Wall Street Journal Coverage Of Crisis Finally Gets Serious

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.