The Two Printers

"Anything you can do  I can do better!"  Trichet said into the phone.  He had gotten Bernanke's Treehouse Answering machine.  Bernanke had walked in the door during the last line, he took off his trench coat and let the taped monolougue continue.

"Ve Vill do some quantitatife eazink too."

The tape stopped.  Bernanke breezed back into into the living room, where Timmah was strapped into his 8 bit Nintendo PPT video game.

"Timmah, time to go back into the market.  Get daddy some LULU today.  Don't tire yourself out either,"  he said while pouring a glass of Captin' and Malibu.  "Make that new Algo do the work for you."

Timmah was sick of getting so much blame.  He was leaving.  No more would he be dictated to by BS Bernanke.

"Benneh Bernanke."  He smirked to him self.  He went outside into the Clubhouse garage and got a can of gasoline.  He pured it at the base of the Treehouse just in time for BS to come outside.

"What are you doing Timmah!"  No!!!"

But it was too late.  Timmah had lit the match and thrown it; the Treehouse was in flames.

BS ran to his printer, "I must save the printer!"  He picked up the inkjet 5000 laser printer and threw it out the window.  The smoke was getting thick and he was about to pass out.  He fell to the floor.

Then out of nowhere, like a flash of lightening, someone picked him up and took him out of his office, and down the blazing tree.  He was tossed onto the ground, and he coughed and coughed.  When he looked up, he saw Trichet.

"Why?  Why did you save me?"

"I can't print alone.  Both printers are needed to keep the fiat ponzi gooing."

Bernanke's eyes spun in his head, and he passed out again.  Trichet left him there, slumped over his printer.

Who runs this motha?

Who runs this motha?

"Girls...we run this motha....yeah!  Girls!  Who run the world?  Girls!"

BS and Timmah sang and danced along to the tune while clinking glasses in celebration of buying up every asset, toxic and otherwise, in the known universe, before a variable collapse secured their status as BUYER OF LAST RESORT.

"Tuwn it up eye wub dith thong!"  Yelled Bawknee as he plopped himself on the love seat adjacent to Timmah's 8 bit Nintendo they used to run their PPT simulator.

"Girls!  Who run this motha!  Girls!  Who run this motha!"

There was no stopping them.  They had DC by the balls and Walled Street by the ears.  They were gods among grasshoppers.  Lords among field mice.

"Friday!"  Screamed BS over the music.  "Friday it all comes down.  Friday we own everything and nothing at the same time!"

"Weee!"  Giggled Timmah.  "TIMMAH!"

Bawknee waved his pointer fingers in the air with jubilation.  He was so happy he could be accepted by the great Alchemists of the Treaserve.

Girls....Who run this motha.....

Barry does Britney

"Suck it up America! Suck it up!" Barack turned behind him. "What should I say next?"
"Just read from the teleprompter..."
Obama turned righteously, with his head strong on his neck. He swiveled it from left to right. "Look, we all knew we had to tuck our guts in. We all knew this day would come. We are strong, we are bold, and we will resolve these issues."
"Yes we can!" A blind man said from the back of the auditorium.
Barack was satisfied with himself, and stepped away from the podium. "I need some Cherry Garcia." He said to his underscore.
"Yes sir."
"Tell Michelle we will be flying to whatever vaca spot she wants next, and pop a bottle of bubbly while you are at it." He made his way to the dressing room.
"Where the hell are my skittles?" He always asked for a bowl of skittles to be set aside his mirror. "Even Britney gets what she wants." He lamented. He was getting frustrated being President. It seemed like no one respected him anymore.