fetaman.com

Brinesanity – an abide jar, filled with all the fuqs given.

By

Asshole’s Hindsight

“Misery does not love company ‘traditionally’. It yokes, trammels and contains vassalage through deceitful choice masked as emotion.” – Gus

Two red darts, two girls in blue.

Seclusion, and the promise of sobriety.

Standard fair for the Ferris wheels in Leningrad, fog lifting the sanity from the perspective that shone the light of a lift, before the drop came and the masses followed suit with children born of a liturgy founded in mad beats, rapid change and seclusion within the music of the mind.

Sanity seems to have been formed by the balloon blown, covered by the asymmetric mean averages puked by an algorithm that snaps tomorrow today, before yesterday has been given the time to ferment and crate the illusions of an illustrious past. Seems as though this is not the cloak by which love is forecast to shave the balls of Fate, stroking the chalice and tasting the chocolate and corn with such flare the media seeks interviews.

Canadian? No problem, we want to keep raping your resources, claim we dig you, then fuck you in the ass when The Interview is played on the eve with which some think of Mary, a whore, taking a flaming flesh souvlaki in the hole that shall bring forth a majestic, white, male. Destined through the clouds to provide the bliss that all cultures must follow. I am the racist though, perhaps one trying to inform the world of just how truly ignorant it is when considered soberly.

Fuck your tradition and simple manipulation of a past.

The details that were left in the footsteps of fools and flounders in the fields are just that; indentations of history caressed by the free minds of those that had the fortune to control all moves upon the chess board.

It is but a grain of rice, and those are but 64 squares. I stand by my decision and my kingdoms shall suffer the fate of stupidity I am about to exhibit. This is why I am King, the hindsight. As my Queen, she is sight. Follow our deleveraging of a regulation within this utopian sanity deemed a market. Justify 18,000 points as a heated manipulation of the economic strength that is flexed daily, as the masses buy magazines and bury time in the sand like the head it was to be by the choices they chose to oblige.

Looking back at the year, a snarl greats the first thirsty reflections; crowns upon the Crown Royal, salutations to the nights of frenzy and rage. Syphoned medications sit idly in the cupboard for days until their ghost gasps, push buttons and call upon Gus’s of the world to throw gasoline upon the pyres. Rubber tires, and vile language to bring a sobering reflection back from the mundane passive.

Chants of freedom, and the ability to speak are the pillars by which the temples of knowledge are shared, so many unseen and forgotten – doomed to be repeated in the passed negligence that was intentional, smitten, and of spawn. The horrors of racial profiles, and gun violence – spoken of years ago in one voice (*link to my piece), seemed to be lost in the Billboard 1000 Charts. I stand by them, still saddened by the ignorance that persists as governments allow the tires to be soaked. Recycled with fire.

Shit has to go somewhere, and when touched by fire every asshole will clamp shut. It is an autonomous reaction, like taking a piss when you shit. Just happens. The problem is, when the asshole is clamped shut, and it continues to feed off the fossilized sanitations of a global conscience, it will explode. Fuck, if it were anything but an asshole, it may have had the foresight to avoid taking in whatever would, or could cause such a problem. If it were anything other than an asshole, it might not be sitting here reflecting on the hindsight of an asshole.

I mean, upon presentation of the concept, or the ability to create a parody of the Nutcracker filled with all the madness you could imagine, I first was angered, then flattered to be able to given the opportunity to show that two cheeks could make life an entire universe, from the perspective of an asshole. It has a fixed position this asshole, it seems, as though all assholes do. If they did not, then they would have be referred to as ‘x’hole, where ‘x’ represents the infinite range of locations that can occupy the body of a living being, to expunge shit. Bile, refuse, piss. The excrement most often associated with political press releases, big ticket philanthropy, and manufactured poisons of all ilk.

Fucking awesome, right?

Well, wait.

It even gets better.

Turns out, the real twist on this story is that the asshole whose hindsight I was going to be reporting on, actually was a speaking asshole. A limited audience, and his impact is not so great as to truly matter, I mean, seriously – who the fuck is going to give any credibility to a talking asshole? Laughs? Sure. Impossible not to laugh at anything an asshole has to say, poor bastard has had a lifetime of assholes before him representing just about every facet of shit possible. Life is a remix.

How does an asshole stay relevant in the information, and mind occupation race?

Are you aware of the shit that is coming out of your mouth?

Does the taste of corn and peanuts bother you during any of your deliberations, arguments, or daily wishes of good-anything from day to night and all in between?

What is the ingredient in rye alcohol that makes all assholes rage?

The one thing that was required of me was to read Wolff’s ‘In Defense of Anarchism’, as well as appreciate the fact that most refined assholes, or those that believe that they are smarter than the average assholes, tend to take a lot of tangents, and the one I was going to be discussing hindsight with was particularly intrigued with Wolff’s IDOA work in 2014. This was likely a profound reaction to some serious of events, or a collection of them in totality from a broader delta of data points over time I was told, and I had to run with that. I was now considering how much of a challenge this was going to be, and was I going to be any better of a person for being able to be the furthest thing from this kind of asshole I could be?

Well it appears as though 2-15 provides the man in the mirror with an opportunity to pass the relish. Spread it and weep, fuck it. In the grand scheme of the universe, it has math to fuck hardily. Reach around, full on fuck. Screw the silence and the security, for the naive and the naive. Do you think you can tell, heaved and a mighty swell? A file from a nail, a walk on part in the scar, or the lead foil in a sage brush?

You think you can tell?

The real anger, the frustration is in listening to the water tell us it had nothing to do with the rounded edges of the rocks. The shores, they were craved from the carvings of the actions each rock took, the stance and the lack of action. That, that indeed is what shaped the oceans and the spleens.

Ne’er one fret to the pace, it is all but a relative.
Capsule, capped fool; tricks were for kids.
Still, into the night said the perfect knight.
Shame, it was a lie.
Forbidden into the lair, high.
Scared.
So it bursts, capitulation with a side of bravado.

Fuck, the walk is nowhere near as long as the song that is sung.

Starving people but a headline on the pages.

The man walks into the clinic for a nut sack tuck.

The trauma is equaled only by the drama.

Of the ride, but one promised by a llama.

Fuck this magic carpet ride is gonna abide; you can tell by the other side.

Fetaman's Abide - Miracle of Life Ehknew

*abide*

By

Happy Father’s Day Momma.

I was pretty much raised by my mother.

My dad was there for some of it, but he was an abusive alcoholic. “Known” bad-ass, and made sure everyone dug it. We never did as children, I mean the guns in the basement were normal right? Who needed to play just hockey down there – why not do it with a Luger as one post and sub-machine gun as the other? Fuck it, it was the 1970’s man. Never had a hand raised to use from him. Not me at least, and to the best of my knowledge and reflection the one that got thrown down the stairs, or beaten again and again – shamed – was the lady that gave me birth.

The mother, my mother.

A documented miracle.

I got a few of ’em.

*sip

A pioneer in the 1970’s. When a woman would never leave her husband without fear of serious issues in the public eye, in the private eye or through a black eye. It was the era when one more for the road meant a six-pack by the time Creedance guided the LTD down the black ribbon with innocent children in the back and an abused woman in the front now knowing what the closed doors might bring.

We left with holes in our shoes.

This is no lie, we hid.

The YWCA, for months. In a basement of cinder blocks and 68% complete board games. We made our own games up, we were children. We did not know what was really happening, but we knew it had to happen.

Home was not safe anymore.

When I hung up the phone that day, in downtown Oshawa it was I alone who had to tell my mother that he would not be told to do anything by anyone, and if he wanted to fucking drink, he would.

Fuck us all.

The real father was the one who did not get out of the car, on the off-ramp to take a piss cause he was so hammered. He figured his son was the assistant-captain of the hockey team, and since we were the third car, they would wait. They could see his rancid twin as it flashed in the beams of the cars floating by wondering if what they were seeing was real.

It was, the real father made sure he was never there again in that position. She made sure as the real father, that we would be protected, as protected as we could be. Fed, as well as we could be. As strong, and as smart as we could be.

We all could be anything we wanted, all we had to do was believe.

So I did.

We were so poor, I had to learn to change a toilet at the age of 14 cause there was no way food money was going to be used to pay someone to do what a real man could do.

My father, she worked harder than anyone I have ever seen to this day.

Perhaps that is where I learned that 18 hour days are for pussies. You will read about it, see the photo’s from around the world. The newspaper clippings, and the “international business entourage”.

You want to succeed, you find another 3 hours in you, at least.

You want to be the best?

Find seven more.

The stories are part of the inspiration to the “works” that are coming out.

Sure, they have taken some time – but they came off hot.

Too hot.

No person has the obligation to share all the details of their life for the sake of another’s entertainment. I would argue that obligation is to the self, if you have the ability to wade through a lifetime of memories and reflections separated by fact or fiction.

It is all fiction.

Life is a lie.

It has to be, there is not a single person in the world who can determine the entire mathematical proof of 20 million-billion firings PER SECOND.

I was sure of this until today, when it dawned on me.

I am 100% sure that I have a clear, and absolute awareness that my “father” – was a single mom, who left on a way to become one of the ladies that made the world what it is today.

You think I am kidding, then you best be moving on.

Shit is about to get more real than anything ever before, and I don’t give a fuck.

My hands are in the air, and I’m gonna wave ’em like I don’t care.

It’s Father’s Day tomorrow, and two of the finest gifts in the world are mine.

A biological asshole is “residing” in Hell, and I adore believing that.

More importantly, I get to spend Father’s Day with my mom.

The grass is orange.

It is any colour you want it to be.

Happy Father’s Day Momma.

I am proud to be who I am, where I am – and doing what I do to make sure the world knows.

You are the reason why I know real moms are made of magic.

Because you are.

I love you, forever.

*abide*

By

Die. Cot. Ah, me.

The wonderful world of alliteration.

The pageantry of being able to see the defining moments of the world that is seen to be so clear, and crisp to some, but clouded to others.

Some by choice have had this path thrust upon them, as a reward for the vengeance that they sought to take on anything that was to control them. The parrot speaking to the wooden dummy, a host of the outcast misfortunes that led him along the seizure, a salted taste on the good days when there was a river of it on his tongue, hydrated for a moment as a man should be walking the piles.

Around we see the badges of accomplishment, flare that is presented to stress our importance and want for an acceptance or a call. We see people that will lie and cheat, not to preserve some kind of mental challenges they may face or the hardships of their lives, but more so to flee the horror of their own choices. Leaving a path of almost undetectable traces to the naked eh, to another – it is a clear presentation of the fraud that they presented, and in time they will get to enjoy the fruits of their labours.

Bitter or sweet is not only a sub routine of the season alone.

It is a parcel of the package that was delivered to the senses, and then tasted with the intent of the day.

My heart bleeds for the challenges here, and the reality is much different than anyone could imagine – unless they had walked a mile in my shoes. It would be a slow walk, for many reasons. I would hope we could pause a little, and gather some thoughts from the fields beside us. It is hard to believe, but I am going to prove that the grass is orange, and that is the truth.

Whether other’s want to see it or not, will not matter to those of us that do.

The site is not dedicated to selling anyone anything.

There is no beggar here that is pleading for some kind of hand out, or screaming that there is a way for you to make those lovely pumps shine with so much love if you lose 10 lbs. or wear this floral print propaganda.

I am more than happy to hoist an ale, or smoke a smile or two with you.

I really don’t care who you are, just know who you are.

Stand and take pride in that, regardless of the adversity that you made it through.

The complexity of philanthropy is not an easy one to understand for ourselves, let alone for others.

It is always your choice, and you can smile knowing you did what and how for a reason.

But that reason, is all mine.

These, are just the spilling syllables of the tales I tell, and the life I have lived.

Two spreadsheets and a microphone.

Listen, and you can hear the fuq’s given.

Understand if it was a fuck that was important enough to be saved, or one that was entered in the alliterative form of modern day gladiators entering their own arena of stupidity to do battle with the legions of the fucks that will pander to the machine for want of being accepted.

Stand tall, and know when one is proven to be real – not some fictional picture, or some false prophet on radio speaking the words of his kind.

Real – then you can get more than the nickel.

But those dollars you took, they have another toll that has to be paid.

If you listen closely to the complex symphony, the overture – you can hear the sound of the timpany drum in the forest.

Here it was, thinking that no one would listen.

No one cared enough.

It was not the cost of the beer, or the flavour of the weeds. It was not the gester that would be seen as anticipatory, earning one the right to get a pre-release of the book he was penning on that corner. He was a broken man, broke by the standards of the society that many thought were just to judge him. There his riches were of another kind, here the multiplied in force. In purpose, in a tense capacity moving naturally.

They had come from the heart, because they had been touched. Like walking around the corner and touching the pavement, anxious to see the man who had a story for every day.

Many days, there was no day without his stories. It was merely a stretch of the same composite construction of lame office humour and a desperate hiding spot until Ollie has had enough time to ponder his weak mule as an ox. It was a sad circus, and the man knew it. But he had to find something in his day that mattered, and so he came and listened. He thought no one else would.

You did, and that – has made all the difference.

*abide*

By

This is how flying was invented.

Naked honesty.

When reflected upon and in a retroactive basis, is wild.

Beautiful and mesmerizing. Shanked by the sharpened edges of the social norm, restricted from being provided in the state of nature man was born into, for it would drag us back to the cave to be beaten.

Suffering fools, chained to the anomaly of convention sold as a bill of goods by the piper.

I wish that experience on so many, but alas – for a variety of reasons, and some within their control with others not so much so, they will never get to feel the rush of creating something so real and passionate that taking it down would be the sin, not posting it in the first place.

Sorry is the man that has never felt the rush of a solid sequence of syllables in a wave of emotion that brings him to tears, listening to the darkest of the memories tell him of the night hell broke loose and decided to bend your ear and hold your hand.

You held it back.
It was a wild night.
Do it again, I would.

Hollow is a life that is posted on a “timeline” and never reflected on again, wondering how the tree is worshipped and the memories that have made it so are forgotten to the fruits seen to be able to be harvested each year from a branch that would melt minds if it could reach into a garden of another kind.

But it can.
We can.
It does.

Gus does.

I am so unbelievably, fantastically, and cosmically stoked it is not even funny what a surreal trip this is. I am shaking with joy and emotion, at a level that is magical.

That is no lie.
That is alive.

That is fuck cancer, fuck cowards, wake up and live – alive.

No machine, no cubicle, no green grass only – orange grass.
Alive.

Where other’s see misery, and pain, and misfortune…I see opportunity.
To live, and be free from the thoughts and the illness, and ailments that want to consume me.

They shall not, but I offer them my soul and my life selflessly at the will of Abide.
If that is what it sees fit for me, then so be what I see fit for me.

To the ages of ages.

Reciprocity in piece, and being.

If you had made millions, and wanted to pursue a dream – would you?

Really?

Good, nice to meet you.

Me too.

*sip

Get ready, ’cause if you want the ticket I got one.

Enjoy the ride.

Υγεία, Φιλία kai θρησκεία
Egia, Filia kai Thriskia. 

“Health. Friendship. Faith.” is what many would get from a dictionary.

What I get out of that, well…it may not be as interesting as what Gus does.

The grass. It is orange.

*abide*

By

Buffett On Acid.

The wizard came up in the daily readings.

So I have decided to honour some of the requests and include some shorter pieces, that will have the readers of the site and the engaged Twitter heads et al, enjoying some of the observations. It has been a request, and I figure that since I am using the creative side of the miles walked to get to the end of the book that is being published, why not just hop over here and make sure to note some of the “logic” behind the tweets.

Brilliant, hard to understand all the time, but genius” is a great compliment to flatter any ego, and I have fought hard to not be such a blatant “self-promotion” machine, but fetaman.com is a site that has been created, and kept whole to illustrate the range of writing, and various styles along with media, so as to ensure that it has some co-operative and reactive elements to it.

Books can be so static and don’t allow for more of the interactions, as such, how about some “common thoughts” or pokes and prods at what the tweet was intended to mean, and where it may take another on the journey in their own minds according to what I may be able to see from this awesome Herman Miller. (*shameless plug on how great the product is, and more importantly the amazing team at Design Within Reach that not only helped provide it, but have made sure to keep it serviced and sorted. Yes, that is right. An ergonomic cloud, that actually has jet packs that hover over the atmosphere, much like the attitude of Andrew and Jen, two great team members that are rock solid. No there is not “compensation” received for this plug, it is just part of what happens to come out of the writing at the time, and maybe will help see the “social ethics” of passing on good information, and pro-active stuff, not only the negative stuff)

So here are some of my thoughts, on a respected mentor. Consider all of my good fortune in the roast, please or do not consider it all. For to do it an injustice, would be to do the same to the intent of the respectful prod and admiration that is bestowed in the musings of a man, made of feta cheese.

Quite the fuqtarded piece of cheese at that.

*sip

The illusion of eternity, or the concept of it becomes a bit of place from which to consider all things. Especially relevant during the “invisible brown acid” stages of the adventure, this concept of space and time melts into a need to find great joy in the simplicity of things. If an egg beater has value when beating eggs, then it must also have just as much value or more perhaps in other things, and as such, I am going to hold this until such time as I can find a way of proving that the return on my investment, is the memory. Never undervalue that.

The “hand tossed” of the bread business is just not generic enough. It is lovely to consider at home, but at the Buffett home price is always the object. Said price is always a “wonderful” (*man uses this word a lot, always in awe of life, well played – truly makes the magic carpet ride a better one.) gauge for the “value” derived from it, and that value is not only the digestion of the bread, but the items that are the byproducts of the sale of it.

Always aware of his time, and even more so, the limit of it regardless of who you are, allows this one to bring out a bit of a smirk. To have tripped balls so hard you can not only not see the watch, but you logically begin to discover some small feelings of paranoia related to not being aware of time, and that just takes you further into the rabbit hole? Pretty soon tea with the rabbit is a reality for all, whether he is a single pipe smoking rabbit or not, that remains to be seen. Is Warren the pipe smoking rabbit?

This has so many levels of delicious that it should have you Googling for the word “MLACH” – it is a 5 letter word for good tasting. It is dated, but it is delicious during times of festive diversion. Who bribes? Them, or him? Is the swimming with sharks, or in a pool? Is this a figurative swim, or a literal one? Wait a second, Michael Moore did that film on the corruption side of corporate America and he proved that today the banks are not giving out guns anymore, that is politically incorrect, so it is brides then right? *sip

If you are too young to need to get a reference about the Grateful Dead, that is all I can say to bring you up to speed. Futures and core longevity plays are his gig, he is not one to go fast on just about anything except paper. He loves to go fast and furious on paper. It is the modern chess masters pawn, and the simplicity of it does not diminish the compound rice applications across the board of a simple 64 square plate. Not a game of kings at all. Nope, not at all. Nor is math.

Sheeple, the concept of latin with business to create a new term that almost always work if you have the right situation, context and delivery. I am sure that Warren does not use talc like normal people. He has made allusions to unicorns to many times, and it is clear. He actually uses unicorn dust on his balls to keep them dry at all times. At the end of the day, he has 13 of his pupils arrive to map and scope the tea bag readings from the day. All of the results are gathered into empirical data pivot tables, and matrix macro gyrations facilitate the next days trading activities.

I know, it all sounds weird.

I can imagine, you think just because it is Friday, I am on this invisible brown acid again.

Well, not entirely.

I am never off of it.

It is what I signed up for when I got my life back.

Go on, shake it.

It’s just a fetaglobe.

*abide*

By

Handshake UD – NOYB 1.1

The experience continues, and the bottom line?

I am thirsty.

“Asking” for a beer, and a handshake, I would have thought that would have been very easy to do with the offer of leaving an iPod behind for the lucky winner of the back-of-the-napkin raffle. It is a 3rd Generation, 4GB, iPod Shuffle and it is new. and the posts are right below this one. Here is the the shortcut to the original post, in case the “napkin” has some feta or brine juice on it.

It can get pretty spunky, so providing a daily update for those that think this is “twerk” or about making money.

So far, 6 Tweets of my own, that have been RT from me, non from here direct but one single solitary Zippo. Connected the crosshairs with a direct S/O and for that, am always grateful. This “code” is pretty simple, there has been one RT – so, interesting to note the impressions and the hits, but what about extended handshakes?

Trench warfare is not easy, smells like pretzels down here.

Twitter – 17 users, 33 interactions
Twitter Statistics:
Stars (n/a): 24
RT: 9
RT (*beer): 0

“Longevity is created, not spurred.” – Gus

Friends Family: **
RT (*beer): 0*
BG:**
*none of these friends have not RT, or will not be eligible until they do. The likelihood of that is barely registered, they are the support and kinship of another kind. I am most grateful for their generosity, and affirmations of abide in and of themselves. Support comes in many ways, as does wealth.
**NOYB – None of Your Business represents the fictional title of the “free” research piece that will flow from this approximate week, and it is going to include a groundbreaking revelation about the “Buy the Book” principle. It may or may not involve the last series of months of discovery, and will be interesting to get for free, as the trial lift, pre-release of the “Orange Grass Abides” piece, the title of which is different.

Anybody who demands brutal honesty and transparency from me, is to be granted the same opportunity at any given time.

“It is never madness. It is just about deemed reasons justified as an intent.” – Gus

Hotel Abide.

Demand brutal honesty and transparency from another, but be prepared to grant the same to opportunity and its concequences, logical repurcussions or cerebral sutra.

Two spreadsheets and a microphone.

*abide*

By

Mai Tie

Here is something to ponder.

What the fuck are you doing here? I mean, I am pretty sure of what I am doing. I can only say pretty sure, because nothing is absolute. It is constantly in a state of flex and change, and fucking hell – do you really think I am not aware of the stupidity? Including my own.

Shit in my life is real, and somehow, other’s seem to be at a point in their lives that theirs is required to be avoided, because it stinks so bad the only way to deal with it is to ignore it, like some kind of misery that is to be forgotten as a cause from their own actions and consequences.

Take a moment and sit back, reflect on the reality of it all.

Let it sink in, if it needs to.

Go on, you deserve it.

*smirk*

In deserving, there is more – there is an earned and blessed feeling.

Comfort is neither hot or cold, a smile or a laugh.

It is being in the moment and living it to understand the beauty, even in the tragedy of the falling of life by the wayside of Time. Accompanied by his alter-ego, Age, Time ensures you are aware that closer to it shall you go, but never to you will it come.

It does not need to, it is right there beside you as the most precious thing you hold in your life.

It is only a matter if you make it so.

Else, it will follow you on the miles you choose to own.

Looking around me today, the  sun is shining.
I am alive, and no longer hovering in a state of fear from a cancer.
My wealth is not defined by the numbers in any regard, but by a cerebral sutra that allows me to abide by anything that comes forth.

It sounds like a bunch of bullshit, and some kind of mysterious lame Duck Daced font mantra…
sure fucking thing sunshine, sure fucking thing.

Sure you got it all figured out, and are walking those miles.

I am going outside to do some lawn bowling today, and if anyone has got a problem with it they can fill in an official form, the FU-101 – it’s the blue one, right over there on the box, beside the unicorn having a coffee with Doug Henning and Moses.

“It’s spring time motherfucker, do you have it?” said Samuel.

I imagine he is smiling though, about to roll his bocci ball. It will be easy to spot, because the grass is only now starting to show the signs of the orange that most don’t know.

They see it as green.

green buckets, blue dog, Ellas car horns, Kola, decades pass, abide, fetaman.com, fetaman, iFeta, fetaChops, brinesanity

“There is no salvation in becoming adapted to a world which is crazy.” – Henry Miller

*abide*

By

Movie Mashup – Berkeshire Shareholder Letter Summarized by Fetaman.

Pretty much says it all, the whole year has gone by it seems, and we find ourselves in the glorious position of being able to summarize the bountiful knowledge of the grand Hoo Bla of Finance himself, a genuine inspiration and mentor in so many aspects of his life, and a delinquent malcontent that has the beautiful presence of mind and ability to transfer drug patented nano-chemo-Vulcan-nology through all forms of natures states, and mesmerize crowds with a Weedabix smile, and the passion of Christ in his eye’s.

Don’t get me wrong, I am always one to speak the truth, and here there is a solid respect for the man, the myth – the legend. Holding that piece of paper, in your hand. Just one share, is not to be taken lightly. I know some that have had theirs since the mid-90’s, and then some. Pretty interesting tales, Gus has a few of those to tell I am sure, but getting to Gus is another story.

Summary piece from the Business Insider – Warren Buffett’s Annual Shareholder Letter Is Out — Here Are The Best Parts article, that are listed and referenced in the bullet form. Each of the quotes can be seen in the original article on the title, or just avoid that hogwash, and click the quote for the “surprise” video that gives you a little waft of the gig, or you can do that after shaking the Fetaglobe a little and seeing what kind of cheese settles on the matter;

  • “For just the 9th time, Berkshire’s book value rose less than the S&P 500. Buffett calls the year subpar.”

The sub par year for Berkeshire, would be considered an eagle for the common man.

 

  • “Berkshire pursued a couple of “elephants” but mostly came up empty, until the recent big Heinz deal.”

In anticipation of the Heinz deal, a number of failed elephant hunts didn’t cut the mustard.

 

  • …build per-share intrinsic value by (1) improving the earning power of our many subsidiaries; (2) further increasing their earnings through bolt-on acquisitions; (3) participating in the growth of our investees; (4) repurchasing Berkshire shares when they are available at a meaningful discount from intrinsic value; and (5) making an occasional large acquisition.”

(1) Jack up the prices for the papers, to tell you what to buy and think – the old newspaper value/pump play. *raises glass to the meek* Careful though, he is shorting the shit outta telegraph companies. *lemming stampede*
(2) The bolt-on is a cheaper alternative to the full transgender Executive of tomorrow. More efficient, and all female’s to take on androgynous roles to comply with male superiors needs, including any “strap” on requirements on those long and lonely business trips.
(3) When you feed the pigs, their growth is just an FPB (*Future Present Bacon) calculation.
(4) Sell helium before departing, repurchase after the balloon ride. Rest, wake, repeat.
(5) This is code for taking on some big booty, cause you know what – he can no tell no lies, and he loves the big but’s.

 

  • “CEOs who whine about “uncertainty” are silly.”

The whole world is one giant bowl of ass soup. One day you will be tired of it cold, and the next you will be tired of it hot. Don’t like the rules – no ass soup for you! (*Cold Soup Nazi)

 

  • “America’s rail system has never been in better shape, a consequence of huge investments by the industry.”

Seriously, this is almost as good as the free candy ploy at the WeightWatcher’s meeting around 8:37 p.m. What was the name of the railway in the book Atlas Shrugged?

 

  • “Buffett wants to save the company’s cash for the remaining whales in the ocean.”

Dividends? We don’t pay no stinkin’ dividends *shows badge* What, you do this because you actually want to measure worth in money?

*abide*

 

*approaching 50,000 hits on the site, in about the last 4-6 months (*the first chunks were getting the gig going, other projects, and making sure there is a reason to be here – which reminds me, the FREE photo’s are coming up for YOUR viewing pleasure – always get a fucking classic kick out of the haters, seriously, you have no idea how cool that is…to have “it” actually speak without words, IQ or presence – sure thing Uber Hater, I don’t MIND you have a lovely life now…) and I am going to be unlocking more of the areas with the update’s and news on the upcoming “Orange Grass” shit that has been making a buzz. Thanks for being a part of the gig, and know you are always welcome to participate, discuss, contact and indulge. They are your miles, mine are from this side of the path.

By

Souvlaki wine, magic chop.

Good morning, Gus here. Fetaman has left me alone. So I was reading a string of articles in the Globe and Mail this morning, and it had started with the Rob Carrick article titled “Job seeker on Gen Y’s struggles: “I didn’t think I’d be here at 30’”  A very interesting piece that illustrates a telling tale of a cycle, that is all about context. I am fond of the context smirk often, in fact, Fetaman uses it a lot. I introduced it to him. Yeah, I am anxious to weigh in on a number of matters, and consider “right.”

From there I had proceeded to click on a link of his that spoke of this blogger (*financefox.ca) and how the practiced “No Spend Days”. This new cult of personality has recently popped up more and more since the days of the Cappuccino Hair Bands. Seems so long ago, but those were good days.

Making your own coffee in the office. Being proud you saved that couple of bucks, and taking it to the next level. *context smirk* That was divine, grand. Divine. Hell, you even went out and bought $164.73 of sealable and transportable containers to be able to take in leftovers, and soon enough, you could even be shopping each day for fresh little bits of delight you could proudly boast in the office as the bundle of joy you are.

Mmmmmmmmm…Berry Pomegranite Mio…

So is my desire to sit here and start to “complain” or whine about what needs to be done, and how tough it may be out there to do what you need to do or why you choose to do it?

Not quite – I am more aligned, and of the same opinion ranges as this writer speaks of, in his reply to the initial letter written to Rob Carrick. It is titled “Why this 29-year-old believes Gen Y doesn’t have it that bad.”

No, I think I would rather look at the positive side of it all. Just like you do? Consider how if you really look at the “richness” that you have in your life, surrounding you, and you have adjusted the means and the ends for the “revenue” you seek in your life, then you will be able to live on much less of a “spend” from the financial side. Fuck. The opposing side of this Yang, is that Ying requires a lot more work and effort, they balance each other, and Ying is sparing when it comes to creature comforts. He lives in a way that many feel romantic about, until their month of joy has been eroded to menial tasks that will provide warmth, and food, and joy of a kind found only in the mountains of the mind. Chopping fucking wood in minus 30 degree weather, with a senior citizen is not exactly a fucking task for the faint of heart. But when you have a purpose, to make some wine, the challenge was that my wine was a vine. The grapes were “different”.

Wine is wine. It is from grapes, sweet or sour. It is fermented with time. It inebriates, as does it’s main ingredient. It swirls and aerates the elixirs of the mind, providing the same intoxicating reflections, effects, lapses of memory, depressions, joys, good times and bad times, wealth and poverty. All of it, inebriated by time.

Time makes the vine grow. Time makes the orange show.

Syntax changes today, and the only difference becomes how we consume the whine.

Consider weight of the whine, as something that has to be measured. It must be qualified. So you have to add subjective measurements such as age, and quantity or size, is the whine intelligent with an IQ that is acceptable and has been given a good “score” by the ratings guru’s, pundits and promoters and readers.

The readers can see, that the whine has an h in it. The listeners, will have to imagine that, to have the capacity to draw that conclusion themselves. It ain’t easy drawing conclusions at any age, is it?

Is this any different life at any of these ages? Of course there are, at different stages of life, your conclusions will be driven by what it is that has been delineated by the “age” – time, credentials, net worth, penis size, cup size…I-fucking-Q.  It Is all about your form. The world has changed and physical versus cerebral and cognitive empirical measures and subjective objectivity are always important boundaries to look at when you determine where you are. They are the fence posts on the Parameter acreage you own from birth. Expanding it or contracting it, is an environmental manifestation of the physical reality called you.

As humans, we then automatically create a stigma, a dogma, a viewpoint on other’s from our own experiences, and find entertainment in the universe of the mind as we consider how we like some things, and despise others. Why we are more entitled to something, than that other person who clearly is not as good as we are, so you must beat them back or harm them in some way to proceed. Of course, the second that many of you read that you pounced from the mental soap box to scream of your charity work, and your giving nature and all that you do to be kind, caring and some form of a religion based deity that has wings and can solve your problems.

Well, so can a shitload of Red Bulls and Vodka.

Trust me, it is only a temporary fix.

Just like breakfast of Corn Flakes and Crown Royal.

Just like plugging into a shit J.O.B. – it may sound like some kind of multi-level marketing jingle to have you sign on the dotted line so you can eventually move to Bora Bora after you make the millions saving your friends and families money on basic cable, phones, internet – and you are right. I had heard it from a douchebag, that was a miserable failure trying to build his life back up by telling lies, fuck him. Fuck anyone who is going to try to continue build up their lives using lies and not revealing them, and that is a very important reflection point is for me, and in fact it appears society is very clear. Honesty is the most valuable currency in this day and age, and transparency, as a result of it, whether you like it or not, is here.

I honestly do believe that a job is “Just Over Broke”.

No matter what kind of wealth you have, you are living within your means. You believe, that if the Jones’s are indeed driving that car, and have a debt ratio of X:Y, then yes, you too can be living within your means, if the means, become your own. If you accept “them”, then by natural collusion, you will unite with their means. Their means.

Means judged by others.

Not my fucking gig, thanks.

So does that then make me right, or am I wrong?  Who has a right that is more important – can one right shove all-in on another and always be the Royal Fucking Flush? Are these physical rights or spiritual rights? Does this right consider the right and just associates and peers, fellows and humans that sit beside us, in this commune circle delineated by the chairs we sit on?

Each right is different in it’s own way, until you fly a little higher by whatever means you need to so you can spend a little time with Jonathon. Silly fucking seagull, or prophet of understanding that at this height, they are all just big box store data points that lead to one giant balance sheet in the sky.

Immigrant parents came and worked like dogs. Literally.

Wandering the streets to find jobs, or trying to build them and having them fail, into bankruptcy.

There is one very simple solution to all of this bullshit, fuck.

Stop the victim thinking. Just think internal. The only victim has been my own self victimizing itself and blaming others.

Stop your fucking whining, and make your own wine with no h.

Drink it, enjoy it. It is the elixir of life.

It will change your life.

For the better, it always does.

But remember, my wine is not a vine. My vine, is actually orange grass.

“It will change your life for the better.” Always does.

Your wine, my vine. I found that vine because I looked for the orange in everyday. Somedays I chose to share it.

The world becomes a better place.

Other days I choose to nurture it, make sure you do so in order to help it become a belief grenade.

In the past, those belief grenades have changed. They have been brine grenades, taint grenades, the have been lie grenades.

What I do know, whatever you do,  when you do launch it…people will realize for what it is.

Me? I am just launching a biography. About myself. Gus Xortopoulas.

I will tell you right now, the grass, it’s fucking orange.

*abide*

 

By

Happy Birthday to…

What an incredible odyssey.

It has been a year since the site officially became mine.

I had waited over 8 years to be able to get past all of this, and before that – you have no fucking clue.
None.

You think I am not aware of what is “out there” – and what the “lines look like”…really?

Do you think a plan, that has been made for decades, even a lifetime if one considers it, is really just something that simply happens?

You have the sleuth ability to start to get hooked, and like the heroine town you may exist in, or the hero mind you do, you are addicted to taking it to the next level.

To finding out more, to getting past the reality of Survivor, and the fake fucking bandana’s and the bullshit positioning from Day 1 – “I am just here to make some friends, I am so naïve, I am so strong, I am so fucking smart, I am so fucking stupid…oh look, a tortoise with a hare on his back…do they even have hair…”

I know who the fuck fetaman is.

Pretty fucking proud of it as well, because I know it all – except for you.
You are the know it all I want to meet.
So does Gus.

He is interested in beginning to introduce himself over the next few weeks.
His biography is coming out.

Pretty fucking impressive, and having had the chance to not only interview him, but also having been given the chance to verify accounts, eyewitnesses and documented proof.

One of the strangest, oddest, brightest, most eccentric, gifted, smart, angry, loving, caring, compassionate, valiant abiders I have ever known.
If not the single greatest…

Gus runs on his own time.
So do I.

It is a birthday celebration and it is combined with a publishing. What more could anyone ask? I mean, seriously – what a long strange trip, and where are we still? Yes, just seeing some of the invisible brown acid come to life. A special K of sorts.

The biography, the story, of Gus…

Don’t expect synchronicity.

This is a delicate operation, and if you want to be part of it.

Welcome to it – you can either RT this link, direct with the question included, or you can #orangegrass it up, either is a chance to ask Gus, and I can assure you, he will answer.

Celebrate or don’t.
Trust me, this has nothing to do with hunching over anything – not a typewriter, not a water tray, not some village code, not a table of weed, not a set of bullets, not a conspiracy of shades that are something new…

I know.
Hard to believe.

Trust me.
I fucking know.

It doesn’t matter though.
Cause the clock, the watches – the story of Gus.

It becomes clearer with each passing day, and in the coming 30 days, how many and when are just beside the Fuqu Pyramid, just take a coat hanger and levitate near it.

There is a whole year to explore behind this, and there is much more for myself.

Being an interviewer, is one interesting experience.

Care to play?

fetaman/ _

*truly a wonderful, gracious humble bow today – humility asks for, and asks no excuses, for it too…*abides*

****this is where I insert my own happy birthday to fetaman.com – for the real fetaman, from the real fetaman, with a background heralded by associates. Go ahead, link from the site – fill in the question, I promise. I am pretty sure Gus would answer most honourable, logical and discretion sensitive inquiries. To the point of the dedicated box that is running the code – the rest, my…look…a shiny set of keys. Oh wait, it may be a text…did that arrive? No, must be a lonely time, grab the flash light…only 45 metres across the way…no, the...the way…

*************Yes, this is 13 of them, is that “code” also.

*******Gus thinks so.

*iAbide*