‘Puter’s been incognito from the website for a bit, though he has been active on Twitter. ‘Puter’s absence has been due to the crush of work, which is a good problem to have. However, since last Friday (Good Friday, to our Christian readers), ‘Puter’s been on vacation at his family’s beach house at an undisclosed location on the Delmarva. While resting, relaxing and recharging, ‘Puter’s had time to contemplate, mostly on time.
‘Puter’d been struck by the comments of one of his Wall Street hedge fund one percenter clients. Over drinks one evening, One Percenter and ‘Puter were discussing Upstate snowfall versus New York City area snowfall. One Percenter indicated he had a plow contract for his driveway, even though he has a perfectly serviceable snowblower in his garage.
One Percenter got a far away look in his eyes and stated that occasionally he will stand in his window and watch his plow contractor, wishing he had the time to clear his own driveway. And to cut his own lawn. One Percenter noted there’s a sense of finality and accomplishment in these jobs, implying that his/our job(s) lack such a finish line.
‘Puter thought One Percenter’s dialogue perceptive, as we sat at the table having beers 15 hours into our work day. Sure, One Percenter’s making crazy hedge fund money, but he doesn’t have time to mow his own lawn. ‘Puter’s running into similar issues, though not at the same level as One Percenter, and certainly not at One Percenter’s pay level.
Money is, in theory, the negotiable equivalent of our time. That is, we trade our time for paper we can exchange for other goods and services. But is money the indubitable equivalent of our time? Does it accurately remunerate us for forgone opportunities with family and friends?
‘Puter thinks not. Time is irreplaceable. There is no indubitable equivalent or fair trade for our time. We each get a certain allotment of time on this earth, and when our time is gone, we cannot trade for more time, no matter how much money we have to pay for it. Spend your time wisely. Time is not a renewable resource.
‘Puter’s not saying you should chuck it all and wander beaches for the rest of your life because it speaks to your inner hippie. But perhaps we would all do better were we to periodically consider what we are giving up in exchange for our pursuit of money.
For if we don’t stop and think occasionally, we end up standing in our window on our third conference call of the day, looking out at the landscapers mowing our lawns, and wondering whether we’d be happier elsewhere.
Always right, unless he isn’t, the infallible Ghettoputer F. X. Gormogons claims to be an in-law of the Volgi, although no one really believes this.
’Puter carefully follows economic and financial trends, legal affairs, and serves as the Gormogons’ financial and legal advisor. He successfully defended us against a lawsuit from a liquor distributor worth hundreds of thousands of dollars in unpaid deliveries of bootleg shandies.
The Geep has an IQ so high it is untestable and attempts to measure it have resulted in dangerously unstable results as well as injuries to researchers. Coincidentally, he publishes intelligence tests as a side gig.
His sarcasm is so highly developed it borders on the psychic, and he is often able to insult a person even before meeting them. ’Puter enjoys hunting small game with 000 slugs and punt guns, correcting homilies in real time at Mass, and undermining unions. ’Puter likes to wear a hockey mask and carry an axe into public campgrounds, where he bursts into people’s tents and screams. As you might expect, he has been shot several times but remains completely undeterred.
He assures us that his obsessive fawning over news stories involving women teachers sleeping with young students is not Freudian in any way, although he admits something similar once happened to him. Uniquely, ’Puter is unable to speak, read, or write Russian, but he is able to sing it fluently.
Geep joined the order in the mid-1980s. He arrived at the Castle door with dozens of steamer trunks and an inarticulate hissing creature of astonishingly low intelligence he calls “Sleestak.” Ghettoputer appears to make his wishes known to Sleestak, although no one is sure whether this is the result of complex sign language, expert body posture reading, or simply beating Sleestak with a rubber mallet.
‘Puter suggests the Czar suck it.