Just ignore all the noise in the background. It's merely my entrepreneurial Piggy-Bank pleading his case for an early release from hall closet confinement. He claims that he was innocently well-wishing when I found him outside on the street corner hawking bottles of Chet Stanczek tonic water. Yeah, right.

Holy water wouldn't have washed away his snout contorting guilt. So, I stripped him of his Larry Kudlow t-shirt and duct taped his money slot. We'll see how well he likes being a slot-less parking meter for towels. Or, he can just sit there and pretend he's the Indianapolis Bond Bank.

But really, why should I be the one constantly enduring the swine stress test? Everyone else gets to just sit back and enjoy their common garden variety, back-dated stock option, ponzi scheme, complex derivative, excessive bonus, or, finder fee Pig.

Me, I'm cursed with a total, all-in-one, toxic assets selling, snake-oil salesman. Where's the ceramic justice?

And, as if that wasn't bad enough, when he's not out on the street corner, he's out goofing-off on the yacht "Capitalistic". He's working on his tan while I'm stuck here in the Socialistic Tax Mill, filling toothpaste tubes, to pay the fuel and repair bills for his ship of fooled ya.

Captain Pig and his off-shore and untaxed Corporate K-Street and Congressional crew never saw a short term gain/long term loss chart to the Crestwood Islands that they didn't like. It's a course that changes Pig's normal copper-metallic greed smell to an overpowering one. An ordor so powerful that it deprives you of that fresh wife-emptied wallet smell.

Uh-oh. Ivanka in blue. Jail break in progress. Cover your ears - there's gonna be a gun fight.