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Don't Fail Me, WB

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Warren Buffett has an editorial in today's New York Times called "Buy American. I Am." I imagine it is intended to reassure people in ways that the never ending press conferences held by Bald, Beard and Bushie cannot. It didn't. I'm not saying Warren Buffett doesn't believe in America, and buying American, but, to paraphrase the Oracle of Omaha, "be fearful when investors who rarely if ever give an interview or write annual letters without referencing sticky fifties as they relate to buxom prosties, and be greedy when...actually just that first part." Honestly, this is not a good sign. I read (skimmed) the whole thing twice (once) and there was nary a whisper of aberrant sex fetish-cum-folksy business wisdom. I even alt-E-F'd 'women,' 'sex,' 'breast,' 'whorehouse,' 'harem,' 'tire iron,' 'knockers,' 'jugs,' 'whipped cream,' 'Oreo Blizzard,' and 'We gotta be like Peter North out there.' Nothing.
The tone was extremely eerie and came off as though a hostage was reading from a script and following order to "smile for the camera!" Except I did not get the impression Buffs was doing it out of his own will, and I would bet you my hundred shares of Lehman that no safe word was agreed upon. Buffett doesn't want us to be fearful. I wasn't before. I am now. There's only one way this snuff film can be salvaged and here what is is: I read this thing online. I'll get the print edition later and for the sake of the economy, I pray that there's a Jackie Treehorn-esque pencil rub on the page. Otherwise, I'll take it as tacit acknowledgement that O Cubed thinks we're fucked.

Buy American. I Am.