Well, this has cheered me up. I was feeling a bit depressed. I fell over in the street today and hurt my shoulder. I have no idea how it will affect my guitar playing. I'll have to wait and see. I really don't need this. And that's not all. I'm getting nutjobs, now, asking me all kinds of absurd questions. Like: where do I work? For Christ's sake, I'll spell it out for the intellectually challenged: I am the world's foremost financial shaman. I work in the world and in the cosmos. I used to work in the physical desert, in my cave. I spent a lot of time on the astral plane, the astral desert in my head, dealing with dead financiers and money gods, yeah? Oh, I was a consultant to Lloyd Blankfein for a while, but I couldn't cope with his vulgarity. He's still a personal friend of mine though. And - anyone - don't even think about fucking with me. That Viniar, a genuine animal, a stone killer, is also a personal friend of mine, and he'll do anything for me. Goldman Sachs? These guys are harder than the Gambinos, you dig? I'm still connected. (I would harm you myself. But I'm not Jack Pickles any more. I can't be that man any more. What would my angel say? She's sensitive, and civilized. She ain't got no time for the thug life. You know I fell so in love and love changed me. Give me a break.) / Then there was my time with Bobby D, that goddamn punk. (Lloyd was right about him.) Of course, it didn't last. The bastard still hasn't paid me. / Then ... then it all got a bit crazy, I'm afraid. I / I / [was it me?] assassinated Big Herb. Yes, I, I cut his throat in the astral night. I fucking had to, man! What else was I going to do? I'm not the submissive type. It was him or me. Only God can judge ... Oh, I'm not 2Pac. Now ... now, I'm in the cities, everywhere, all earthbound, but not cold. Burning it up, having fun as usual. Not working for any firm, not trading. I'm on the mystical side anyway. I don't know anything about trading or whatever. Ask me about chakras. I'll tell you about chakras. Don't ask me about trading.
So, what's the deal with Brandon Lacoff, Tim Davidson, and Gregory Skidmore? / Right, let's get down to business. These three guys are hedgies at Belpointe Capital in Connecticut in the US of A, and they have just won $254 million on the lottery. Amazing! Doesn't that make you feel good? It makes me feel good. This is the proof. There are people in the world who are natural born winners, and we can join them anytime we choose. Have you got the will? Don't come to me with your dreams, motherfucker. HAVE YOU GOT THE WILL?
Here's what I suggest you do. Forget your dreams. You need to succeed the Michael Fowke way. Lie down on the floor. (Man, I don't give a shit if you're in the office. Your colleagues are squares. You care what they think? Grow a pair!) Close your eyes. (Well, later, after reading this.) You know what I look like. Picture my face. See it blue. See it yellow. See it red. See me smiling - even when I'm blue or angry. Can you feel my love? (Can you feel my pain? I hope I haven't broken something. My shoulder is killing me. The other week I was joking about Rimbaud with his leg, now this!) Right, I've got to stop. (But I won't be stopped for long! The founder of Krishna Consciousness had two heart attacks on his first sea journey to America. He was sixty-nine years old. He had some rice. He had about nine dollars in his pocket. He didn't even know anyone in America! Twelve years later he had an empire. Nothing stopped him. Nothing's going to stop me. Hare Krishna!) Yes, Hare Krishna!
So, what's the deal with Brandon Lacoff, Tim Davidson, and Gregory Skidmore? / Right, let's get down to business. These three guys are hedgies at Belpointe Capital in Connecticut in the US of A, and they have just won $254 million on the lottery. Amazing! Doesn't that make you feel good? It makes me feel good. This is the proof. There are people in the world who are natural born winners, and we can join them anytime we choose. Have you got the will? Don't come to me with your dreams, motherfucker. HAVE YOU GOT THE WILL?
Here's what I suggest you do. Forget your dreams. You need to succeed the Michael Fowke way. Lie down on the floor. (Man, I don't give a shit if you're in the office. Your colleagues are squares. You care what they think? Grow a pair!) Close your eyes. (Well, later, after reading this.) You know what I look like. Picture my face. See it blue. See it yellow. See it red. See me smiling - even when I'm blue or angry. Can you feel my love? (Can you feel my pain? I hope I haven't broken something. My shoulder is killing me. The other week I was joking about Rimbaud with his leg, now this!) Right, I've got to stop. (But I won't be stopped for long! The founder of Krishna Consciousness had two heart attacks on his first sea journey to America. He was sixty-nine years old. He had some rice. He had about nine dollars in his pocket. He didn't even know anyone in America! Twelve years later he had an empire. Nothing stopped him. Nothing's going to stop me. Hare Krishna!) Yes, Hare Krishna!
