Random poll: is the guy or girl who sits next do you at work a) forgoing a chair and instead squatting in front of his/her computer b) doing lunges and push-ups behind you or c) breathing alarmingly heavily and sweating profusely post-deskside workout in which he or she shouted things like "Market's going up! Heart rate's going up!"? If you answered no to all of the above, your office is apparently miles behind the curve. According to a segment aired on Bloomberg TV earlier this morning, everyone on Wall Street is working out on the job. And not, say, in the office gym but on the floor, in the middle of the trading day, between rows, grunting and panting like no one is watching. Supposedly this twenty minute workout has a name (JCore) and if you're worried about the effectiveness, don't be: the guy who pioneered this thing practically has a heart attack during the demo so it must be working. To the skeptical bastards who would suggest no one besides the people featured in the story are actually doing this, you're not alone: back in the studio a fellow anchor nearly blows everything by questioning if there are actually people who would get drenched in the middle of the day while yelling things like "You're shooting me, you're shooting your fat" in view of colleagues but nevermind you that. The Workout Taking Over Wall Street [Bloomberg TV via BI]

If you know anyone who's hiring.

Are you happy Shia??

If Tommy "I will run you over in the street" Belesis ever beats those fraud charges, the first thing he does is contact the writer of this letter to sign up for a 2-week intensive course that involves shadowing the master around campus (there is much to learn). The rest of you: take notes.

Remember Samuel Israel III? For those with short memories, SI3 is a former hedge fund manager who faked his own death in June 2008 with the help of his girlfriend, Debra Ryan, who later wrote an article explaining her actions by noting that she and Israel had "a blazing sex life" that was hard to walk away from (Ryan shared colorful anecdotes that included all the times Israel would "[jokingly] sneak up on her, once while wearing sunglasses on his penis"). For Israel's part, he had pretended to kill himself, incorporating a line from M*A*S*H into his fake suicide note, in an attempt to avoid the prison stay that was coming his way, on account of having taken Bayou Group investors for more than $450 million. At the time, he became something of a minor celebrity, whose business card, prominently featuring an egret, was auctioned off on eBay but since ultimately being sentenced to twenty years behind bars we'd heard nary a peep from the guy. Luckily, Andrew Ross Sorkin recently flew down to Butner, North Carolina for a little chat and it's a good thing he did because Israel had a lot he wanted to get off his chest. After offering ARS an "orange Life Saver," discussing his own version of a playoffs beard ("Mr. Israel...was wearing a tan prison uniform with his hair grown out, a mass of silver and brown curls sprouting from the sides of his bald head. 'I’m never going to cut it until I get out,' he exclaimed"), and talking Ponzi schemes, SI3 got down to the real matter at hand. About halfway through, the interview turned bizarre when Mr. Israel, on the verge of crying, announced: “I took a man’s life. I shot him twice.” I asked for more details. The story is recounted in “Octopus,” but the author, Mr. Lawson, doesn’t appear to believe it. In the supposed slaying, Mr. Israel describes himself defending a known con man, Robert Booth Nichols, who claimed to have once worked for the Central Intelligence Agency and has since died. Mr. Nichols was undertaking a secret trade at a German bank and was ambushed outside by a cockeyed “Middle Eastern guy.” Mr. Israel says he shot the ambusher in the hip and then in the head. He looked at me, shaking, and said, “I’ve seen someone with their head blown off maybe two feet back — as close as I am to you.” Mr. Israel recognized my skepticism. When I asked him what happened to the body, he said, “Bob made a couple of calls.” Again, I looked at him quizzically. “These people can do anything. They can get rid of a body,” he said. “Come on,” he added, looking at me as if I didn’t understand. “They can kill presidents.” I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. “The J.F.K. thing,” he said. He went on to tell me that he had videotapes of Kennedy’s assassination and that one was stolen by the F.B.I. “I know it makes me look like a crackpot,” he said. “But I know it’s real. Look into my eyes — I don’t care if people think I’m crazy.” Egrets. A Con Man Who Lives Between Truth And Fiction [Dealbook]