Alright, folks, let’s get the boring, financial mumbo-jumbo out the way straight off: Facebook is finally going public today by selling initial shares of the company at around $38.00 a pop. At its very basic, that means you can buy a very, very tiny piece of the company for less than $40.00. But at its very awesome-sauce, it means that YOU and ME ’bout to get PAID, SON!
”Oh, sure, because this shit writes ITSELF in iambic pentameter. Pay up, bitch!!!”
Now, hear me out, because I take a little bit of pride in the fact that I know nothing about stocks, the stock market, or why we use paper money. It’s kind of a hobby of mine. In fact, you can usually find me at the breakfast table every morning with my head in the newspaper, pouring over the day’s celebrity birthdays while I wipe bacon greased fingers on the business section because the napkins are all the way over there and I forgot to get one before I sat down. Everything I know about Wall Street I learned from watching a combined 42 minutes of Wall Street, all pretty much the same three scenes, and all over the span of the last 17 years. I plan on watching it straight through one day, but, for now, I’m a fiscal disaster.
“Greed, for lack of a better word, is…um…aw, Christ! LINE!!!”
But as a wise man once said, “What we don’t know will only make us rich, idiot a-holes one day.” And, folks, that day is today because I’m thinking if YOU, the intelligent, devastatingly attractive MamaPop readership and I combined our efforts and bought multiple shares of Facebook today, did a little flippy-floppy and sold them off to the
poor simps late-to-the-party investors at like a thousand times the initial offering (and it’ll get there) then I all but guarantee that we’ll all make enough money that we won’t ever have to work another day at being good human beings. And we can quit our shit jobs, too!
And, as we all know from reading about the escapades of many a hillbilly lottery winner, with great and sudden wealth comes great, ill-advised spending. Spend your ducats how you will, future, fellow rich person. I already know my first three purchases.
The House that Handsome Built
1st Purchase: Property – Namely, George Clooney’s villa on Italy’s Lake Como. Look, if you’ve carried a not-so-secret man torch for a certain salt and pepper matinee idol from your home state and you’ve basically read every interview ever done with said idol then you know that one of the big reasons the Cloon-Dog purchased his Italian pad was because he figured real estate was a far safer investment then playing the stock market. (Of course, this was before our genius, foolproof Facebook stock flip. BTW, I’ve opened a PayPal account and I’m gonna need everyone’s money and how many shares you want before the market closes today, ok?) So, I’m thinking it’s time that George put his money where his beautiful mouth is and sell. To me!
Ok, I’ve stared at this thing for an hour. Don’t see one single cube. STUPID ART!
2nd Purchase: Fine Art – No self-respecting bazillionaire would be caught dead without expensive art hanging on his walls. And I don’t plan on making that mistake. Picasso, Monet, and that “The Kiss” guy—I’m going to buy a ton of their pieces, hang them throughout my villa, and then invite under-privledged youth over to tour my collection. Together we will experience the reason why we hold certain works to such high regard: so that we may criticize, deride, and make insanely funny remarks like, “I paid 5 million dollars for this and I still think my dog takes prettier craps.” You know, classic rich people stuff.
3rd Purchase: Tom Bergeron – Yes, I realize that buying another human still carries with it a certain stigma that’s all frowny face around these parts. (We Americans just can’t shake our Puritanical sensibilities, can we?) But, I’m pretty certain that Tommy B. has a price and, with his consent of course, I will own him. Quite literally. And then the rest of my days will be “hosted” by The Berge. When I go to the farmer’s market, TB will be there sharing droll observations with everyone about my heirloom tomato purchase. Go for an oil change and he’s putting everyone at the shop so at ease with his family-friendly charm that they’ll forget to try and sell me services I don’t need. When making love to my new wives, there will be the Tommy After Dark ribaldry usually saved for the 10 o’clock hour of Dancing With The Stars.
I have every confidence that you’re with me on this sound investment opportunity. May I ask what you plan on purchasing once you’re so disgustingly wealthy that you forget who you truly are or where you came from, and those that were with you through the salad days?