FinermanWorks

The most interesting spam of the day:

We are looking for gifted psychics, mediums, and intuitives to join our employment and standards network. Join us at….

A gifted psychic, medium or intuitive would have known my reaction to this:  ridicule!

However, I actually do possess an unique gift of prophecy. In fact, I surpass Cassandra.  She correctly prophesized but no one ever believed her.  I correctly prophesize and don’t believe it myself.   I call it “propathy.”  Of course, you don’t believe me either but I predicted that. 

However, let me give you some examples of my propathetic powers.  In 1987, back when I was still an undefeated God of Jeopardy and awaiting its Tournament of Champions, I thought “Maybe I should study up on football and aviation.”  But I didn’t.  And guess what categories appear in the final games.  And guess who blew a “daily double” on aviation, and guess who was a veritable deaf-mute on the football questions, and guess who ended up in third place.  The clairvoyants among you already know.

What else?  I am a connoisseur of idiots:  stock brokers, certain in-laws, Dartmouth graduates.  Following their advice–and doing the opposite–I could have made fortunes.  I knew a stockbroker who was always wrong.  I merely had to short every company he recommended.  But rather than hurt his feelings, I twice made investments with him; and both companies went bankrupt.  Apparently, I prefer to be polite than rich: the curse of propathy!

Then, there is the Dartmouth rule of investment.  Keep in mind that Dartmouth prides itself on being the role model for “Animal House.”  At least in Hanover, New Hampshire,  blue blood is a symptom of cirrhosis.  In my adventures, I have met a number of Dartmouth graduates, and people who call themselves Kit, Duke and Bobo can be fairly endearing.  I might tag along with themselves to parties, but I would insist on driving; and I know better than to invest with them.  So when I heard that Jack Welch was retiring, and the next chairman of GE was an alumnus of you-know-where, I really was tempted to short the stock.  I could have been rich.  If stock prices were measured in terms of alcoholic content, GE went from whiskey to beer.  (It now is back to the level of sherry.)  Of course, being propathetic, I didn’t short the stock.  I didn’t even sell my shares.  Oh well, I wasn’t that eager to retire. 

Now that you revere me as an oracle, I should warn you that I never have sports premonitions.  (My favorite Chicago team is the Capone gang.)  And my stock market forebodings are not regularly scheduled.  Even when they do occur, I probably will be too skeptical and doubt-ridden to mention them.  But look on the bright side.  If I made you rich, your grandchildren might end up at Dartmouth.