Friday, May 30, 2008

5-29-08 Wherein I ask the eternal question, "Bitch, where's my money?"

Where does the money go?

Where does it go?

I put money into the bank and find out it's already spent, and I don't have anything to show for it.

What did the bank do with my money?


  1. Well, you see every night a cabal of bankers get together in the catacombs underneath the city -- I think it's a series of tunnels snaking out from the closed-up subway stops.

    Anyway, they draw a big pentagram in the same ink that's used to print our money -- a big vat of it arrives from the Mint every Thursday -- and proceed to feed each other bills, coins, and certificates into every orifice until they're bloated and vomiting pure silver out of their noses.

    And they just laugh and laugh . . . it's a jolly little ceremony, really.

  2. It is all so very jolly, to be sure.

    I still must remark that those pig-raping sons of prostitutes are in direct collusion with my own worst instincts to relieve me of my money. And I let them do it.