Congratulations Dough Jones!

Everyone knows that the Dow Jones Industrial Average is a listing compiling the overarching performance of a number of blue chip stocks in order to generate a microcosmic overview of market performance, but critics of the system contend that it has little or no value in a rapidly diversifying, decentralizing marketplace.  So what's an absurdly wealthy person with few or no practical skills to do when the shit inevitably hits the fan?  Die in poverty?  Fuck that!

Today you've decided to get ahead of the game by inventing your own system of projection and interpretation: the Dough Jones Industrial Average.  Where the Dow Jones aggregates arbitrary data, your new system will be bread based.  See, you'll bake a number of loaves of bread and then carve the names of various companies into them.  Then you'll rank potential performances from these companies based on mold growth over a period of weeks.

At first, your system of prediction will be criticized for being incredibly ill conceived, lacking any sort of meaningful data-based consideration at any point, but after one week, after three months of idiotic predictions, where your system correlates briefly to market performance, an investor will purchase exclusive rights to your predictions for the next decade for an exorbitant amount of money.  You'll lose your moldy bread in the trade, but you'll never have to work again, which is all you ever really wanted out of being an investment-type-person.  Likewise, your sale of your predictive system will cloak you somewhat from the rage that will emerge following the market collapse predictions based on your "bread based economic indicator" will cause in the years to come.

Congratulations Dough Jones!

Congratulations on Hittin' Da Club!

You rarely leave your house because of a generalized series of disorders we like to call “elephant man disease,” and when you do it’s always kind of a crazy experience. So tonight, when you “hit da club” it’s not just going to be a matter of dinner dancing with champagne flutes and bitches and hoes and something else. It’s going to be crazy.

First off you look like the Elephant Man, as we mentioned before, which makes going out in public a weird and alienating experience for both you and all the people around you. Second off, you talk an incredibly high pitched whine so everything you say is annoying, even when it’s profound. And third off, you have a giant dick which gets hard for like, no reason, which means women are alternately offended by your penis and incredibly excited to see you because they want to jump your freakish, malformed bones.

So when you arrive at the club in your finest hood clutching a cane of ivory taken from the tusk of the mightiest elephant you could catch and kill at the San Diego Zoo you’ll shrilly announce your presence.

“Good evening, ladies,” your reedy voice will trill through the night air. The music will stop for a moment as the entire population of the club takes in your presence, an awkward experience that will be that much more awkward for the fact that you’ll find it incredibly arousing.

It’ll make you sprout a boner so thick and hard that it’ll even be visible the bartender struggling to sift through the mumbled orders of a dozen unruly, unpleasant under-aged patrons.

“Mommy like,” she’ll mouth at you. You’ll nod back, your hood rustling in the silence. The rustling will only serve to arouse you further, making your penis even more engorged, and when the music starts up again women will cluster around you, grinding on your giant, misshapen dick.

“It has begun,” you’ll nasally intone as women get “all up on” you. You’ll lazily roll your hips with each of them, but your eyes will never leave the bartender, not that she’ll be able to notice thanks to the hood. She’ll keep glancing at you intermittently throughout the night, pausing every once in a while to lick her lips and make blowjob-ish gestures at you.

The two of you will end up having angry sex later on that night, which will be great until she tears your hood off and exposes your face. After that she won’t be able to stop screaming.

Congratulations on Hittin’ Da Club!