Lloyd. John.
I am very disappointed in you. I though you were mensches. I thought you had pairs that hung as low as Russian Race horses. I thought you'd come out of this strong and long and down to get the friction on. Given your options today, which were a. stand up and take it like men or b. urinate sitting down like little girls, you chose b.
When the big bad short sellers came to blow your houses down today, you could've yelled through the window, "Huff and puff away, fuck sticks, unlike Lehman's house of straw, and Bear's trailer park of hemp, these bricks ain't comin' down." Instead, you caught the next train to Coxville to cry to your mama and clutch behind her legs while she wields a bat at the bullies.
You fuckers didn't want an actively regulated market when you were splicing and dicing toxic debt and selling this shit as if its shinola to unwitting third world countries who have difficulty with potable water (which I'm cool with, no playa hatas here). Then, the market bitch slaps you one down day after five years of offering up its fake breasts for you to snort the toxic lines of cocaine that is shit debt like Tony Montana and you get your undescended testicles in bind and go crying to the paradoxically named Chris Cox.
Christopher, please: live up to your uber-phallic name and dick slap these bitches back to the corner with their dunce caps.
There. I feel better.