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Diary Of A Fake Goldman Trader: Once You Go Black...

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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.
This past weekend was one of the greatest weekends in the history of an already ridiculously great life. I know that even in an average life that there are moments that are simply unforgettable, moments where the person experiencing the greatness will never forget where they were and what they were doing in that parcel of time, moments for the average person such as getting your first Rolex or German car.
But few things can top this.
What could be so great you ask? Having a fucking American Express Black card emblazoned with the name Thaddeus Quincy Cockburn arrive at your door, that's what! Never again will I have to endure the shame of having to throw down a Gold or Platinum card when playing credit card roulette to see who pays the tab at a restaurant or club. To celebrate the occasion, I decided to throw a party pronto at my condo.
A black party.

Now the only problem with all of this were the logistics. The card came on Saturday morning and I was stressing the fuck out at first about putting all of the pieces in place to throw a kick-ass party later that night. When I throw a party I do it all out and I stay consistent to a theme, so if I was going to throw a black party, every last detail was going to be fucking black. We're talking a menu of black caviar stuffed black mushrooms, blackened black drum (for the non-meat eating women and fags) and black buffalo steaks for those of us with testosterone pumping through our veins. All of the interior decor, tablecloths, napkins, curtains, etc., had to be black. Theme cocktails made with Jose Cuervo Black and Johnny Walker Black, my lone concession to slumming it a bit, were to be served. All of the invited guests were asked to wear black. This was gonna be a bitch to put together without a personal assistant (DAMMIT I NEED TO GET ON THAT...maybe I can hire a temp personal assistant to help me find a permanent personal assistant?), but people like me are who we are because we get shit done.
Then two things hit me. First off, my slacker ass buddy Gabe has been spending his nights drooling all over my Saskatchewan eel-skin sectional sofa (conveniently black in color mind you) ever since he got laid off from B of A. I could make him be my bitch for all of the pedestrian work and secondly, Monday was the Martin Luther King holiday, which meant that I could throw the party on Sunday night since everyone was off on Monday and then I would be the only game in town, thereby making it easier to get chicks to come to the party. This little factual nugget also gave me more blackness to celebrate!
Now with all of the grunt tasks delegated to Gabe I was then free to handle the most important aspect to this or any party...securing the midgets! But for this party, run of the mill midgets would not be acceptable. I HAD TO HAVE BLACK MIDGETS! Now, if you've ever tried to find black midgets to hire to work as servers at your party, you know that there's a huge problem inherent with this, that being that there's an alarming shortage of black midgets out there!
So I did what I always do when I have a pressing need for varying degrees of human flesh, I placed an ad on Craigslist. And what do you know, within a few hours I had four black midgets in route to Manhattan. One of them came from Staten Island, the other three came from Trenton, New Jersey, which must be home to a colony of black midgets or something. Who knew?!
Finally Sunday night came around and the party was off the fucking chain. Gabe found these food service sombrero thingies for the black midgets to wear on their black midget heads, that way they could just walk around at the party and the guests were able to pick hors dourves right off of their little domes. I invited Monique, a smoking hot, black, 6'3'' Amazon fire-eater from The Box, to come as my date for the party. The Giants game was also playing on my 65-inch Panasonic True HD 1080p plasma TV. They won, so everybody was celebrating. But probably the best aspect of the whole night though was what Gabe did with the area on the wall above the fireplace. He went out and found a huge framed portrait of Dr. King and hung it up there. He also blew up a photocopy of my new black card, with my name, card number and expiration date and everything, and had it framed and hung it right next to the portrait of Dr. King. There they were, two symbols of having dreams, two great American Dreams, side by side above the roaring hearth. It was the hit of the party. All night people were standing around it and talking about it, taking pictures of it, typing messages about it into their iPhones, Blackberries and Treos, and even scribbling down notes on their hands.
The only downside to the party was that little prick Josh from my floor showing up uninvited, with identical twin blondes that he flew up from Tampa for the weekend as his dates at that. He kept coming over to me and was trying to fuck with my head by telling me that he had heard that Monique was a tranny. Whatever, all I know is that I passed out later that night and woke up to find that Monique had saddled my pony and was taking a ride reverse cowgirl style. It was too dark in my room to see anything, but all I know and care about is that my cock was filling a tight hole.
Fuck him, I'll trump his ass and get triplets to be my dates if and when his gay ass ever throws a party. And I'll find them on Craigslist too!
Earlier: How To Find The Right Tailor And Other Things We Learned From Thad, The Fake Goldman Trader
Editor's Note: We'll let you know when we have a thad at dealbreaker dot com email, but for now, if there's anything you think he should address, send a note to cajunboyinthecity at gmail dot com and he'll pass it on to Mr. T.


Not Everyone Convinced Former Trader Meant "It Wasn't A Question Of If I Was Going To Kill You, Just Of When" In A Figurative Sense

A year or so a go, commodities trader Vincent McCrudden was arrested for some things he put on a company website and some emails he sent out. The former involved an "execution" list containing the names of a handful of financial regulators, which he asked readers to aid him in crossing off ("I need your help," he wrote. "There are just too many for me alone"). The latter included an email to a CFTC staffer that noted: “You fucking corrupt piece of shit! I have let so many of you fucking corrupt mother fuckers off the hook for doing this to my life. You my friend are not getting away with this. I am going to do this my way now and you, you corrupt mother fucking piece of shit are the first on my list! laugh mother fucker…I am going to make you a test case!” To that end, the chief operating officer of the NFA was told, “It wasn’t ever a question of ‘if’ I was going to kill you, it was just of when." Were these emails particularly colorful? Yes. Should anyone who received them (or had their name placed on The List) been actually worried about losing his/her life? McCrudden could see how maybe things might have been interpretted that way, but no. As he told a judge, “I wrote provocative language on my website that could have been perceived as threatening. I would never intentionally hurt or cause bodily harm to another human being." And yet, this is still happening: Vincent P. McCrudden, a former New York commodities trader, was sentenced to two years and four months in prison for threatening to kill federal financial regulators. McCrudden, 51, who pleaded guilty last year, was sentenced today by U.S. District Judge Denis R. Hurley in federal court in Central Islip, New York...McCrudden said he was being persecuted for fighting back against unfair regulatory actions that destroyed his career. In addition to trading commodities, he ran his own hedge funds...McCrudden’s legal and regulatory entanglements began in 2000, when he was criminally charged with masking shortfalls in statements to his hedge-fund investors. The government said he included in his results money he expected to get from a lawsuit after Sumitomo Corp. (8053) was accused of manipulating the copper market. Ex-Trader McCrudden Gets 28 Months in Prison for Threats [Bloomberg]