This Is War

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I worked from home on Friday which was a damn shame because I missed a special delivery that came in a package marked "savory, vibrant, luscious & sweet" but, more pressingly, "PERISHABLE." So I thought it was good fortune that someone not named Blarney had the good sense to put it in the fridge. I thought. After the jump, behold what a certain CNBC anchor and his goombahs sent to the office under the semblance of a gift. I see it more as a threat. Like the fish in the Godfather that signaled Luca slept with the fishes, No Sleeves is letting me know via deli meat that I’m going to die. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but at some point in the not too distant future, one of his associates will be paying me a visit and for what? Merely sharing with the world how he likes to work out, sartorially speaking. You know what? That’s fine. He wants to play hard ball? I’m game, by which I mean watch for the package of week-old lox, coming your way. Vaffanculo, testa di cazzo, Charlie Gasparino.

*If this wasn't a Sicilian message, and just a kind gesture, thanks Charlie. The soppressata looks delicious.

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