Thad

Diary Of A Fake Goldman Trader: Monkey Business

Who remembers that Craiglist ad from the 28 year old Goldman banker looking for someone to lavish with his (pretax) $722k bonus? I’m going to go with all of you because, frankly, it/he was unforgettable. The Viking stove, the custom-made oak dresser, the amazing dinners, the shopping, the great wine, the getting each other off fabulously and, of course, the baby’s arm aren’t things one lets recede from his/her consciousness so easily. Sure, the whole thing turned out to be fake and from the mind of someone named the Cajun Boy who does not really work at Goldman Sachs or at any other financial institution, including Bear Stearns, for that matter, but did anyone give a shit? No, us included. In fact, we were so taken by the imposter– “real” name: Thad– that we asked him if we could reprint parts of his journal on DealBreaker so that you all could live vicariously through his fabulous life. He said yes, if it would help him “score ass.” So if you enjoy the following installment, show your gratitude.
On my seemingly never-ending checklist of things to do in 2008 has been to hire a personal assistant, preferably someone young, hot, eager and equipped with a vagina. Since my busy work and social schedule has made the completion of such a task exceedingly difficult, I recently decided that my buddy Gabe, heretofore jobless, thus he spends his days on splayed out on my sofa watching porn when he’s not lunching with headhunters, would be the perfect candidate for the job, at least on an interim basis. So to Gabe I’ve outsourced such peasant tasks like making restaurant and car service reservations, arranging for my laundry to be dropped off and picked up, interviewing candidates vying to be my personal chef, etc. But seeing that I hate to see Gabe so overextended, not to mention that the stress of the job really has affected his attitude and his resulting sourness has cast a pall over our friendship, I decided recently that it would be in our best interest for me to also get Gabe a personal assistant. Besides, having only one personal assistant is so 2006. Not coincidentally, I’ve also long yearned to have a monkey, ever since I saw Clint Eastwood kicking it with Clyde in Every Which Way But Loose to be precise, so I killed two birds with one stone and acquired a chimpanzee to be Gabe’s personal assistant.
His name is Bernanke.

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Diary Of A Fake Goldman Trader: Thad’s Book Club

Who remembers that Craiglist ad from the 28 year old Goldman banker looking for someone to lavish with his (pretax) $722k bonus? I’m going to go with all of you because, frankly, it/he was unforgettable. The Viking stove, the custom-made oak dresser, the amazing dinners, the shopping, the great wine, the getting each other off fabulously and, of course, the baby’s arm aren’t things one lets recede from his/her consciousness so easily. Sure, the whole thing turned out to be fake and from the mind of someone named the Cajun Boy who does not really work at Goldman Sachs or at any other financial institution, including Bear Stearns, for that matter, but did anyone give a shit? No, us included. In fact, we were so taken by the imposter– “real” name: Thad– that we asked him if we could reprint parts of his journal on DealBreaker so that you all could live vicariously through his fabulous life. He said yes, if it would help him “score ass.” So if you enjoy the following installment, show your gratitude.

So Monday morning I flew back to New York from Phoenix after a truly ridiculous Super Bowl weekend (GO GIANTS!). As the plane took off and I reclined back in my first class seat while waiting for my prosciutto and goat cheese omelet to be served by the flight waitress, I took a moment to reflect on my life and how extraordinarily great it really is. Sometimes it is really good to do such things, to take a few moments to take personal inventory so that you don’t get too lost in the fabulous and forget to appreciate it in the process.
I mean, seriously, how many people in this world would kill to sit at the table next to Heidi and Spencer at the Pink Taco? How many people would kill to be the guy that gets to buy Patron shots for Dennis Rodman and his entourage all night long? How many people would love to be able to bribe their way into the Maxim party and rub elbows with the likes of Ryan Seacrest, Mario Lopez and Brody Jenner? How many people would love to be able to slip a few Benjamins to a local cabbie with instructions to chauffeur any drunk, disoriented sluts to your hotel suite?

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Who remembers that Craiglist ad from the 28 year old Goldman banker looking for someone to lavish with his (pretax) $722k bonus? I’m going to go with all of you because, frankly, it/he was unforgettable. The Viking stove, the custom-made oak dresser, the amazing dinners, the shopping, the great wine, the getting each other off fabulously and, of course, the baby’s arm aren’t things one lets recede from his/her consciousness so easily. Sure, the whole thing turned out to be fake and from the mind of someone named the Cajun Boy who does not really work at Goldman Sachs or at any other financial institution, including Bear Stearns, for that matter, but did anyone give a shit? No, us included. In fact, we were so taken by the imposter– “real” name: Thad– that we asked him if we could reprint parts of his journal on DealBreaker so that you all could live vicariously through his fabulous life. He said yes, if it would help him “score ass.” So if you enjoy the following installment, show your gratitude.

If there’s one thing that I’ve learned in my life to this point it’s that if you want something royally fucked up, leave it to the French. These days I can’t seem to go anywhere without someone yapping about Societe Generale and the “rogue trader.” I can’t even drop a deuce at Megu without the cat in the next stall jabbering into his phone about how the fallout from this shitshow coupled with the rising cost of yacht insurance have left him having to reevaluate the prudence of flying a cobbler in from London to re-sole his John Lobbs versus having the work done locally.
What chaps my sweet bottom most about all of this is that the name of the corner-cubicle dwelling derivatives trading fuckstick that is responsible for all of this is Jerome. In the history of white guys named Jerome, has there ever been a single one that wasn’t a complete toolbox? Negative.
I once met a French guy named Jerome. It pains me deep down where the body meets the soul to merely mention his name. In the times when I have discussed him I usually refer to him as “Cockblockus Maximus,” for he performed on me what will likely go down in the annals of cockblocking as the Waterloo of cockblocks, only that in this instance, the fucking French won. At the time I was on a first date with what I consider to be the holy grail of banking industry poon.
A “Jasian.”

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