Huns and Vandals at the Gate

Where is Pope Leo I when we need him? The sainted pontiff was able to persuade Attila the Hun not to sack Rome in 452 A.D. Would that he would appear at Wall and Broad Streets and stand athwart history yelling “Stop!” Alas, the Vandals sacked Rome a few years later anyway and the Dark Ages were well on their way.

On the first trading day following Standard & Poor’s downgrade of U.S. sovereign debt to AA+ from AAA, which would imply higher interest rates because Treasury paper was now deemed less secure by the S&P Pooh-Bahs, investors flocked to the tarnished instruments sending their already paltry yields still lower.

Perhaps cynical investors reasoned that any agency that had rated “toxic waste” mortgage securities Triple-A could hardly be trusted with assessing the creditworthiness of the world’s largest economy.

But that wasn’t the reason. The real driver is the economy, stupid, to borrow the Clinton campaign mantra. Equity prices have fallen precipitously and government debt prices have risen not because S&P pointed out the obvious. Granted, the move by the rating firm may have had a difficult to measure psychological effect, but the outlook for economic growth is so tenuous that the S&P action, as so often is the case in momentous moves in asset prices, was just an excuse to dump shares.

Buttressing the outlook for anemic growth was the sharp decline in oil prices. S&P didn’t downgrade West Texas Intermediate crude.

Making matters worse is that President Obama is no FDR much less Pope Leo. “I welcome their hatred,” Roosevelt said of the Tea Partiers of his day. Or take Leo’s tack with Attila: “Now we pray that thou, who hast conquered others, shouldst conquer thyself. The people have felt thy scourge; now as suppliants they would feel thy mercy.” We prefer the former. The latter would only encourage the Vandals to complete the rout of the New York Sack, er, Stock Exchange, that is.

Having sworn off the stock market, we note a big win in the sporting realm Saturday, when 500 units on the Scarlet Metacarpals paid 700 units to bring the kitty back to 3,000. Tonight we’ll go against the bloody ankles from Boston with 500 units on the host (ess)Twinkies, for entertainment purposes only.

Note well, we shall delve into the mysteries of the Canadian Football League later in the week, you hosers.

Spectrum Analysis

I don’t wish that I had Jesse’s girl. I wish I had the Philadelphia Eagles’ Michael Vick’s legs. The son of a gun can still gallop like a Labrador, with memories of dangling pit bulls dancing in his head. Got to hand it to him. He’ll start next week. Andy Reid knew what he was doing when he hired the guy.

And forget about the blind side, Alex Barron, the right tackle for America’s team, all but strangles a defender and ends the game as time expires, nullifying a seemingly winning touchdown pass and enriching those of us who took the Redskins for entertainment purposes only.

Which brings us to a new thesis – the color kingdom. Taking the color of passion – red – seems to work. You’ve given roses to your significant other to express your undying love. The football REDskins of the NFL and the REDbirds of the senior circuit of the MLB worked in tandem last night, for entertainment purposes only. Why don’t they walk Pujols whenever he shows up in the batter’s box?

Greens and blues are out. From now on, we are taking Boston and St. Louis of the MLB, San Francisco, Arizona, and Kansas City of the NFL , OU, Nebraska, Stanford of the scholar athlete football league (can’t take Ohio State – scarlet isn’t red). Jets and Giants are cast into the darkness, unless they make it to the Super Bowl and a decision must be made.

Am I abandoning the animal kingdom? But no! From out of nowhere comes the Canadian Football league, which features 12 men, numerous moving parts and ways to score. Keep an eye on these hosers.

In other words, life is random and we must have a code to live by and not be deterred by the girl who throws us over or the putt that goes awry. After all, Dustin Johnson won the BMW Championship yesterday after losing the PGA Championship by grounding his club in a bunker that he didn’t know was a bunker.

Wear crimson and cream on Saturday and flee the stock market. Y'all are doomed except for those who accept the color kingdom.

Carry a Big Stick

We all must part or join at some point, through the vicissitudes of time or the mistakes that estrange us from one another. King James leaves Cleveland for Bosh and Wade in South Beach, home of the family friendly hotels across the street from the all-night clubs. Cliff Lee goes from Seattle to pitch in Texas, where he will wilt in the southwestern sun. The Cubbies can’t score a run against the eephus-pitching Vicente Padilla of the LA Dodgers, costing us a big payday (for entertainment purposes only).

Our episodes are epic. Why! We recall them better than who’s the pitcher after the All-Star break for the Queens County Dodgers/Giants, i.e., the New York Metropolitans, a senior circuit baseball club that disturbs its fans with streaks of brilliance and abysmal failure.

Fail or triumph, we must. We are creatures who resemble our primate cousins when we bare our teeth in screams of agony or delight and see them in slow motion HD TV. Our fourth cousin, once removed, Mr. Donovan of the United States soccer team, resembled the great ape when he pounded the rebound into the goal against Algeria in the silly game known as futbol. Why doesn’t anyone pick the darn thing up and throw a forward pass, as Teddy Roosevelt commanded?

The taverns and ristorantes were filled to the gills in our corner of Brooklyn with folks enamored of the play-not-to-lose game called, accurately, futbol. We must admit, these guys are fine athletes, but c’mon man, take a shot now and then. And who was the fellow with the hair who couldn’t head the ball into the goal on a corner. Maybe he needed a haircut.

Meanwhile, the most exciting futbol game around is being played by “hosers” in North America’s northernmost nation. Our beloved Alouettes recovered mightily in the 4th quarter to win the day against the Eskimos, who seemed to have the upper hand. More than one man in motion is exciting. Teddy Roosevelt, where are you?

Screenplay

I’m writing a three-chord song, “The Left Wing Blues,” which will accompany an epic moving picture that has even more than the health care debate and Wall Street bonuses to keep audiences riveted.

In one scene, for instance, our hero thinks he is squared up perfectly with his target and strikes the ball flush, yet it rockets sharply to the sinister side instead of straight down the fairway. His buddy immediately places a club at his feet, which revealed that his perception of the landscape before him was severely skewed. The obvious correction is to aim at what he perceives to be the right of his target. But the mind’s eye is a terrible thing to lose, to paraphrase Dan Quayle (the Sarah Palin of his time).

Later, our hero (let’s call him the Marlboro Man) finds that rivals on the rodeo circuit are flinging their lariats with much better effect when it comes to capturing calves and tying their hooves together. The loop keeps missing the young bovine’s head to the left, falling limply to the dust of the arena. Is human growth hormone the answer? No, MM, solid citizen that he is, insists he will only take over-the-counter supplements and protein shakes.

In the middle plot point, MM confronts big government, which is trying to turn him into – gasp! – a Western European. He escapes with the help of a comely pharma/HMO lobbyist (our Bond girl). “They seek him here. They seek him there. Those Frenchies seek him everywhere. Is he in heaven? Is he in hell? That damned elusive Pimpernel.”

The climax finds MM and lobbyist (think Claudine Auger in Thunderball), guns blazing, rescuing derivatives traders clinging to George Washington’s statue at Federal Hall on Wall Street from the clutches of Mr. Big’s socialists who would confiscate well-deserved wealth made possible by fiscal deficits and taxpayer largesse. They fly to the sports books in Las Vegas and parlay their way into even more-deserved riches by correctly betting the over-under in a Hamilton Tiger Cats - Montreal Alouettes game.

The dénouement: Back on the golf course, our Bond girl points MM to the right and his ball effortlessly soars in a Ruthian blast to the far reaches of the short grass.

The sequel: if she can only correct the putting stroke and save us all from the yips and the evils Mr. Big is plotting.