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An Irony, by Victor Niederhoffer

Some of my closest lady friends, whom I revere, but who presumably don't have my fine analytical sensibilities, have invested in stocks of products they admire and enjoy, a la Mrs. Lynch or the Beardstown Ladies, such as Whole Foods where they always enjoy the fresh and natural products, or in index funds when the market has a crash as it did in April and October (the latter not wholly unassociated with my persona), or the September 1 floods in Nola or January 1 tsunami in Indonesia. They tend to suffer a bit as the market thrashes around searching for weak hands. They snore a lot and ask me from time to time how I'm doing. I'm usually hanging on by the skin of my teeth. Then a few days later I ask them how they're doing, whether they still own this or that. "Do you still own those S&P futures for your retirement account?"  "Oh no, I sold them at 1225 yesterday!" The irony is that all of these women are doing a Hades of a lot better than I this year. Perhaps Snoring as a Fine Art by Albert Jay Nock should be required reading for all would be players in the market, right after the triumphal trio or Fisher and Lorie.

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