Special guest diatribe courtesy of Something Awful:
The following is a fucking letter sent right fucking now to the New York Goddamn Times, another dying newspaper that is spending its final years ignominiously lurching between the rotten crotch of Wall Street and the ghastly juice pit of its political patrons. The Fourth Fucking Estate lives on the Internet now, you simpering whores and charlatans!This is a response to an actual publicity stunt of a letter puked out by the biggest dickbag in recent history, Jake DeSantis, and then published by America’s paper of dumb fucking record. This ass polyp DeSantis worked for the patient zero of the ebola currently running rampant through the rupturing vessels and blown veins of our country’s financial circulatory system. This is a dude who helped us move a couple clicks closer to some Road Warrior 12 Monkeys shit and now he’s crying because he didn’t get his prostate massaged thoroughly enough by the taxpayers. When I address this shit to Wall Street, I mean specifically Jake DeSantis, formerly of A.I.G., but also all of the rest of these dumbfucks who just don’t fucking get it.
DEAR Wall Street,
What a bunch of whiny fucking babies. John Galt would be puking blood for 200-pages over this load of shit, you bunch of sobbing welfare queens. You fucked up. You ruined everything. You broke it, and we fucking bought it, because big baby was too big baby to fail.
We get it all ways from you motherfuckers. You’re robbing us of our present and future now, but first you stepped on our throats on your way to the top. You raked in the money with a bunch of made up fantasyland bullshit that wouldn’t fool a counting horse on America’s Funniest Home Videos, but somehow suckered in every major bank in the world.
Credit default swaps.
Those things are so fucking dumb that when you explain them to somebody and they laugh about how dumb they are you’ve got to act like ooooh they’re so magical and complicated. Far too complex for the plebes to get. No! Wrong! Go into OTB and put fifty dollars on Rambo’s Beautiful Blood. You just bought a credit default swap. Whoaaa you’re blowing my simple pea brain with your fancy Wall Street talkin’. You sadsack fuckers.
So everybody bought into your big scheme, even when they didn’t know they were playing, and now the whole thing has come crashing down because too many people won the fucking unbelievably obvious bet that a million illegal immigrants were going to default on million dollar home loans. Suddenly all your stupid fake money is gone, but if it’s gone the whole system of bullshit lies collapses and you look like dickheads. So whoopty-doo, now we gotta make the fake money turn real or else the house of shitty cunt cards comes crashing down, only there isn’t enough real money to cover all the fake money, so we’re making more real money.
Then there’s A.I.G., the bad seed, the carbuncle on our anus, the weeping wound in our tit, the sorry source of all our misery and woe. This is the monster garage full of miscreants that dreamed up the fire-breathing nitro-gulping predicament we’re in right fucking now. Their financial products division created the derivatives market from lies and their executives raked in billions in bonuses and easy money. While they were peddling bad bets, median wages in the US stagnated and poor working schmucks leaned increasingly on credit to get by. Prices on everything were going up, but credit was easy to come by what with all that bullshit money to throw around.
And then the good days ended, for the poor shithead in the middle class anyway. While you assholes on Wall Street were lining up for your first round at the government trough, the poor fuckers that had been using credit cards to maintain their standard of living from the 1990s were beginning to lose everything. Their houses, cars, health care, and even their jobs were disappearing. Fuckers at Merrill-Lynch, A.I.G., Citi Group, Bank of America, and on, and on, and fucking on were taking huge bonuses or executive compensation packages. They were “retiring” to third world countries where their fortunes would set them up like kings.
And listen up motherfuckers, because we fucking paid for it. Us. The fucking taxpaying public. The dudes you have been grinding beneath your heels since you first read Ayn Rand and sociopathed your way through econ 101. We’re your paymasters now, fuckers. And yeah, your tools in the government and in the press are between you and us for now, but we’ve got one trick up our sleeve. One and only recourse while you’re raping us for our last fucking dollars.
We can get pissed. We can let the hate take over and form a fucking mob. When you take home bonuses from our money, when you get our bailouts and have your lobster luncheons or your strippers and coke parties at the Mirage, we’ll be there with our torches and our fucking pitchforks. And just because you got your little crybaby letter in the New York Times, just because “the media narrative” is turning back in your favor, doesn’t mean we have forgotten. We’re pissed and we know what you did.
Jake DeSantis, you fucking narcissist, don’t give me that bullshit self-pitying resignation letter. Don’t tell me you weren’t the dick that has been fucking this country, just the hand on its throat. Don’t make me laugh with your charity donation lesson in life. Let me give you a life lesson. We’ll go through the Red Cross and the March of Dimes to get to you. We’ll leave Jerry’s Kids mewling and thrashing in the gutters and overturn the Salvation Army Kettle to get our fucking money back.
You’re all scum. Villains. And before this is through blood will be shed. Human blood that doesn’t come out of a gigantic fucking vagina like yours, DeSantis. It’s not a threat, it’s a promise you’re making to us.
“Come get us,” you’re sneering.
“I hope you like to eat turds from a human butt,” we’re sneering right back.
Your offices will be lit from within by the fires of a thousand burning evil motherfuckers and their evil personal assistants. There will be chaos. Triple chaos. Saigon all over again. They’ll be pushing G5s off the deck of an aircraft carrier to make room for the next private jet escaping New York. We’ll string the filth of the NYSE from lamp posts and Rick Santelli’s empty sockets will look out on the streets, choked with useless paper and cars torched for insurance money.
The orgy of our outrage will be legendary. We’ll cut off hands and feet and gouge out tender parts. We’ll feed chopped up guts to dogs and rotting carcasses can fertilize urban gardens. Remember that tree they put Conan on? No, that’s not for you, that’s for your wives! You should be so lucky!
The last of you, the scarred remnants of your horrible tribe, can read this to a congressional hearing, your voices quivering with indignation while pale fists hammer on the glass and cry to see your blood spill out in a red gush across the steps of the Capitol.
You motherfuckers had better be afraid. You haven’t learned your lesson yet, but we have.
DEATH TO WALL STREET!
Sincerely and with warmest regards,