Yes OK, I know it’s like that; it’s also true that you can’t teach an old hound any new tricks; sure I agree with that too.
But what you young kids don’t know is that an old hound that has sniffed around in many places can recognize odors and knows about old beans or cabbage stew farts.
Take modern finance for example.
It is all done on the computer. Dealers deal and Traders trade from platforms; you can visualize a platform as one of these rickety things hanging on the side of the Wall Street Stock Exchange building with guys in overalls cleaning the windows on the outside.
In the old days the window cleaners would have been able to peek through the windows and see the traders running around scribbling on little cards and holding them up; they would nod at some and others would nod back and both would scribble on their cards. At the end of the day reams of print would be running all the trade records of the day for all to see, including all the shady deals. Insider trading was rife; according to Greg Blank everybody was doing it but he was the only one to go to prison. See him crying a river in:
But nowadays the platform is not a ramshackle affair hanging on the outside of the Stock Exchange building. It’s all hi-tech computers; whiz kids of 25 years old sit in front of their computers in Claremont outside Cape Town South Africa and “trade remote” with any Stock Exchange from Toronto Canada to Timbuktu.
It’s impossible, they say, to commit fraud because the computer is in control. It’s just impossible, the mod high-techie will tell you, for anyone to defraud all those computers. Don’t worry, you investor idiots, they say, your money is safe.
Not so, says the old hound, not so at all, he says, as he sniffles around slobbering on his old beans and cabbage stew building up a good fart while the thunder is rolling in over the hills.
Says the old hound: “Iffin you can let go with a good fart right in the inside of the old workers lavvy outside the Stock Exchange just before the thunder strikes to blow the lavvy sky high when it hits the bean and cabbage stew fart. It’s not nearly like the shit hitting the fan; no it’s much worse”.
How you ask? Where is the evidence? Yeah, says the hi-techie in his expensive business suit getting into his Ferrari with his remote computer and a smirking false smile on his lying face. You have no evidence, he smirks.
The old hound looks like dosing off but is sniffing the air. That fart spread real well with the thunder, he says while sniffing the breeze.
To be continued.