My associate Merchant is currently indisposed by a bad case of working for a living. As you may recall, we send various of our personalities out to seek gainful employment when the unemployment rate is so low that employers as a class are desperate for any kind of help at all. Joe Doaks does weapon system engineering, F.-M. Arouet liases with the frog defense establishment, Duref Mudgins does pro bono therapy with incarcerated sex offenders, and Cassandra turns the odd trick.
Old Merchant is out taking management consulting training, which he says is like teaching Grandma Merchant to suck eggs. After that he is off on another consulting gig. This lamentable need to work arises because you will not share with us the secrets of your Midas touch, so we only average about $100 a day trading NQ with our own pitiable methods. (That 10sma wild goose chase you sent us on cost us a bundle, let me tell ya!) Mrs. Merchant avers that we spend THAT much on expensive French champagnes every day, and several times daily sings the ShonDells' song "Get a Job!": "Sha na na na! Sha na na na! Sha na! Sha na na na! Sha na na na! Sha na! Gitgitgitgit! Gitgitgitgit! Boomboomboomboomboom! Get a job!"
Truth to tell, however, Merchant is lying low because he put Mrs. Merchant 100% in cash three weeks ago, and he ain't postin' ANY charts until the market cooperates and goes DOWN like the bitch she is.
So stay tuned, as soon as Merchant can strumpet that he was RIGHT, you'll be heartily sorry you inquired as to his health. Art.