Vanity Fair has an article about some stock market weirdness.

It appears that somebody has insider information with S&P e-minis, electronically trade futures contracts linked to the Standard & Poor’s 500 stock index.  I’m gonna fess up that Momma left me some stock – just regular stock that has done nothing but drop since the day I got it. Other than just regular stock, I might as well be putting my money in a slot machine because I just don’t understand the stock market.

Traders in the Chicago pits have been watching these kinds of wagers with an increasing mixture of shock and awe since the start of the Trump presidency. They are used to rapid fluctuations in the S&P 500 index; volatility is common, of course. But the precision and timing of these trades, and the vast amount of money being made as a result of them, make the traders wonder if all this is on the level. Are the people behind these trades incredibly lucky, or do they have access to information that other people don’t have about, say, Trump’s or Beijing’s latest thinking on the trade war or any other of a number of ways that Trump is able to move the markets through his tweeting or slips of the tongue? Essentially, do they have inside information?

We’re not talking about people making pocket change.  One particularly hinkey looking trade netted a potential profit of $1.5 billion.  The others are millions.  Honey, those trades are standing out like black roots on bleach blonde hair.

Trump is the swamp.

Donald J Trump, Jr. is powerfully upset about Hunter Biden.  So upset that he went on Sean Hannity and said,

“When you’re the father and your son’s entire career is dependent on that, they own you.”

Mirrors cracked in the entire zip code of Sean Hannity’s show.

How can you do that?  How can you not know that you’d be an assistant manager at Office Depot except for having your Dad’s name? Your brother would be stocking shelves there.

I don’t get it.  Is there a self awareness gene? Why didn’t the Trump family have any?

Yes, I saw Nancy Pelosi addressing Trump in the cabinet room.

Yes, I saw Trump’s whiny boy face.

Yes, I saw the Triad of Shame.

Yes, I saw Kevin McCarthy holding on to the table with both hands to keep from sliding under it.

But mostly I saw a room filled with white men.  Speaker Pelosi was the only hooter toter in the entire room.  There were no people of color deciding American policy.  Y’all, we just gotta change that.

Y’all, he’s full of so much crap and leaving such a damn mess behind that he’s like a hurricane with a dictionary.

Trump’s letter to Erdogan.

Click here to see the big one.

Okay, okay, who the hell wrote this B Grade Mafia movie?  Don’t be a tough guy.  Don’t be a fool? Who talks like that?

However, the best is: I will call you later. (to apologize?)

They called themselves that – you know, like little boys who name their backyard “clubs.”

Ukraine policy was removed from career diplomats and placed in the hands of Rick Perry, Gordon Sondland and Kurt Volker.

George Kent, the deputy assistant secretary of state responsible for Ukraine, told House investigators he was instructed to “lay low,” focus on the five other countries in his portfolio and defer to Volker, Sondland and Perry — who called themselves the “three amigos” — on matters related to Ukraine,

Well, I guess we all know who got to be El Guapo.  I wonder if there was a a plethora of pinatas?  (“Well, you just told me that I had a plethora, and I would just like to know if you know what it means to have a plethora. I would not like to think that someone would tell someone else he has a plethora, and then find out that that person has no idea what it means to have a plethora.”) Yep, Rick Perry.  Oh hell, it could be any of these three guys.

I dunno.  Three guys who are making life and death decisions about little children in Syria probably ought not to call themselves the Three Amigos, characters on the inside of goofy.  I guess No Girls Allowed was already taken for a club name.

Y’all, we’re being played.  By the Three Damned Amigos.

I was pretty pumped-up for the debate last night.  The Astros had just won, my tummy was filled with some scrumptious pad thai, a cool front was coming in, and I was having a good hair day.

I was disappointed in the debate. To me, they all seemed tired, flat, and a little snippy at each other. Maybe there’s been too many debates with too many people.  Maybe the debates last too long. Maybe we need better questions than Was Ellen Right?

Many of my friends didn’t see it the same way I did.  They thought it was great, but none of them changed their minds about who they were supporting.  I have several favorite candidates and until June of next year to make up my mind. I like to keep my options open.

If you saw it differently than I did, that’s fine.  In fact, I hope you did. I hope our candidates get some yippie in their step and some pure raw determination to make America great period.