I'm aiming for an AIG Executive...

I'm aiming for an AIG Executive

They're dropping like flies out there, gang.

One of our great urban legends claims that after the 1929 crash, investors by the dozens were jumping off ledges in New York. The air was thick with the plummeting bodies of the newly-destitute.

Not true, but boy it makes for some great storytelling. I'm sure back in the day there were thousands of folks who would swear they witnessed the torrential rain of mass suicides.

These days, even with the world's economy doing a mega-crash-and-burn, rumors of a modern-day suicide-a-rama haven't bubbled up as yet. But the seeds have been planted, like they always are, with real tragedy. In increasing numbers, the rich are doing themselves in...sometimes in spectacular fashion.

Anyone out there thinking, "...well, maybe things really aren't that bad" ought to note the following: When Germany's richest man, Adolf Merckle...the 94th richest person on this 3rd rock...walks in front of a train, it's because he's done the math and knows the game is lost.

On the Passing of a Friend: Memories and Regret ...

My friend Dave died on Christmas day.

I've been trying to write something about his dying for the past week, but until last evening the words have largely escaped me.

I didn't find out he'd died until the next evening. My wife broke the news when I got home from work, just before we had to leave for a holiday gathering with my family. She didn't want me to get blind sided by someone else.

Dave and I hadn't seen much of each other over the past twenty years. We would meet if there was a death in one of our families, or at random while we were out in the world somewhere. He stopped in front of my house some years back while I was cutting grass, and we talked a bit. Same old Dave, he hadn't changed a bit. He was that rare individual that really didn't give a rats backside one way or the other what you thought of him. He changed for no one; a constant in an ever-changing world.

We drifted apart, as many friends do, because life pulled us in different directions. He joined the Marines. I took my first unsuccessful stab at college. We still got together when we could, and we would pick things up pretty much as we left them, as if we were still hanging out every night. I've always thought that's how you can tell if someone's truly a close friend: the ability to pick up right where you left off no matter how much time has passed. Any awkwardness, any clumsy silence, and you pretty much know that any bond you once had has dissolved, eaten away by time and circumstance.

I believe our bond was undiminished, yet we drifted further apart. His life went in one direction, mine another. There was a time such a thing would have seemed inconceivable. From the day I met Dave at the bus stop on the first day of 9th grade until I graduated high school we were practically joined at the hip. His mother called us "Frick and Frack." I have no idea which of us was which, but it was a fairly accurate moniker.

Jimbo Blows it Again for the Nittany Lions...

For the second time this year, I blew the game for the Lions.

After the second quarter debacle, where USC scored 24 points while the Lions defense apparently went surfing in Malibu, my wife noticed I was out of uniform.

"I got you a Penn State Rose Bowl shirt for Christmas!" she said. "Why aren't you wearing it for the game?"

"Well, I was afraid I'd dribble Kahlua on it."

"Well, the shirt's clean but they're losing."

After the half, I sat in the comfy chair decked out in my Rose Bowl shirt. The Lions scored 17 points the rest of the way, but it was too little too late.

I am torn. The shirt is clean. The Lions got licked.

I'm cracking open another mini-bottle of Kahlua...and the shirt's staying on.

Jimbo Blows it again!

HEY JIMBO: Enjoy the clean shirt, you moron. Thanks for nothing!


We're all broke.

Our 401k's are busted.

The Gubbermint's using our dough to bail out everybody but we taxpayers.

Sure, things are tough...but don't despair: We still have our chicken wings!

They're cheap. They're tasty. No utensils needed...just dive into the bucket with your fingers.

Chicken Wings...the perfect food for the Greater Depression.

Happy New Year!

May your wing buckets runneth over in 2009! And may your statin prescriptions never expire....

On the Naughty List...

Found this nasty little note in my stocking Christmas morning:


Your shameless attempt to hoodwink my client, S. Claus, into bringing you buckets of wings has failed miserably. Using your second grade Saint Bernard's school portrait on your website did, in fact, "hot button" your Christmas wish to the top of Santa's pile. The elves in charge of screening Christmas wishes were exhausted. They may have had one spiked eggnog too many. In any case, your scheme slipped by them.

As Santa was loading the sleigh, he happened to overhear a few elves talking about your web post. Santa asked to see it, and immediately put a hold on the sleigh loading.

Santa is not that great at remembering names (it's why he has that big book). But Santa never forgets a face, and when he saw your second grade picture posted on Dynamo he smelled a scam.

"Gimmee the book from 1963!" he shouted.

He flipped through a few thousand pages and found your name.

"This character asked for a real-live Mercury space capsule in '63," Santa said. "He wanted it to use as a clubhouse in his backyard in Riverdale, Maryland. 62nd Avenue, I believe. He said he deserved it because he helped some firemen with 'crowd control' when they were on a rescue."


Dear Santa...

...all I want for Christmas is a couple buckets of wings. A few pitchers of dark ale would be a plus (I'm a little older than I look), but really, its the wings I want more than anything.

I've been very good this year, except for a couple impure thoughts about a waitress in one of the local wing joints. Well, maybe not a couple. More like forty-six.

But other than that I've really, really been good so please send the wings.

Lil' Mr. Jimbo

**UPDATE** Read the response from Santa's Legal Team

Finally...some GOOD NEWS!!!

A new CNN tracking poll says that 93% of those surveyed think the state of the economy is "poor."

The remaining 7%, consisting of AIG executives, banking bigwigs and Wall Street CEO's, say it's just dandy and they're swimming in dough.

See,'s not all doom and gloom out there!

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No Cognitive Defect - Part IX

No Cognitive Defect - Part IX

By James M. O'Meara, © 2008

(Need to catch up on NCD,? Just click here!)

Anita's lifeline...

For the second time in his life, Evan rolled a vehicle down an embankment in a snowstorm. The first accident happened when he was eighteen, and it wasn't really so much a snowstorm as a hard-hitting, furious squall. He was driving his mother's car. The road was icy-slick, but he'd driven in worse. There was a bottle of dandelion wine between his legs. Benny Gustav was in the middle of the front seat, Robbie Magoon by the passenger door, and they were each working on their own bottles of homemade wine, cloudy bottles of gut-rot bought from an old woman off Arbuckle Road. She sold them out of her cellar to anyone old enough to reach the doorbell and had dozens of flavors to choose from. There were always rows of tiny paper cups across a workbench, and the old woman would pour samples in the cups so they could take a quick hit and decide which poison to buy. He was partial to the dandelion. Robbie liked the rutabaga. Benny said they all tasted like cat piss, and he tried a different flavor each time. The air in the cellar was always thick with tiny flies of some sort, and the room where the wine was made was cool and damp, even in the heat of summer. The accident that day wasn't caused by the wine…he'd had but one sip. It was caused mostly by Benny Gustav's knee, with the weather playing a bit part.

Uncle Sam to Dynamo: DROP DEAD!!!

Not a DIME Jimbo...

Not a DIME Jimbo...

On Saturday, the mailman delivered the Gubbermint's response to my plea for TARP funds.

Uncle Sam threw Dynamo under the bus.

Looks like Dynamo is not quite big enough, and its failures just not quite disastrously spectacular enough, to warrant federal moolah.

I suppose I should have seen this coming.

The application was barely legible.

It was sprinkled in cat pee.

It was submitted late.

Some small bits and morsels of truth were ever-so-slightly stretched.

Yet, as you will read below, I came pretty danged close to $7.25 billion in bailout bucks!

Uncle Sam to Dynamo: DROP DEAD!

* * *


Folks, I've got exciting news!!!

Desktop Dynamo has applied for TARP bailout bucks from the US Treasury. I haven't mentioned this previously because I was a bit tardy with the application and didn't think Uncle Sam would even process it.

Today, however, I checked the status of my bailout at the OTS website and learned that the application was, in fact, processed and a decision will be arriving in Dynamo's mailbox any day now!

Folks...all that debt from years of using my plastic for buffalo wing purchases might be erased. A bailout! The American solution to every problem!

Now that the (hopefully) good news is on the way, I'm thrilled to share my official TARP application with all you Dynanuts...


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