EVAN on Nostr: A family walks into a talent agent’s office. The dad steps forward — it’s Alan ...
A family walks into a talent agent’s office.
The dad steps forward — it’s Alan Greenspan, glistening in baby oil and wrapped in a velvet cloak made from shredded Atlas Shrugged pages. “We call ourselves the Fed Family. Our act? It’s got a strong fiscal policy… and even stronger positions.”
He snaps his fingers.
Ben Bernanke slithers out from behind a velvet curtain, stark naked except for a cock ring made of golden cufflinks, riding a mechanical bull named “2008.” As he bucks wildly, he’s screaming, “Inject liquidity! Inject it deep!” while flinging handfuls of foreclosure notices into the air like confetti.
Janet Yellen descends slowly from the ceiling, suspended by bondage ropes woven from shredded CBO reports. She’s wearing a corset made of macroeconomic models and pasties shaped like the Phillips Curve. She lands gracefully on all fours and begins crawling across a tarp made of uncashed Social Security checks, whispering “I like it when the labor market’s tight.”
Jerome Powell enters wearing a leather harness and dragging a wheelbarrow full of lubricated interest rates. He takes one, licks it seductively, and slides it between Bernanke’s cheeks, muttering “Soft landing? Not tonight.”
Suddenly, the lights cut to red.
Paul Volcker storms in, wearing nothing but a tie and an inflation calculator tattooed across his abs. He starts spanking Powell with a rolled-up Volcker Rule while screaming “DISINTERMEDIATION!” between grunts. Every smack sends bond yields flying into the air.
Then — from the shadows — a robed figure approaches. It’s Woodrow Wilson, but he’s not alone. He’s being led on a diamond-studded leash by a dominatrix version of the ghost of Alexander Hamilton, who whispers, “You wanted a central bank? You better earn it, daddy.”
Wilson drops to his knees, eyes wide with terror and arousal. Janet Yellen hands him a copy of the Federal Reserve Act dipped in edible gold. He starts reading it aloud, moaning every clause, while Bernanke massages him with zero-coupon bonds.
Then the orgy kicks into full gear.
Volcker's doing unspeakable things with a yield curve. Greenspan's having his nipples pinched by a tax code specialist. Yellen is being inflated and deflated on a yoga ball labeled “stimulus package,” while Powell is pegging the overnight lending rate in real time.
And just when you think it’s over, Bernanke climaxes by exploding confetti made of shredded Bear Stearns stock into the air and yelling, “WE'RE TOO BIG TO FAIL!”
They all collapse into a steaming, sweaty, synthetically-backed mortgage heap of flesh and fiscal policy.
The agent, horrified and strangely aroused, says, “…What the hell do you call that act?”
They all rise slowly, dripping in liquidity, and yell:
“THE ARISTOCRATS!”
The dad steps forward — it’s Alan Greenspan, glistening in baby oil and wrapped in a velvet cloak made from shredded Atlas Shrugged pages. “We call ourselves the Fed Family. Our act? It’s got a strong fiscal policy… and even stronger positions.”
He snaps his fingers.
Ben Bernanke slithers out from behind a velvet curtain, stark naked except for a cock ring made of golden cufflinks, riding a mechanical bull named “2008.” As he bucks wildly, he’s screaming, “Inject liquidity! Inject it deep!” while flinging handfuls of foreclosure notices into the air like confetti.
Janet Yellen descends slowly from the ceiling, suspended by bondage ropes woven from shredded CBO reports. She’s wearing a corset made of macroeconomic models and pasties shaped like the Phillips Curve. She lands gracefully on all fours and begins crawling across a tarp made of uncashed Social Security checks, whispering “I like it when the labor market’s tight.”
Jerome Powell enters wearing a leather harness and dragging a wheelbarrow full of lubricated interest rates. He takes one, licks it seductively, and slides it between Bernanke’s cheeks, muttering “Soft landing? Not tonight.”
Suddenly, the lights cut to red.
Paul Volcker storms in, wearing nothing but a tie and an inflation calculator tattooed across his abs. He starts spanking Powell with a rolled-up Volcker Rule while screaming “DISINTERMEDIATION!” between grunts. Every smack sends bond yields flying into the air.
Then — from the shadows — a robed figure approaches. It’s Woodrow Wilson, but he’s not alone. He’s being led on a diamond-studded leash by a dominatrix version of the ghost of Alexander Hamilton, who whispers, “You wanted a central bank? You better earn it, daddy.”
Wilson drops to his knees, eyes wide with terror and arousal. Janet Yellen hands him a copy of the Federal Reserve Act dipped in edible gold. He starts reading it aloud, moaning every clause, while Bernanke massages him with zero-coupon bonds.
Then the orgy kicks into full gear.
Volcker's doing unspeakable things with a yield curve. Greenspan's having his nipples pinched by a tax code specialist. Yellen is being inflated and deflated on a yoga ball labeled “stimulus package,” while Powell is pegging the overnight lending rate in real time.
And just when you think it’s over, Bernanke climaxes by exploding confetti made of shredded Bear Stearns stock into the air and yelling, “WE'RE TOO BIG TO FAIL!”
They all collapse into a steaming, sweaty, synthetically-backed mortgage heap of flesh and fiscal policy.
The agent, horrified and strangely aroused, says, “…What the hell do you call that act?”
They all rise slowly, dripping in liquidity, and yell:
“THE ARISTOCRATS!”