Our retirement funds are only down 25%! We beat the market! Yay! Warren, look out. I will be the next secretary of the treasury. Or the navy. I always thought that would be fun. We are taking stock of our positions watching “Baby Mama” on OnDemand tonight. Mr. H is likely headed to a new job one of these days, so WTF do I do with the workplace-dependent retirement accounts? Roll lint and moths into an IRA with same brokerage and purchase exact same shares as 401(k), lie down with a hot water bottle and wait 30 years? I think that will work nicely. You got a better idea?
Now, my father ruined worrying about global financial crises for me twenty years ago, so please excuse my flippancy. It was 1987, and we were sitting in a McDonald’s, not too long after the October crash, and he said “You know, you’re not going to be able to eat hamburgers soon.” As I gummed my microwaved 49 cent burger, he went on to rail about what luxury I enjoyed, and how all this would come to a screeching halt, leaving us shooting claim jumpers in the streets and trading gold teeth for bread. We could lose our house, we could, oh hell, I forget the rest of the list. Trading cigarettes figured in at some point. I couldn’t eat without feeling nauseated for months. Now DEEP SHIT appears to be is HERE, and I am thrilled that I don’t have to worry anymore.
Oh! Oh! We were supposed to worry about nuclear power too.
I bet he’s gleefully grating Krugerrands to pay for groceries with gold dust. And hey, if it really turns out to be that bad, I’m going to move in with him and let my kid wake him up at 6 a.m. every. single. day.