I am a communist. Who loves trips to Bankingland. I suspect this Boo is about followers which le-tube has confirmed are bouncing off the walls. Test their drop of blood. Does it coagulate history or tell you about disease. America loves disease. Secret Stealth makes wealth. Landowners shovel coal into the Great Machine. It Broke. Juxtaposed against real issues not related in any way to the rust of us as we check out of the Tired Earth Motel. Our numbers stagnate. Hip replacement springs forth a new hot, baby, hot market for used talk show hosts who have nothing new to say. Pharmaceuticals Boo With Dividends. We’re old. Like gravity, rhetoric attracts rhetoric. Sometimes stock. Louder with each fundraising round. These are rich people playing The Game I Want It. You were meant to want it. The more we do not know really what it is, the more the Rich Want It. Filled With Worthless Cash. A piñata about to break candy kiss kiss. The more kiss kiss there is, the bank will run. Kiss kiss is motor memory Zsa Zsa Gabor. It’s a wig. It’s not real. There are always strings. The bank is still a bank. 400 years of Open An Account get a Tootsie Roll. Kiss kiss bank examiners. They loathe sets of different books. No job description for bankers out on the street with their degree from the London School of Economics Organizing Punk Photography. Of course, Goldman Sachs walked. Someone said Boo. Who said Boo. We said Boo because we are the Bank of Bulgaria. Boo. Who. Don’t let the door slam.