Yesterday, the Wall Street Journal wrote a profile on Bear Stearns CEO James Cayne, in which it was alleged that the 73-year old chieftain regularly took time off from work to golf with Maury Povich and play bridge this summer while BSC ran two hedge funds into the ground, and once smoked marijuana in the men’s room of a Doubletree in 2004. Today DealBook carries the memo that Cayne sent to his staff after the news broke. Problem is, someone thought it would be fun to mess with Andrew Ross Sorkin, and sent the ‘Bookies a fake. You can read it here. The actual memorandum is after the jump.
To: All Employees
From: James E. Cayne
Date: November 1, 2007
Re: Wall Street Journal Article
I write to you from the late Mrs. Povich's basement, which hasn’t been redecorated since big M went off to college. I usually work from here on days ending in ‘y’. There are a lot of printed tapestries on the wall, and, if I’m not mistaken, a four-foot-tall grav bong in my direct line of vision. Gravy-B’s aren’t really my jam; I prefer to keep my tokes social with a J or whatever but I have to say, uh, this thing’s not bad, ‘cept that it takes a few seconds to hit you so I think I might’ve taken too many hits. I might throw up, I’ll let you know. Wait, listen to me for a second--seriously, I want to talk to you about a few things, but I can’t remember what or which or where. Wait, listen--no, really, seriously listen: it’s not the drugs. Connie’s here and I can’t stop staring at her ass. Ass. That’s a funny word. Ass. Sometimes, when I’m talking, I say “a double s” instead of ass, you know? I think it’s funny, I don’t know if you do. Anygay, what was I saying? That article--wait, before I talk about that, can I just say one thing?
There is this paperclip that keeps popping up on my screen and it is FREAKING THE SHIT out of me. It’s like, talking, it’s asking me all these questions but I don’t know what it’s saying. I have no idea what it’s saying. I’m not kidding. I have no idea what’s going on. Okay listen. Have you ever looked at one of those magic eye posters? I love them, I have like 12. I stare at them all the time. I stare at them so hard that sometimes you could say I stare the shit out of them. I used to not be good at them because I would look for like two seconds and give up. Then one day it hit me--you have to focus to make it work. You have to focus so hard you think your brain is going to explode, that’s how hard you have to focus.
That's how focused I am on making this company fuck up less. Seriously. We've got to make this thing work. We have to make this, like, one gigantic Magic Eye poster that doesn't take multi-billion-dollar write-offs every quarter. Those things are a total buzzkill.
Hold on a second. My turn at the grav.
I'm back. Whoa. That's so weird. What was I saying, man? Oh yea. Magic Eye posters. Awesome. I feel so weird. My mouth feels like the Sahara Desert, like it has one of those cool Sonicare brushes just vibrating and vibrating in there. But without having any toothpaste or water lubing it up. Which is why my mouth is so dry. Wow. I am so fucking high.
Dude--THAT RHYMED! I like, a poet, man.
You know what rhymes with rhyme, man? Subprime. That really bums me out. Stan's here, I've got to bounce with my blunt brotha. Unemployment is awesome. Maybe I'll find that out for myself some day (soon?) Anygay, later suckers.
Never stop rolling,
The Bear Stearns Memo: Cayne Speaks