Wall Street Journal Coverage Of Crisis Finally Gets Serious

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Have you sort of felt, for the last year, that the Journal wasn't doing a very good job addressing the real issues surrounding the crashing of the global economy? Sure, they've kept us abreast of which CEO's are taking the jets out for rides on the company dime, and who's getting big ass bonuses straight from the taxpayer pocket, but it's mostly just been frivolous bunk. I don't know what happened over there last night, but today the paper has finally printed a substantive story that gets to the heart of the matter of the danger that lurks among us, and how not until we fix it will there be a true recovery. We're talking, of course about a Page One exposé on your cankles. That's right: your fat fucking ankles. The fat located between your foot and your calf. Need a more clinical description?

Cankle, a portmanteau word combining calf and ankle, refers to "the area in affected female legs where the calf meets the foot in an abrupt, nontapering terminus," according to Urban Dictionary. A spokeswoman for the American Podiatric Medical Association says the word is not a medical term.

Are you so in denial that you have no idea what we mean? Here, the Journal will draw you a picture:


Still playing dumb? Would an instructional video help?

Now that you know, what are you going to do about it? Are you going to be pro-active, like Paula Hankin?

After Pilates and dieting failed to reduce the size of her ankles, Paula Hankin, a 34-year-old former mortgage banker in New York, bought a pair of Fit Flops, $49 flip-flops designed to emulate walking barefoot. They work various muscles and are said to reduce cankles by tightening the lower leg muscles. "I have calves like a softball coach," Ms. Hankin says. "They're a little butchy," to explain why she bought the Fit Flops.

Or are you going to sit around and cry, like Elizabeth Quintanilla?

Ms. Quintanilla, a 25-year-old production assistant for a clothing company in Los Angeles, says she "literally bawled my eyes out every day" when she looked at her cankles. "Capri [pants] are my worst nightmare," she says.

In order to keep pace with this hard hitting financial journalism, which will probably nab an award or two at year's end, tomorrow we'll be running an exposé on fadoobadas, the excessive fat under your arm. One Southern Connecticut hedge, always ahead of the curve, is well-aware of the problem and has been taking steps to combat it. Every day at the close, a voice comes over the loud speaker with the instructions to "Stop typing, and get rowing," at which time traders are expected to pull the handle that's been installed at the foot of their desks and blast those triceps. If results don't start to show by August, lunch will be replaced with Exlax.

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Wall Street Journal Columnist Can't Believe He Has To Breathe The Same Air As Worthless Pieces Of Shit That Are Today's College Grads

Once upon a time, as in two years ago, Wall Street Journal foreign-affairs columnist Bret Stephens hired an intern from West Point who blew him away with her accomplishments and talent. When she wasn't performing "field exercises in which she kept a bullet proof vest on at all times, even while sleeping" she was writing "brilliantly" and was one of the most "self-effacing" people Stephens had ever met. Currently, the former intern is fighting the Taliban in Afghanistan and to this day, whenever Stephens thinks of her, he is awed and impressed, as most people would be. Unfortunately, he probably won't have the opportunity to hire another individual of her caliber, because approximately 99% of this woman's generation is made up of despicable low-life scumbags who exist to make Stephens sick. Take a guy Bret interviewed a couple months back. Kid had an "astonishingly high GPA from an Ivy League university and aspirations to write about Middle East politics." The two got to chatting about Suez Crisis of '56 and over the course of the chat it became apparent that this kid "didn't know who was the president of the United States in 1956. And he didn't know who succeeded that president." Know where that guy is now? In Bret Stephens's meat locker, as he well should be. And while Stephens hasn't had the opportunity to interview each and every member of the Class of 2012, he's doesn't have to in order to know what they're all about, which is being a bunch of degenerate jerk-offs who suck at their parents' teat because they can't get the jobs they don't deserve that aren't available because they are commies who voted for Obama. Sayth Stephens: Dear Class of 2012: Allow me to be the first one not to congratulate you. Through exertions that—let's be honest—were probably less than heroic, most of you have spent the last few years getting inflated grades in useless subjects in order to obtain a debased degree. Now you're entering a lousy economy, courtesy of the very president whom you, as freshmen, voted for with such enthusiasm. Please spare us the self-pity about how tough it is to look for a job while living with your parents. They're the ones who spent a fortune on your education only to get you back— return-to-sender, forwarding address unknown...If you're like [West Point] intern, please feel free to feel sorry for yourself. Just remember she doesn't. Unfortunately, dear graduates, chances are you're nothing like her. And don't you ever forget it, pieces of garbage. To read through your CVs, dear graduates, is to be assaulted by endless Advertisements for Myself. Here you are, 21 or 22 years old, claiming to have accomplished feats in past summer internships or at your school newspaper that would be hard to credit in a biography of Walter Lippmann or Ernie Pyle...In every generation there's a strong tendency for everyone to think like everyone else. But your generation has an especially bad case, because your mass conformism is masked by the appearance of mass nonconformism. It's a point I learned from my West Point intern, when I asked her what it was like to lead such a uniformed existence. Her answer stayed with me: Wearing a uniform, she said, helped her figure out what it was that really distinguished her as an individual. Now she's a second lieutenant, leading a life of meaning and honor, figuring out how to Think Different for the sake of a cause that counts. Not many of you will be able to follow in her precise footsteps, nor do you need to do so. But if you can just manage to tone down your egos, shape up your minds, and think unfashionable thoughts, you just might be able to do something worthy with your lives. And even get a job. Good luck! Stephens: To The Class Of 2012 [WSJ]