We have a rule against dating people who are too clever or funny. We like to be the bright ones who make everyone smile and laugh. We want to date someone good looking and wealthy enough to buy the drinks while we tell the funny stories. That's how we feel about business columnists too, which is why we almost couldn't bring ourselves to read Mark Gilbert's updating of the old jokes defining various political systems according to how they deal with your "two cows." He's gone and applied it to various aspects of modern finance. So we hate him. And we swear we'd be this funny too, if we were just writing one column a week.
Here are a few of our favorites. Feel free to contribute your own "two cow" jokes in the comments section below.
You have two cows. You come home from the fields one day to find Henry Kravis chatting to your spouse at the dining-room table. Two days later, you have no spouse, no farm, and no table. Two guys the size of sumo wrestlers have saddled up the cows and are riding them around the farmyard.
You have two cows. A guy in an open-necked shirt drives up in his Bentley and offers to take care of them for you in return for a year's supply of steak and 50 percent of their milk. They won't be allowed to leave his compound for two years.
Six months later, you have half a cow, producing sour milk. ``You have to be willing to lose rump today to get rib-eye tomorrow,'' the hedge-fund guy mumbles through a mouthful of sirloin and champagne.
You have two cows. How boring is that? You pay a month's supply of milk to a consultant, who advises you to sell one cow and buy two aardvarks instead. The aardvarks die. The consultant charges you four months of your (now reduced) milk supply and advises you to sell half of your remaining cow and buy a wombat. The wombat dies. The consultant charges eight months of milk for a copy of his new report, ``Two-Cow Strategies for Alleviating the Impending Pensions Crisis.''
You have two cows. Comrade, those cows are an environmental hazard. We suggest you hand one of them over to us.
You have two cows. You buy insurance against them dying, and tuck the contracts into the middle of that tottering pile of documentation on your desk. One dark night, Henry Kravis sneaks off with your cows. By the time you track down the paperwork, your now worthless contracts have expired.
You have two cows. You pledge one of them to me as collateral in a swap for some of my pigs. I pledge the cow to my neighbor as collateral in a swap for some of his sheep. He pledges the cow to his cousin as collateral in a swap for some of his cousin's goats. Better pray the livestock market doesn't crash and we have to try and round up that cow.