Baldy

As I mentioned last week, I had gone and gotten myself some pimped out Brooks Brothers shirts and RL chinos (fuck you bankers, choke on your ties). I had also gone and gotten myself a Tyson Beckford haircut from the best shop in town. As I dressed this morning, I felt sure the day would be mine, I was looking and feeling like 10,000 barrels of oil (do the math, not the metaphor).

My high opinion of myself were confirmed by what were as close to wolf-wistles as possible from the all-male Convertible Bond desk. Exclamations of "sharp, nigger, sharp" wafted my way, borne on my fresh Chanel cologne. I logged into my Bloomy feeling all smug, surely noone would give a playa so fly any kind of grunt work especially not any accursed bookings. I took a satisfied sip of my black-as-brothers Starbucks and thanked my parents for their sexy genes.

I heard a distinctive cackle, and my director was grinning his square, gorah head off as he headed towards me. I could feel the love, and somewhere in my mind, the angels began to sing... "ohhh we wish you a merry christmas and no bookings this year". He set his coffee down, gave me another gay smile and said:

"Morning baldy...saw your head shining from across the room..I did a few trades yesterday...have you booked them already?"

Bahenchod.