Intimation: Hinting at a meaning but not stating it explicitly.
“I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where I’m going. My bowling ball is green. Do you get it?” She cocked her head and barked twice. “You’re so smart,” I told her. “Smarter than the goddamn idiot I trust my money with.” I was losing faith in my financial planner. He takes a shitload of money from me every month and invests in his latest “picks.” He says I’m young so the time is right to build a high risk portfolio. I’m 64 years old. I guess with the high life expectancy afforded by the 21st century, I could be considered young. Last month, he invested my money in a company called “Angel Soles” that makes “rechargeable” shoes. He did inadequate research into the company. I Googled it and found out that “rechargeable shoes” are shoes made of leather that can be shined when they lose their luster. Not much innovation going on here—just a new name for the same old thing. That’s unacceptable. Two months ago, he invested in a company that makes “environmentally sustainable paper mache household goods.” The company’s named “Paper Trails” and they offer to do an audit and replace everything in your home with paper mache “equivalents.” The paper mache blender caught my eye. I ordered one. It came in a box with a note explaining that it was intended as a decorative kitchen ornament to “make your kitchen a quieter more gentle place, without the annoying whirring of a conventional blender.” “Paper Trails” holds the record for quickest bankruptcy in the history of capitalism.
I’ve got to do something about the herraging of my retirement money. “Wiggly” Johnson, my financial planner, has been handling my family’s finances for as long as I can remember, starting with my grandfather, who died in penury, but swore by Wiggly, nevertheless. Wiggly is 91 years old and lives in a nursing home, where his office is located. He uses “Golden Glades” phone to do business. He uses offenders assigned on work release to Golden Glades as his “staff.” Most recently, his “Secretary” was a jaywalker who taunted motorists to “come and get her” after she stepped in front of their cars or trucks.
I set up a meeting with Whirly. I was going to tell him it was all over. He was sitting by a window holding his signature unlit cigar. He pointed it at me and said, “Cohiba.” I told him, “You’ve been the family’s financial planner for many, many years. You have invested millions on our behalf. In life, we say hello, and we say goodbye. We wave or shake hands and walk away. It’s normal. It’s expected. It’s life. I think . . .” Wiggly interrupted and said, “I know where you’re going you little shitbird. Just get the hell out of here and never come back. Fu*ck you.”
I stood up and said “Fu*k you too,” and left. I was relieved. Finally, I had gotten out from under the losing proposition. Wiggly was history. I called my new financial planner, “Red Pylon,” a 35 year-old financial wizard—so it said on his web page. I told him my finances were all his. He took me literally and liquidated all my accounts and took off with all my assets. Now, I was really screwed. I worked out the numbers and determined that I can’t retire until I’m 112. In anticipation of my future, I dress up like a homeless man and hold out a styrofoam cup on Main Street. In my despair, I call this financial planning.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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