Sell! Self! SELF!

"No, No seriously make it stop" the man screams as his face becomes the color of beets in a blender on puree. All around are similar specks of disintegration. All combobulating as one as if their strings all ran to one master marionette. Hands pumping and flashing symbols faster than gang members down in the avenues of Angel town. Or maybe if I didn't know any better a major outing of down syndrome "winners" at a David Hasselhoff concert. "We love you Daaavid!" as they wipe the drool from their chins with one hand and cheer with the other. But this isn't the case, if it were we could all come away from this feeling warm and fuzzy and saying good for them and Mr. Hasselhoff's flailing record sales. Unfortunately for all of you that's not my style.

Now the guy with the pureed face has now become doubled over in agony. Sweat dripping out of every orifice, making him look oddly like a Dali painting. Paper gripped in both hands which are simultaneously holding the sides of his head. "No, No, No, No, NOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooo." There's just something about watching grown men cry that makes everyone uncomfortable and given the moment the inability to look away or do anything for that matter. Much less when there is a general consensus of an entire floor of men sobbing like they had watched the end of 'The Notebook' "Oh it's you, it's you!" Damn that movie, of course we know there are only few things which will cause grown men to cry in public and a sad movie isn't one of them.

In this particular case money is the culprit, and they are watching their precious stocks drop faster than a two dollar whore on fifty cent draft night. Thats right fellow citizens I have just had the auspicious and priveleged nightmare of witnessing the blackest of all black Mondays. The pimps have just been bitch slapped by their own hoes. And they want more than half Eddie.