Let me tell you something about barking dogs. Because I have met a few in my time. They sit behind the Goldman desk with their cufflinks and overpriced cologne, acting like their trade ideas are commandments from Sinai. When all they are is an overpriced phone clerk.
They show up in divorce court under a different last name, barking legal spew and stirring drama like it’s a crockpot. They whisper about my Chalkboard like it's too loud, too raw, too vulgar. They turned away when they saw the "I Love Hot Moms" sticker on Betty the Green Blazer...
...and they even laughed at me in ’84, until my big booty spun on that piece of linoleum and shut them all up.
But I never threw a stone. I just kept walking. Because barkers bark... that is what they do.
Me?
I build.
I pray...
I write.
I raise Shepkids.
I find bids and offers.
I dance if the music’s good.
Yap yap dogs come and go.
Like Norm said: “It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and I’m wearing Milk-Bone underwear.”
And like I say: leave the yapper a bowl of water and he’ll piss himself out.
These mealy mouths, whether they are on the trading floor, in the front church pew, tailgating the yellow on Harlem, or hiding behind a keyboard...
they all bark loud, burn fast, and crawl back to their doghouse when the stamina runs out.
Don’t bark. Don’t throw stones. Just keep swimming.
