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Diary Of A Fake Goldman Trader: Monkey Business

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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.
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.

Surprisingly, finding a monkey was not as difficult of a task as one might think. Upon making the affirmative decision in my mind to go forward with this plan, the first person I mentioned my monkey desire to was Oksana, the Russian broad who cuts my hair every Friday at John Allan's, which is only natural I suppose since I was reclining in her chair getting my post-shampoo scalp massage when I made the decision.
"I think that I want to get a monkey."
"You want monkey Thad? My brother Nikolai can get you monkey. I call him for you now. What kind of monkey you want? Orangutan?"
Within minutes a flurry of phone calls between lower Manhattan, Brighton Beach and Moscow were flying around. Before Oksana had even finished trimming my locks Nikolai called back to say that he could have any species of monkey delivered to my door in approximately two weeks. That was great and all, but I'm a guy for whom patience isn't a virtue held in abundance. I kind of wanted my monkey like, NOW! I had a date lined up for Wednesday night with a fresh off the boat Brazilian model named Carmela, and had by this point already drawn up a pretty elaborate scheme involving the monkey in my head to impress the hell out of her and lure her back to my condo. Besides, the idea of purchasing a monkey from a shady Russian guy who wears a pinkie ring and spends his days sipping tea in cafes, which is exactly how I imagined Nikolai spending his days, just seemed like a bad idea. I wanted my monkey fully vetted and to come from someplace more reputable. So I turned to the place where I've always been able to get anything I've wanted, whether it be easy ass or black midgets, whenever I've wanted it.
By Friday night I was in contact with Ezell, a monkey-owning hedge fund manager from Greenwich whose wife was about about to give birth, and since they feared that the monkey might develop jealousy issues upon the arrival of their precious crumb, they were looking for someone to adopt "Chester," their chimp. They agreed to let him come to live with me for a week, sort of a trial period to see how things worked out, before we closed the deal. By Saturday morning Gabe and I were in route to round up his new personal assistant, who was immediately renamed Bernanke, for obvious reasons. They even gave us a cage for Bernanke to sleep in, which also came fully equipped with his own little monkey potty.
It was on.
Gabe was, of course, assigned all of the responsibilities involved with helping Bernanke to become assimilated to his new home. He also began the all-important task of teaching him to distinguish different commands, words, and phrases. Gabe did this with flash cards that featured images of the various objects that we anticipated might need fetching, starting with various brands of beer. Bernanke turned out to be a quick learner and by Monday night had graduated from flash cards to actually going to the fridge to retrieve what was commanded of him. Gabe used Lindt chocolate truffle balls as a reward for each correct fetch (Which I though was pretty genius...after all, what kind of incentive is a monkey biscuit?) and by the end of the night was almost perfect on differentiating between Amstel Light, Heineken, Stella and Corona. We even let him have a couple. Most importantly of all, Gabe arranged for Daw, my Thai tailor, to come over on Sunday morning to take Bernanke's measurements. I needed a tuxedo made for him stat!
Over the next couple of days Gabe and I found ourselves getting a delicious thrill out of ordering Bernanke around. We even made a wheel with a little arrow for him to spin that contained five color-coded pie chart slices, which read "cut rates by 1/4 point," "cut rate by 1/2 point," "raise rates by 1/4 point," "raise rates by 1/2 point" and "What contemptible scoundrel stole the cork from my lunch?" Whenever the wheel stopped spinning with the arrow pointing to a rate cut, we gave Bernanke a chocolate. Whenever the wheel stopped spinning with the arrow pointing to the W.C. Fields quote, we made Bernanke do a shot of Jack. The smart little fucker eventually figured out which colors led to which rewards and began to calibrate his spins likewise. He seemed to be aiming to chase each chocolate with a shot. He also held his liquor remarkably well.
By the time Wednesday night, last night, rolled around, all seemed good to go. I took Carmela to Megu for dinner and drinks where, once she was a half dozen glasses of wine or so deep, she took the "you should come back to my place" bait hook, line and sinker when I casually mentioned that I had a pet monkey back at my condo. Hell, she was so giddy upon hearing this that I think she would have transported herself there Star Trek style if she could have.
When we got back to my place things couldn't have gone more fantastically. Earlier in the day I had Gabe set up a club style velvet rope around my bedroom door with Bernanke outfitted in his little monkey tux to fully look the part of a club doorman. We even took it the extra mile and got a clipboard for him to hold. Gabe had Bernanke trained, with chocolates of course, to check the list on his clipboard and part the velvet rope upon hearing the phrase, "we're on the list." When we walked up to my bedroom door I let Carmela do the "we're on the list" honors and the little champ performed flawlessly, right on cue. Carmela probably creamed her panties right then and there. Most importantly, I had her drunk and in my bedroom, which is exactly where I wanted her. It was all so perfect.
From here the only thing on my mind was that I wanted to rail her box into oblivion, which I would of course be sure to do with unrelenting vigor as to elicit the most primal screams of passion that Gabe or even Bernanke had ever before heard, but she resisted all of my advances. Turns out all she really wanted to do was to go back into the common area to play with Bernanke! So Carmela hung out for a bit longer with Bernanke sitting on her lap, him making googly eyes at her all the while, before she finally had to go home to whatever fleabag model hostel she was staying at. Apparently she needed a change of clothes for a casting in the morning, so at this point I gave up, gave her cab fare and sent her on her way, figuring that I'd see her again soon and thus be presented with another opportunity to get her into bed.
After she left, I felt it only fitting that Gabe, Bernanke and I should stay up for a bit with a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue to revel in a semi-successfully accomplished mission as well as all the future unsavory monkey missions yet to come. But suddenly, something was off with Bernanke. He seemed irritated, bordering on hostile even, and the shots of Blue didn't seem to be soothing him any. So seeing that I had to actually go to work the next day and was already pretty shit-hosed, I left Gabe to deal with his underling and went into my bedroom, took off my boxers, cracked open a window, and fell asleep with the cool February air coursing over my naked body.
The next thing I remember is waking up on my stomach in the middle of what I thought was a dream where Carmela was sticking her finger up my ass, but as I became more conscious of what was happening I realized that it wasn't a dream at all, something was probing my brown eye and it was Bernanke! He had snuck into my room and was in the process of attempting to do me in the butt. In truth, I'm not really sure what exactly happened before I woke up and threw him off the bed, but it sure as hell felt as though he got at least the head of his monkey dick inside of me.
Needless to say, I'm not the slightest bit amused by any of this. Hell, I've been trying to get work done all day and all I can think about is how I could possibly be infected with monkey AIDS or some other monkey VD. I've already called that fuck Ezell in Greenwich to inform him that Gabe will be returning his horny little monkey this afternoon.
I have to admit though, I kind of miss Bernanke already, or at least the concept of him, but I certainly can't have any gay monkeys living under my roof. Not to mention the fact that his bowels were obviously messed up because he perpetually had the shits. He had to go.
But hey, looking on the bright side, he may have laid some solid groundwork to get me some Brazilian model ass in the near future.
Earlier: Thad's Book Club
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.