A Tale of Whoa

by Johnny Debacle

The call was supposed to start at 3:30pm. It’s 5:28 as I type this, and the blood that has been pouring out of my ears and onto the print-out of your deck is the direct result of actions you took. I would offer that this is not a desirable event in your capital raising efforts.

I was mostly minding my own business, which generally is what I mostly do, telling the conference coordinator my name and such. When I was finished with her, I was mentally prepared to spend the next 10 minutes readying for the call so I could ask you some amazing questions about bad debt expense or perhaps about your ability to pass on increases in commodity prices to your customers, especially significant when one considers your untoward exposure to tungsten.

When I was done with the conference coordinator, I was put into the call, dropped into that nebulous space that just hangs as I just hang. It was here where it happened. Where you did IT. His plodding, mellow, secretly insidious words began butterknifing through my ear into my brain’s grey machinery.

Oh, father and mother, sister and brother

You slipped James Taylor into one of my ear drums. His words crush free will, their internal beat an urge to commit the most heinous crimes.

If it feels nice, don’t think twice

It was this moment, where I could no longer think twice.

Just shower the people you love with love

My hands took to trembling and my ears took to pleading. Mercy. Some things, JD, are so horrible, you can’t unhear them. We are are your ears, please trust us. End us. End the sounds. We can never go back to what we were JD, every sound in the future will be tainted by what has happened today at 3:31pm.

Show them the way that you feel

The cheap metal tip jutted into my right eardrum, injecting its green ink into my brain. With a conductorial flurry, I struck the the tip cross-handed into my left eardrum. The pain was replaced by a liberating silence.

Unburdened, I was ready to receive your pitch. And then there was darkness.

Maybe your investment proposition was a good one, maybe it was a bad one, but with the congealing maroon pool dancing across the top of your prospectus, and sensation making a flight (from my body) to quality, it doesn’t seem likely that that will be known.

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