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.
First off, to fully comprehend the magnitude of this epic tragedy, you need to understand what a Jasian is and why she's such a treasure. Simply put, a Jasian is broad that's half Jewish, half Asian. While Jewish broads are renowned for their soft mouths, Asian broads are equally renowned for having the tiniest vadges, probably an evolutionary effect of having to accommodate nothing but rice dicks for centuries, to say nothing of the fact that they're also genetically programmed to please men. I dare any man who doubts me on that notion to visit the New Look Spa on West 36th Street and just try to last for more than a minute while getting a "massage." And besides their soft mouths, Jewish girls are nurturers, making them more inclined to ballplay. This sublime grabbag of sexual prowess combined to a lesser extent with their inherently analytical little brains makes the Jasian a erotic force to be reckoned with.
So I met this particular Jasian at some charity event for the homeless or Darfur or something, I don't know, I go to these things solely to network anyway, but I got her card and found her on Myspace and after exchanging messages for a few weeks, mostly me artfully overcoming her "I don't date bankers" objections, we set up a date. Over dinner at Tao (I figured that Tao would be the culinary equivalent to a Jasian of what Mecca is to a devout Muslim), where I arranged to reserve the table right smack in front of the fat fucking Buddha mind you, we discussed my abstract art collection, my Alaskan Caribou hunting expeditions, my search for a personal chef, buying options and hedges on water, her job (though I don't remember what she does), and Britney Spears. It was all so fantastically fine, and it was about to get better because I had reserved a table at Marquee in an intimate little spot in the corner of the red room, where waiting for us at the table would be a bottle of Goose AND a bottle of Verve with strawberries and chocolates on the side. Finally, for closing purposes, a bottle of Patron was on ice with my name on it. It was on.
Unfortunately, that's where Jerome comes in.
I first noticed the twatwaffle staring at the Jasian while we were waiting for Wass the doorguy (who I'm very tight with by the way...he always lets me in with a three bottle minimum) to part the velvet ropes. He was puffing a fag (French lingo for smoking a cigarette...very telling if you ask me) in the area cordoned off for smokers. He just stood there eyeing my girl as if she were a cheeseburger at a fat farm and he's lucky that I didn't go over destroy his ass right then and there.
Regardless, we got in and settled at our table and everything was great. The Jasian started slamming drinks as if her very survival depended on it. The deejay played "Sexyback" which prompted the Jasian to jump up on the table to shake her little ass while she guzzled Patron straight from the bottle. She was ripe. Time to make my move. I told her to hang tight while I made one last trip to the john. I'd been pounding drinks pretty hard all night and wanted to pop a Viagra before we left the club to insure that I'd have good wood for her when I got her back home.
I was only away for five minutes at best but I returned to find Cockblockus Maximus himself sitting next to the Jasian with his arm around her while he was talking onto her ear.
"Thad this is Jerome and he invited us to come back to his place for an after-party," she slurred.
Sitting there with a smug little smirk on his face, he spoke to me directly.
"You're a Republican, like Bush, eh?"
"Well come back to my flat and we celebrate the man of war with some powder."
After a couple of seconds of awkward silence passed with me thinking that the last thing I wanted to do at this point was to go back to some French prick's place for croissants and blow, the Jasian popped up as the delayed reaction to my affirmation of the Jerome's speculation of my political affiliation reached her brain.
"Thad, you're a fucking Republican!?"
You'd swear by the drunken indignation in her voice in that moment that she was actually on a date with Eliot Spitzer or something. I work on Wall Street, what the hell did she expect?!
Sensing that my chances for Jasian-nailing that night were going down in flames rapidly, I tracked down the cocktail waitress to settle my tab so that I could separate Jerome from my princess, throw her in the back of a cab and get her back to my condo, but when I went back to table to scoop her up, she and Cockblockus had bailed.
Dismayed but undeterred, I spent a few minutes trying to get the cocktail waitress to give me her number and when we finally settled on her giving me her email address, I trolled the upstairs of the club for low-hanging fruit. Finding nothing adequate to ease the pain of unrequited Jasian love and my new hatred for French dudes named Jerome, I made a late night stop at the next best thing, the New Look Spa, where everybody knows my name and the endings are always happy.
Earlier: Once You Go Black...
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.