But I do want to be smart about my money, little what I have. My previous savings plan was basically stuffing all my extra cash in my bra, which worked out well for a while because it made me look like I had really big hooters.
However, I needed to find another strategy because storing my money there was yielding little interest. Correction – it was yielding interest, but primarily from greasy-haired men in designer jeans.
I took a personal finance course once, and it was very informative. I learned a lot about the S & P Top 40 and the Star Jones index. However, something told me I shouldn’t try this on my own.
Stocks and Bonds and Stuff
My financial advisor Sherman and I met at the Starbucks across the street from my office to go over some paperwork. He wanted to reallocate the thingamabobs in my 401K.
“Hare hum, ohf be-gloggin meeshie moo,” he said. I nodded my head in agreement.
But I wasn’t really thinking about the thingamabobs, I was thinking about the ginormous box of freshly baked bagels from Noah’s that was sitting in front of him. He brought them for me to share with my co-workers back at the office, since he works with many of them as well.
He kept going on about bonds or some such, but all I wanted to do was seize that box and high-tail it back to the office so I could tear into a hot, sexy, sesame bagel.
Then without warning, my thoughts turned to penises. I don’t know where these phallic visions came from — they were just dancing around in my head, looking all cute and pink. He was talking about large cap stocks; I was dreaming about large cap cocks.
“So, I think we should put five percent in flarney barney wa wa,” explained Sherman. “Because the market is going to crikey mikey dippy doo.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” I agreed, my eyes glazed over. The truth is, he could’ve told me to put all my money on Florence Henderson in Dancing with the Stars and I would’ve done it, because a) my mind was on more important matters and b) I had no idea what he was talking about. I just hoped he couldn’t see the bagels and dicks prancing around behind my eyeballs.
As Sherman continued with his unintelligible babble, another disturbing thought entered my mind. Could I be… might I be… a GUY? I mean, really. This paid professional is trying to have a serious conversation with me about my future and all I can think about is food and sex.
Holy urinal cakes. I’m a man, baby!
Actually, this might be sort of cool. I can play with my crotch in public and no one will look at me weird. I can wear something warm on Halloween and still look cute. I only have to own three pairs of shoes — and all of them flats.
I could seriously get used to this. I’d probably get promoted at work. I’d be a hot guy, so I’d get a lot of poontang. Oh, wait. I don’t like poon, I like peen. Okay, so I’d be a gay man. Even better! So much easier to get laid.
I told Sherman to do whatever he wanted, then skipped, er, swaggered back to the office with the bagels. After handling each of them, I selected the best one and headed back to my desk. I quickly called Tom to tell him the good news.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t into it. It turns out one of the main reasons he likes me is because I’m a woman. A bit shallow if you ask me, but fine. I shall relinquish my dreams and resume my role as uncouth female.
Damn. I was so looking forward to growing out my armpit hair.