boudoir de fedouard for dark deeds. Anyway, I had to get up to tune in to the latest report from Greenspan: dollar in the shitter still; speaking of which, I have to hop into the hyperbaric chamber for a spell before heading off to work.

Signed,

Fedward, scourge of grammar and weak-kneed liberals everywhere.