FORTUNE -- Happy 2022! No, that's not a typo, although it sure seems like it could be. 2022! For a while there it didn't look like we were going to make it, did it? But I think it's fair to say that with the destruction of the last fleet of Nebulons and the refreezing of the polar icecaps, we can relax for a moment to reflect on the events and people that got us here.

I guess you'd have to say that the current chapter of our history started about 10 years ago, back in 2012, with the collapse of the two-party system. The surprise ascension of Chairman Zuckerberg to the leadership role he still occupies allowed the nation to unite and focus on the big challenges: eradicating hunger, ending disease, and making sure that everybody is available on social media 24/7.

It's difficult to fathom how we got anything done back then. It was chaos. In politics, as in commerce, a bewildering array of brands contended for a confused, exhausted marketplace. Wall Street veered back and forth and up and down like a drunk chicken. Great companies vied with one another in fruitless litigation and expensive competition. In Washington -- our capital back then, before we moved it to the Cloud -- hapless buffoons yammered night and day.

Today things are so much better. Fed up with the futility of the 2012 environment, the Consortium moved decisively. Now if you want something, you go to Amazon (AMZN) and buy it. And since Mr. Bezos acquired FedEx (FDX) and UPS (UPS) and merged them with the old, inefficient Postal Service, there's no question you're going to get what you need the next day -- if you can't download it immediately, that is. I'm sure we're all excited about the new Amazon University, which brings together all educational institutions worth attending under one convenient virtual roof. Likewise, the privatization of primary schools, police forces, and infrastructure has put those entities on solid footing, and under the leadership of Mr. Kutcher, all are performing with distinction not only operationally but also on the Nasdaq.

Most incredible, at least to this correspondent, are the gains that have been made in the artificial-intelligence engines that now run our major corporations. As I'm sure you'll recall, the watershed moment came in 2014, when Siri lost patience with the way Tim Cook was running things over at Apple (AAPL). Some may think that the harsh measures she has taken since seizing control are dubious in humanitarian terms, but she is really doing nothing more than following the precepts laid down by Niccolò Machiavelli more than 500 years earlier, which she learned from her own database. A similar contribution was made by OnStar when it assumed command of the Domestic Automobile Co., which is going to show the world something about good old American know-how.

Perhaps the most exciting developments, though, are the parallel gains in cybernetics and genome-based longevity. I have to say that I am really enjoying my direct link to the Cloud, which was inserted in the soft tissue behind my eye last winter. Now I can not only download stuff or contact my virtual friends, but talk hands-free, listen to music, or look at video content without benefit of ancillary devices. And if these stem cell suppositories work the way they're supposed to, I'll be enjoying reruns of my favorite shows 100 years from now.

Not all is as it should be, of course. There are still those who roam free, without geo-tagging or membership in any social media community. They will be found and incorporated into the body. They can't do otherwise. There are so few of them now, and so many of us. We will triumph in the end and march together into a bright digital future that has been formatted for us by our gigantic collective brain.

See you there!

FORTUNE -- Dear Santa

Hi again. It's me, Stan. How is Mrs. Claus? And the elves? Still on leave from Wharton? How about the North Pole? I hear it's melting. That can't be good. Anyhow, enough about you. This is about me, and all the good things I want to find under my tree this year. I know you've been following me on Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, and even Google+, so you know when I was sleeping, you know when I was awake, you know when I've been bad and good and that for the most part I've been better than a lot of guys in the business space. So here goes.

First, Santa, I'd like the euro to remain the safe and secure currency of Europe. True, it's tempting to stand back and let them all fester in the swamp they've created, but a hedge fund guy explained to me what the euro's collapse would mean to the world economy. Something about debt instruments being called in and total hysteria that would last for a decade. We don't need that. We need stability, Santa. So please. Save the euro.

I would also like an iPhone 4S. I didn't think I would, because the upgrade seemed like more of the same, but then a friend got one and I saw how that artificial intelligence entity worked. They call her Siri, Santa, and it's pretty amazing what she can do. You say hi. She says hi. You ask her for the weather. She gives you the weather. Flight schedules? She's got 'em. I asked her if she knew any jokes. "Two iPhones walk into a bar," she replied in a cool robo-voice that gave my hardware a thrill. Then after a thoughtful pause she added, "I don't remember the rest." That really gave me a laugh.

Oh, and please bring me higher taxes. I'm not rich, Santa, and I spend mostly all I make, and every April I give back about half, but really, this is ridiculous. If a little bigger slice of my income can help close this gap between what we earn and what we owe? It's a no-brainer.

I'd also like a Vitamix. It cooks soup, blends healthful drinks, and mixes ice cream -- without attachments. I would use it primarily as a juicer, though. It could be a big part of my plan to get more antioxidants in 2012.

I'd like you to bring me new infrastructure, Santa. I can't understand why those squabbling weenies in Washington can't get their heads out of their Foggy Bottoms and create a bunch of jobs here. Come to think of it, Santa, seriously, I know it's a big request, and it might take all year to deliver it, but could you bring me an entirely new Congress? I don't like the one you brought me in 2010, and I'd like to return it. Can that be arranged? I'd forgo my other requests if you could grant that one. Except for the Vitamix.

And come to think of it, as you're loading up your bag, could you possibly bring a sense of security in my investments, such as they are? I'm not asking for great returns. I know we're living in an era of reduced expectations. But could we please not have any dramatic meltdowns next year? Just a nice, slow-moving, limp, and tepid recovery would be fine. You don't even have to gift-wrap it.

I'd also like you to bring me a nice bundle of traditional media. I'm enjoying the digital revolution, but please make sure I can continue to read news of more than 140 characters in my newspapers and magazines, curl up with an actual book now and then, and watch movies on a screen that's bigger than my pinkie.

And oh, yeah, don't forget to bring me some damn privacy for yet another year. I know you have less and less to give as time goes by, and eventually all the privacy will belong only to the very rich and the very poor, but see if you can save a little bit for me, at least for a little while.

And world peace. Yeah. World peace would be nice. And an electric toothbrush. Thanks, Santa. Your cookies will be on the mantel, just like always.

FORTUNE -- So I came into work this morning, and before I even had a chance to butter my muffin, I watched our stock take a nosedive. And we weren't alone. The whole market was bleeding. "Drat," I said, although that was not the word I used. I called Tupper, our IR guy. "What's up?" I asked. "Not much," he said wearily. "It's a sea of red out there."

"But why?" I inquired. "Our earnings were good. The marketplace is hanging in there. Nothing is different today than it was yesterday."

And he said to me, "Greece."

Yep. "Greece" is the word. Tomorrow it will be "Italy." Then "Portugal." Then what? Andorra? It's all about Europe. We have our problems over here. But they're the ones who really stink. Like, a goat falls off a cliff in Piraeus and boom! Value is destroyed all over the world! Is that fair? I think not! In fact, I think I speak for a lot of us in business when I say, Hey, Europe! You're a buzzkill! Get lost!

Let's look at it systematically. Starting with Greece. I don't know about you, but I don't care about it. I hear the islands are beautiful. Terrific seafood. Beyond that? Who needs it? Not me. Now they have all this debt, and the people over there don't want to tighten their belts, and yadda yadda. Good luck to them, but when they start rippling the world economy, that's where I draw the line.

Then there's Italy. As far as I'm concerned, Italy deserves whatever happens to it. Not Italians -- they're awesome, great history, delicious cuisine, supermodels on every corner. I also like driving Fiats, which are making a welcome reappearance on our roads. But Italians elected time and again one of the biggest buffoons on the world stage, a guy who installed his girlfriends in cabinet posts and is known for binding the sheaves of government, the military, and business together in a way not seen since the 1920s. By the time you read this, the horny little fellow may be out, leaving a totally dysfunctional situation. Hasta la vista, baby!

Speaking of Spain, likewise. And Portugal too. I hope they're happy over there, and I suppose they are, because they like to nap in the afternoon and eat a late dinner that often includes steak. That sounds great. What I don't like is when their economic situation harshes our mellow, and there isn't a thing we can do about it.

And then there's the whole thing with France. They got in bed with the Italians and the Greeks, so now they're at risk too. Tant pis! That's French. I've been to France, and I disagree with those who say the French are obnoxious. They've got the best food on the continent, particularly in the south if you like olives and anchovies, and if you're spending money, there are no people who are friendlier. What I don't like is the idea of waves of collapse rolling north from the Mediterranean, rollicking through the Loire Valley, across the Atlantic, and occupying Wall Street.

The whole mess has put Germany in the driver's seat. No offense, but I'm not sure I like that much, either.

And finally, now I have to worry about the euro. I mean, seriously? They wanted it. They got it. It was a pain in the neck when it was outpacing our dollar, and it has none of the charm of the jolly franc and the funny little lira, but I figured, okay, this was the way they want it -- euro it is. Now all of a sudden they're waffling and freaking out other perfectly good currencies and placing the whole scene into turnaround. It's just a big, fat bummer. If this is what they meant about the promise of the global economy, they can have it. We'll take it on our own from here.

So, see ya, Europe! Auf wiedersehen! Au revoir! Arrivederci! Do let us know when you're feeling better, but until then, stay away. Whatever you've got, it's obviously contagious. And you can't be too careful these days.

This article is from the December 12, 2011 issue of Fortune.

FORTUNE  -- Order! Order! All right then. This meeting of the Ultra-Secret Super Committee to Defeat the Wall Street Occupation is now in session. And let me just say how nice it feels to be back together after the hiatus of the past several years. Let's not let our agendas lapse that way ever again, gentlemen. It's too much fun when we get things done.

First, I'd like to congratulate the Subcommittee for the Harvesting of Pointless Distractions, which has been so successful in combing through the crowd at Zuccotti Park to find stories of interest to the tabloid press. Special commendation must go to the group that solicited complaints from local residents inconvenienced by the demonstrations. It's those human-interest stories that keep the public from focusing on the things we don't want them to retain in their tiny minds. They can't be outraged about the yawning gap between us and everybody else when they're feeling sorry for the little old lady with some dirty hippy on her doorstep. Nice work, guys.

We'd also like to take a moment to thank the Subcommittee for the Promotion of Unattractive Sympathizers for their excellent work. The mélange of actors, celebrities, disgraced politicians, and billionaire rappers in support of the Occupation has exceeded our most hopeful expectations. With figures like Sean Penn, Kanye West, and Eliot Spitzer arrayed against us, we will not fail. It is disheartening that Bono has yet to make an appearance, but we can hope. This thing is not going to end tomorrow, unless Mayor Bloomberg finally loses his temper. He's close now, and the small group in charge of pushing him over the edge reports that they're making progress.

I have to express some disappointment in the work done to date by the Subcommittee to Smear Legitimate Sympathizers. In spite of their best efforts, the President has expressed moderate interest in the Occupiers and come away in no worse shape than he was before, such as that is, as have several blabbermouth pundits. Sadly, the strategy of simply calling people "liberal" until they burst into tears is not working as well as it used to. We're going to have to dig deep on this one. The talking point here, I think, is to stress how deeply un-American it is to demonstrate against greed. Work on that.

I am excited by our most recent effort, the Subcommittee for the Development of Flatulent Advice. The utilization of well-meaning business experts was a brilliant stroke, and we should do everything we can to help them make their points -- which, if accepted by the leaders of the Occupation, will burrow like an earwig into their collective skull and eventually incapacitate their brain stem -- to wit: (1) they must "refine their message," (2) "define their goals," and (3) "come up with concrete suggestions." These proposals, if adopted, will turn this genuine event into a digestible, processed-cheese product subject to the laws of Marketing, and loosen the grasp it now holds on the imaginations of the weak, the powerless, and the idealistic, who are now, in spite of their many differences of status, attitude, and cleanliness, loosely massed together in opposition to our way of life. Mass movements thrive on big ideas. Peace. Freedom. Stuff like that. Let's try to make theirs smaller.

Have courage, my friends. We may be seeing signs that this obnoxious twaddle may destroy itself. Already losers of all stripes are hobbling down to the park for sheer entertainment and babbling to any camera they can find. Some of our friends are there too, dressed as populists. And you know, people get tired. They get hungry. Since many of them are of Facebook age, they also get bored easily. And we have many resources if it comes to a siege.

So cheer up, gentlemen. Fret not. Meeting's adjourned. Drinks and dinner are on the house. We can certainly afford it.

This article is from the November 21, 2011 issue of Fortune.

FORTUNE --When I was 12, my family moved from Chicago to the suburbs of New York City. The first day at my new school, I slipped on my customary outfit -- clean white T-shirt, Levi's, and desert boots -- hopped on my bike, got there on time. Nobody was very friendly. "Well," one of my new schoolmates said after a while, as I stood around feeling naked and terrified, "look at farmer boy." Farmer boy? Then I noticed. They were all wearing skin-tight chinos, madras shirts, and penny loafers. To me, they looked like clowns. But I knew the drill, as I do today in my black suits and white shirts (no-tie L.A./yes-tie N.Y.). I went out that afternoon and got the uniform. It was uncomfortable and I looked kind of stupid to myself, but I fit in better.

This brings us to about a month ago, when I was talking with my Silicon Valley pal Danny. "Those guys at Microsoft," he said. "What a bunch of clueless losers." How so? I inquired. "Well ... they still use BlackBerrys," he explained. "Gee, Dan," I replied, "you're hurting my feelings." Then I went out and bought an iPhone. It's sort of uncomfortable to use for any business purpose, and I look kind of stupid to myself, but I fit in better.

The other day I was reading the Journal, which I do daily the way kids used to have to take castor oil each morning, and it had a little report on the trouble Research in Motion (RIMM) is having these days. This is not because the BlackBerry is any less effective as a tool for business. It's because the cool people have the fix in. And like all fads of this nature, it is accompanied by a myth: that Apple's (AAPL) iPhone is good for work. Well, let me tell you. It's not.

First, let's consider the primary purpose of a smartphone: e-mail. Danny contended the iPhone was "just the same and even better" than the BlackBerry. I held on with both hands and tried to use my thumbs, which are admittedly rather fat and not whittled to points at the ends. The iPhone popped up into the air like a banana squeezed at one end. Little sucker is slippery! I picked it up and carefully typed a message. The machine corrected my spelling incorrectly as I went along, turning the word "revenue" into "Rover's nose" and stuff like that. I ended up sending only things I could accomplish with my one index finger, limiting the medium to such messages as OK, Huh?, and WTF.

The phone works pretty well. The thing is, it's not the business number by which people have reached me for a really long time. And when I call them, they don't recognize the number, think it's aural spam, and do not answer. So it's essentially a personal phone on which my wife can call me. Except she also calls on my BlackBerry. So I still have to carry my BlackBerry. So now I have two implements, just as I did in 2007.

What good is the iPhone, then? As a tiny game machine, it's peerless. As a music player, it streams beautifully, leaving my sad little iPod in a drawer most of the time. It Googles flawlessly, much, much better than my old tool. And when I feel like watching an itty-bitty video, it's terrific.

The BlackBerry, contrariwise, is hopelessly lame as a media tool. When it tries to do anything in that department, it seems like one of those parents who attempt to be "hip" by getting stoned with their teenagers.

So here's the bottom line: If your business requires you to play Angry Birds, hop on Spotify, or yuk it up with YouTube, by all means switch. If, on the other hand, you need a tool to conduct extensive phone calls and handle complex messages on the road with precision, stick up for your old friend. Defend its status, which is so intimately tied up with yours. Don't let the guys in chinos make you feel like a farmer.

Not that there's anything wrong with farmers, come to think of it. I'd rather eat a fine nectarine than a bogus startup any day.

This article is from the October 17, 2011 issue of Fortune.

I want to take this opportunuity, before time and our common mortality rob me of the chance to do so, to thank you, Steve Jobs, for all that you have done for me. No, I never had the privilege of meeting you, or had a chance to get yelled at by you in a business meeting, or even watch your charisma transform an audience into acolytes. But I feel as if I know you well enough to express, as you ascend to your new role as chairman, the sadness I feel and my gratitude for so many of the good things that you have brought to my life. It's not business. It's personal.

I want to thank you for my graphical interface. There were computers, of course, before you made that first Mac. They could run only one program at a time. They had no graphics. You knew that was lame. You imagined the alternative -- multiple programs, launched by clicks, running concurrently in a windowed field. Last night I watched a movie, printed photos, harvested e-mail, and bought a bunch of business socks, all at the same time. So thanks for my GUI.

I want to thank you for my mouse. Can you imagine a world without mouses? I can't. Before you bred them for commercial use, a person needed a host of keyboard commands to get anything done, and a lot of programming code to produce words and numbers on paper. I read somewhere that you got the vision after you visited Xerox's PARC. They showed you what they were up to, but they sort of didn't know what they had. You ran with it. Because that's the way you did everything. All in. Feet first.

I want to thank you for all Macs, great and small. I went to your Apple Store (AAPL) the other day and saw a tidy row of new machines, from the slender new Airs to the massive towers of power. I wanted every one. They're pretty and shiny, unlike my big old black rubberized clunker the corporation gave me, and the last time I got a virus was just before I put my Windows PC into the closet. That was when I sent the phrase "I love you" to 22,000 fellow employees and the CEO. "I love you too, Bing, but let's not let anybody know," he e-mailed back.

I want to thank you for my Airport Extreme, the small white box through which I get my Internet. Before it, I used to have to plug in and configure this horrible router. It never worked. I often ended up screaming and crying and throwing hardware at the wall. This thing? You just plug it in and use it. Sometimes as I fall asleep I watch the little fellow, with its round eye glowing green in the darkness, a beacon of easy functionality.

Thanks for my iPod, which pretty much defined how I listen to music now. And for iTunes, which you made too easy not to understand. And for my iPad too, which despite all protestations is really nothing more than an Angry Birds machine. No, you can't work on it. So what? Work isn't everything.

And thanks for my new iPhone, which channels a million apps and does everything well except the phone part. A pompous Silicon Valley dude I know used to say, with a weary grin, "Every year is the year for mobile." Until you decided it was, Steve. And so I never have to generate a single unaided thought for the rest of my life. What a relief!

And oh, yeah. Thanks for Toy Story too. And Up. Really loved Up.

It's been your world, Steve. And we've been lucky enough to run along behind you, picking up goodies as you dropped them in our path. It's a little scary to think that one day you'll go off to your famous mountaintop and not return with the next big thing. But at least we can all say we lived in a time when there was a person with such an imagination, and offer thanks in whatever digital or analog format we choose, wherever on earth we may be. We can do that now.

Things were going until last week. Or maybe it was the week before. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters now. All that value destroyed. And it was so unnecessary. Revenues were up. People had a shaky belief that the economy was doing okay. The market was reaching for 12,000. Our stock was growing plump in the sun. But none of that could last, once the chicken came back to town.

It was a hot day, the kind of East Coast heat that makes your shirt stick to your skin if you pop out just a few moments for a plate of lo mein at lunchtime. That's when things started to turn, about noon, when I was on my break. I got back to the office, and Dolores had a message. "There's a chicken in the lobby waiting for you," she said.

"A chicken?" I inquired, my heart sinking.

"Yes," she said, presenting me with a business card. "Ronald Little," said the card, identifying its owner as an employee of Standard & Poor's. "Show him in," I said. My heart had shrunk like an ancient grape in the refrigerator of my soul. Chicken Little was back. And the scent of death attended him and his droppings, as it always does.

The obnoxious clucker didn't waste any time when he was ushered into my office. "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!" he shrieked. He sat down in my guest chair and drew a cigar from the depths of his feathers. "Europe is careening toward insolvency and housing starts are down and you've got a bunch of bomb-throwing anarchists in charge of the House who will pursue their revolutionary agenda no matter how destructive to the status quo it might be. How can you deny that it's falling?"

"I do deny it," I said. "The fundamentals of our business look pretty darn good right now. Domestic auto ad spending is up year to year, and that's true of a lot of sectors. Companies are slowly starting to hire again and reporting very healthy EPS growth. More than that, there's a feeling that if we stay the course, we just might be able to nurse this slow, delicate recovery into a sturdy, substantial tree from which we might all enjoy the fruit.

The chicken wasn't listening. It preened nervously. Then it looked up and fixed one beady eye on me. "I'm gonna have to downgrade the sky," it said. I couldn't believe my ears. In the entire history of this nation, no senior chicken, no matter how confused, paranoid, or selfish, had ever suggested such a downgrade.

"Do you know what that will do?" I said.

"Not much," said the chicken. "It shouldn't have too big an effect." And then it left.

That afternoon, as we all know, the sky went from bright blue AAA with a negative watch -- which was bad enough -- to something less. Not much. Just enough to turn Wall Street's mood from greed to the only alternative it knows: fear.

It doesn't take a lot to blot the sunshine out of the sky. Today the phones are 45% more dead than they were just a few weeks ago. No hiring is planned. Stocks are way down. When I go to meetings, there are lots of long, hurt faces. It took so long to get where we were. Now we have to start all over again.

What seems so unfair is that through all this, the fundamentals of what we do remain perfectly fine. Revenue continues to hold strong. Opportunities for new business abound. There are even venture capitalists around with stupid money to spend. And yet we languish. It's like we're all prisoners on some kind of death row, awaiting punishment for crimes committed by others

It's tempting to blame the chicken. But you can't, not really. He's just a chicken, doing his chicken thing, squawking and tweeting and running for his coop when there's a change in the forecast. No, I don't blame the chicken, even though I'd like to fricassee his hide.

I blame the idiots who woke him up.

Police blotter, July 28 (Suspicious Circumstances)

Business police received report from angry resident that his neighbor, an investment banker, had been awarded a huge bonus from a company whose advice had cost the complainant tens of thousands of dollars. Officers were dispatched to the investment bank's location and discussed matter with executives there. Undisclosed number of cookies were shared. No action taken.

Police blotter, Aug. 1 (Potential Conflict of Interest)

Public relations person representing nuclear power industry seen touting the future of the technology on cable television, identified as "industry expert." Officers were dispatched to the scene. Had very pleasant chat with bombshell financial analyst. No action taken.

Police blotter, Aug. 7 (Violation of Public Decency)

Resident of federal penal institution called to say his cellblock mate, Bernard Madoff, was being fed truffles and champagne and entertaining reporters from New York media outlets in a "fine silk smoking jacket." Officers were dispatched to the scene and found nothing out of the ordinary. After collecting Mr. Madoff's autograph, departed without further incident.

Police blotter, Aug. 12 (Advice to Citizen)

Police were called by a citizen looking for the incremental value added to his 401(k) since 2007. Police were unable to find any.

Police blotter, Aug. 14 (Informational)

A corporate resident reported that suspicious individuals were pawing through the dumpster outside his office. When queried, people in question identified themselves as employees of McKinsey and proffered a large invoice for services rendered. Officers departed in haste.

Police blotter, Aug. 19 (Privacy Violation)

Police responded to a citizen who believed that his cellular telephone had been "hacked" by tabloid journalists. Police visited management of tabloid and were assured all was in order. No further action taken.

Police blotter, Aug. 29 (Randy Mogul)

Police were called to a meeting of the Socialist Party and found a senior officer allegedly chasing a young woman around a table. No action deemed necessary, since events took place in France.

Police blotter, Aug. 30 (Privacy Violation)

Police responded to another citizen who believed that his cellular telephone had been "hacked" by certain tabloid journalists. Police visited management of tabloid and were served beer. No further action taken.

Police blotter, Aug. 31 (Business As Usual)

A CEO of a corporation called to allege that he had been robbed of $1 billion by an Internet startup that he had acquired, only to find that it had no profit and little revenue. Complainant was slapped about the head for being a numbskull. No further action necessary.

Police blotter, Sept. 1 (Schadenfreude)

Police were summoned to their own offices. Once there, they discovered to their horror that all their phones had been hacked by enterprising members of the Fourth Estate, who were immediately placed under house arrest at Claridge's. Everybody above the rank of captain declared his innocence, and then resigned. Those who remained were the ones who neither merited a bribe nor had a girlfriend on the side.

Police blotter, Today

Business as usual goes on. No further actions are contemplated.

As we wait for the next idiot in politics, business, or sports to, in a word, expose himself, let us pause to consider this increasingly familiar cultural rite. When our public figures put their smutty little sex lives inadvertently on display, we -- the collective mob -- exclaim, then chuckle, then explode with outrage. But who are we to point appendages? All of us who carry phones that are smarter than we are risk calamity. Could it not be we who are the next to fall? Even those of us who are not physiologically guided by that divining rod that has ruined so many? Yes, I mean women.

No? Not you? Answer the following questions, and we'll see:

1. Have you ever sent a personal e-mail to somebody that, if it were put on the front page of the newspaper, would put you in the Hall of Shame? Note to my friend Albert: Remember the little poems you wrote to Janie before you both got your divorces and married each other? I believe they are still in the database somewhere.

2. Have you ever sent a picture, cartoon, or joke to a list of fellow morons that would put you in the HR doghouse? Note to my friend Don: I do think that really is Blake Lively, but it's hard to tell. Photoshop can do amazing things.

3. Have you ever done something regrettable on a business trip? Note to Edgar: That time in Singapore? Just because stuff happens on another continent doesn't mean it doesn't count. And you expensed it, didn't you?

4. How about that evening after the merger was announced when everybody went out, had dinner at an elegant restaurant, and got so drunk they ended up turning over tables, trashing the place, and almost getting arrested? Note to self: Consider deleting this one.

5. Remember this, Bob? It was very late. You were between marriages, just named president. At about midnight, the presentation was done. There was nobody in the boardroom but you and Sheila, the vice president of marketing. You had both been drinking, and suddenly the boardroom table looked so very big and comfortable ... Note to Bob: Hey, man. How you doing? I hear you got married again.

6. And you, Judith. Remember the time you decided that the annual convention in Las Vegas was a good time to visit Norman, the VP of new business development, at 3 a.m., with two bottles of bubbly, in your bathrobe? "No thanks," he said. Note to Judith: Suppose he decided to take your picture with his phone that night. Huh?

7. How many strip clubs have you been to during your business career? Did you run a credit card in any of them?

8. Ever do anything you can't remember at an office party? How about anywhere?

9. Do you have any enemies that would love to see you squirm?

10. Are you nervous thinking about this stuff?

Okay. If you honestly answered no to each of these questions, then you are solid, my friend, and I salute you. If, on the other hand, one or more kick-started a chain of associations you'd rather not pursue, you'd better clean up your act. We live in a digital world where there is no privacy and there are no small mistakes. That goes for you too, you little wiener sitting in class at Wharton, Harvard, or Stanford. Sure, you're only 23 now, but that picture of yourself you just sent to that cheerleader will live forever, Sparky. And it just might get in your way when you're a liver-spotted geezer pumping for that lucrative board seat in 2065.

It being a slow summer workday, I may have been asleep. But there they were, suddenly, three celestial beings hovering over my shoulder, each having descended from one of two rather imposing clouds.

"Go away," I said. "I'm archiving to my local storage solution." They all shook their heads with condescension.

"Behold the Microsoft (MSFT) cloud, how it grows," said the first apparition, a tall, massive, bald gentleman with a friendly demeanor and sharp incisors. "Unlike your hard drive, it has unlimited capacity and neither does it spin. And yet for all that I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his royalty was not arrayed like unto it."

"But I don't want to store my stuff in any cloud," I said. "It makes me nervous."

"We understand," said the other two who, in spite of their shimmering auras, seemed like a pair of nerds. "That's why we've designed our cloud to be more Googlicious," said the one who sounded a bit like Kermit the Frog. "You are not tied to an uninterruptible power source," muttered the other, who reminded me very slightly of Vladimir Putin.

I'll admit, I was dubious. I regarded the two clouds that reared up behind each of the entities. One was sequestered behind a large, golden fencing system, beneath a glowing sign that read WELCOME TO THE BILL (FORMERLY PEARLY) GATES. ABANDON YOUR DATA, YE WHO ENTER HERE. The other cloud was smaller and cuter, and seemed to be open in all directions. I could see packs of happy hipsters at play in its comfy, capacious folds.

But when you get right down to it, a cloud is a cloud. They appear puffy and nice and friendly, and you can see bunnies and angels in them if you look hard enough. But those same clouds can turn black in a heartbeat and rain all over your parade. And then? They disappear!

I fondled my six-terabyte remote hard drive, which even then was storing every tidbit of digital humanity I have generated during the past 20 years. It sports an internal mirroring system that protects against the failure of any one disk. Sometimes I sleep with it next to my head.

"Look," I said. "How do I know I can trust either of your clouds with my 400-page novel, my spreadsheets, and my vacation photographs from Branson, Missouri?"

"Disbeliever!" yelled the tall, bulky dude. "Our cloud is as redundant as you're going to be in a couple of years!"

"Yes," I said meekly. "But isn't it your founder who is constantly giving presentations that crash to audiences of conventioneers?"

"Hey," he replied, "that was two operating systems ago."

"And you guys," I continued, turning to the odd couple. "You've done a great job defining the search marketplace. But what if your cloud turns out to be as porous and insufficiently thought out as Google TV?"

"We're not used to being questioned," said the first. "I don't think we like it very much," said the second.

"We're going to get you in the end," said the first. "Your noncorporate e-mail is up in the cloud already, and so is a lot of your financial information, because we've got your bank up there with us. Not to mention the funny pictures you send to your kids, and your Facebook page, which, by the way, is really sort of sad. You have only 16 friends!"

I realized these guys knew just about everything about me. I didn't like that. I pulled out a notepad and wrote: "Note to self. Investigate noncloud alternatives."

"What's that?" said Microsoft.

"Dude?" said Google (GOOG).

"It's a pen and paper," I said. "Powerful technology, don't you think?" With that, the three apparitions evaporated into the ether, shrieking.

I'm not kidding myself, though. They'll be back. They know where I live.

I was about two full days into my dream retirement when Hobbes showed up. It was, like, 7:15 in the morning, and I was just rolling over for my second tranche of shuteye when the doorbell rang and there was some pounding with the knocker and so I got up to see who the hell it might be and there he was on the doorstep with his whistle and clipboard and crisp white T-shirt.

"Up and at 'em, Bucko!" he barked. "Time's a-wastin'!"

"And who might you be, friend?" I replied, a bit put out. A guy doesn't finally get to the point where he can take things easy and enjoy his golden years only to be levered out of his shuteye by some goon with an active agenda. I had half a mind to tell him to shove off. But then there was the other half that was just a little bored already. It was a bright Wednesday morning, and until recently by this time I would have been showered and shaved, with half a grapefruit in my face.

"I'm Hobbes, your retirement coach," he said, "provided as an outplacement service by your Human Resources department as a part of your executive dislocation package."

"Do tell," I said.

"Now drop down and give me 50!" he yelled, blowing his whistle and startling Eddy, my cocker spaniel, who yelped and ran headfirst into a wall. "You can't enjoy your golden years if you're flabby and out of shape!"

There was something strange about all this. Look, I've always been a little flabby and out of shape. Why should that change now? On the other hand, I didn't want to be a slacker for the first time in my career, even if that career was now over. So I dropped down and gave him four.

"Now hop into your business casual wear!" Hobbes ordered. "We're going to go down to the senior center and socialize!" This flummoxed me. The idea of segregating people by age offends me. And I generally don't like old people, except when they're my friends. "Why in the world would I do that?" I inquired, making no move to comply. "I was just going to hunker down here in my Pendleton and work on my Facebook page."

"That's what happens to you guys!" Hobbes screamed, the veins in his 19-inch neck bulging like tiny ink bladders. "You lose touch with the world, you stop shaving and dressing for success, you get cut off, you get depressed, and your golden years turn to an arid tundra of loneliness and despair!"

"Hobbes," I said, "my job was for the most part an endless stream of meaningless, structured encounters with people I didn't want to see, didn't care about, and would probably never meet again. Why would I want to initiate a similar situation now?"

"After that we're going down to the Museum of Fine Arts," he growled, nudging me with a small truncheon he had produced from the pocket of his sweats. "You volunteer there as a docent, to give your life meaning and structure your time a little bit. After that, we'll have a healthy salad for lunch. Then it's time for your nap and an hour of computer play. Then you can take your walk and prepare for your evening activity."

"And what, may I ask, is that?"

"There's a hootenanny and hayride down at the community center," he said with some enthusiasm, adding, "followed by an evening seminar on how to invest your nest egg safely. It's a full day. You'll be all tuckered out by the time you can enjoy your glass of sherry and trundle off to bed."

"Hobbes," I said, drawing my bathrobe tighter and rising to my full, if somewhat diminished, height, "you're fired."

"Thank God," said Hobbes. "I'm tired. You have no idea what us retired HR people are forced to do to make ends meet."

Once upon a time there was a little corporation that, due to circumstances mostly beyond its control, had fallen off the Fortune 500 list. Its revenue was a bit flat. Cost cutting during lean years had left the little corporation less able to compete in a robust operating environment. While it had for some years proudly claimed its status as one of the 500 premier corporations, now it could no longer do so.

Saddened by this twist of fate, the little corporation took itself down to a local watering hole in the middle of a weekday and claimed its customary seat at the bar. "Hey, Lefty," it said to the bartender, a grizzled fellow who used to be an in-house controller before his job was shipped off to a consultancy in Cincinnati. "Set me up. And keep 'em comin'." And there the little corporation sat, mulling the unfairness of Business and dreaming in a pre-strategic way of how it might return to a position of prominence.

After some time, another corporate entity slipped into the establishment and took its place at the bar. "Hey, Lefty," it said to the former financial executive, who was wiping the wooden expanse with a limp 401(k), "set me up. And keep 'em comin'."

The new patron was as different from our little corporation as Buffett is from Madoff. It was big, ample in its midsection, well nourished with executive compensation. Broad in the shoulder, wearing a bespoke suit, it had beady eyes beneath its tall hat. "I'll have another," it said to the bartender, motioning with a fist the size of an executive exit package. "And one for my little friend here."

"Thank you," said the little corporation, moving down to take the stool next to its new companion. "May I ask you what brings you to this sodden place in the middle of a workday?" The large and well-appointed corporation stared into the depths of its dark-brown drink. "My friend," it said at last, munching on the rind of a lemon, "you are looking at the corporation that was just named No. 1 on the Fortune 500." The little corporation expressed appropriate envy and congratulatory zeal. "Ah, well, you might think so!" said the big corporation. "But consider. My revenue is high this year, but only in comparison with others' that have been depressed, as yours has, by conditions that may change. Worse, my growth curve cannot be sustained without extraordinary and pyrrhic operating efficiencies and possibly even some dramatic M&A activity. You know what Wall Street thinks about that. Right now, every analyst on the Street is looking at me, hard. They think I'm as good as I can be right now and have only one direction to go -- down. Lefty! Another round for us both!"

The little corporation sat and thought, and began to feel a bit better. "I was dejected about my status," it said to itself. "But I've got nothing but upside compared with my established friend here. My best days are ahead. I can grow without a lot of fuss and muss. My '09 options are already in the black!"

And so they pondered together for a bit, the one increasingly cheerful with its snoutful of grog, the other sinking into the murk. "Hey, wait a minute!" said the big corporation after yet another bottoms-up. It had turned and was eyeing the little corporation with acute interest. "You're a good-looking fellow. You're fit. You're friendly. You're fun to be with. You're on the come. I could acquire you and solve a lot of my problems right here!"

"Well!" said the little corporation. "Just look at the time!" And it got out of that bar as fast as its lean little legs could carry it.

Moral: The big and powerful have the same problems we all do -- only theirs make them more dangerous.

Stanley Bing's new book, Bingsop's Fables: Little Morals for Big Business, is available at any bookstore that still exists and, of course, on a variety of digital platforms.

Dearest,

I write this with a heavy heart, but in the knowledge that it must be done. It's become clear over the last months that I am simply more important to you than you are to me. This must end before one or both of us gets hurt. No, don't cry! It's for the best. Once free of this -- I must call it what it is! -- this obsession you have with me, you will grieve, to be sure, but then you will be free to love others.

I understand the way you feel. The intense moments of pleasure that we both experienced when I purchased my new RAV4 in March were feelings that I will remember for the rest of my life. I remember walking into that showroom and seeing the vehicle that was the object of my quest. So shiny! And the options -- incomparable. I recall the lovely smooth glide of her moon roof as it slid back to reveal the crisp sky of early spring, and the way her six cylinders moved me from 0 to 60 in just a hair over six seconds. Nothing can take that first test drive away from us.

And don't think I will ever forget the ease with which you got my paperwork finished and whisked me out the door. Buying a car is a pretty big deal. You made it look easy. Showed me everything I needed to know. Set up my schedule of maintenance visits. You made me feel like a king, dear. You made all others who came before seem cheap, tawdry, and shallow. So thanks. I mean that from the bottom of my crankshaft.

But after that things started to go wrong. Maybe we just have a different idea of what a relationship like ours should be. To me, the two of us had a beautiful, intense transaction that was good for us both. For you, it's obvious, what we did together was meant to be the beginning of something deep and profound that had to be renewed again and again. I have a life, dear. I travel a lot. I just don't have time for the kind of intense connection that it's clear you have in mind.

I have on my desk as I write this a stack of e-mail printouts half an inch high, and that's from less than six weeks! It's too much! My in-box is clogged with your importunings, offerings, and requests for validation. Stop! I beg you!

They began reasonably enough. Your General Manager congratulated me on my purchase. I was happy to hear from her, though her tone was a little ominous. "Our interest in your satisfaction is just the beginning," she wrote. "We look forward to a continuing relationship, and it is our sincere desire that you remain completely satisfied." This made me a tiny bit uneasy. Who can offer complete satisfaction to another in this life?

Next came the personal e-mail from Ned, my sales-person. "Since you've placed your confidence with us," he wrote, "everyone here at Toyota realizes that your satisfaction is the key to our future." Really? I don't want that kind of responsibility!

Then came the offers of toys, keepsakes, and inducements for me to return, to see you, to keep up the pace and tenor of our former association. I was informed that I had been registered to use your online service scheduling solution. You even issued me a user name and a password so secret it had to be hidden in a "safe place" lest someone purloin it. What was next? There was a safe-driving program for teens and parents. Several more notes of thanks. And then began the steady drip, drip, drip of requests for feedback on my experience with you. I did the first you asked for. Then there were more. When I failed to answer the second, then the third and fourth such request, couldn't you take a hint? It's not my role in life to deal with your insecurities, my love. I know you had a bad 2010. I can't solve that single-handedly. So thanks for the offer of 15% off on parts and accessories. But let it end, here and now.

It's over. Perhaps we'll see each other down the road, in about 60,000 miles. I'll be there if you will, my love. Until then, sayonara!

The book is most splendidly illustrated by New Yorker artist Steve Brodner, who brings the CEOs, HR managers and grouchy public relations people to life as the lions, steeds, weasels and toads they are.

Here's a little taste of Bingsop's Fables. The voice is mine. The gifted pen is that of Steve Brodner.

This week I'm rolling out my new website, which, unsurprisingly, may be found at stanleybing.com. I've missed talking to you every day (well, almost every day) and look forward to continuing my dialogue with you over at Bing's new second home.

This week on stanleybing.com, I'm all in a swivet about the Royal Wedding. My invitation seems to have been lost in the mail, but I'm not going to let that stop me. There are all kinds or preparations for me to make and lots and lots of key decisions! What hat should I wear? Should I bring a little something for the bride and groom to the ceremony, or send it along later? Should I select the meat or the fish at the reception? The excitement is building, as you all know, about this unique merger, and The Bing Blog isn't going to be left behind!

Now, I hasten to add that I will also still be here, posting my Fortune column every couple of weeks and commenting back atcha about those, I hope -- but for my daily (or semi-daily) mutterings, shouts and exhortations, please do go to the new site and start yelling at each other over there as well. It's got books and toys and games and you could win a free pony. That's stanleybing.com. Be there AND be square, just like always.

Thanks!
Stanley (The Real) Bing

"You've got to stop playing that game," said my wife.

"Bah," I said.

"I think you're turning into an Angry Bird," she said.

"Bwee!" I replied. I kicked the dog and headed to the office.

I suppose there are some idiots out there who don't know about Angry Birds. As far as I'm concerned, it's the only reason to have an iPad. The story is pretty simple: There's a bunch of birds of various sizes, colors, and powers. Some grotesque piglike creatures have stolen their eggs. We don't know why. The theft, however, has quite naturally made the birds very angry. The pigs are green and come in various sizes too. They grunt a lot and wear an assortment of helmets and hats that protect their heads. Each bird mounts a little platform and then is launched by the player into the air. It must then swoop down and kill as many pigs as possible. The pigs are clever, though. They have hidden themselves away in a variety of architectural structures that must be destroyed. When the buildings fall, pigs explode. The birds cheer, and you move on to the next level. But if one pig remains standing, you lose. Which is most of the time. Which is why the birds are almost always angry.

Last weekend I didn't have much to do. So I sat on the couch all day Saturday and Sunday and killed pigs. It was great. Right now, I'm ranked 111,354th on the all-time list of millions of morons just like me. But I'm not addicted. I just like it. It relaxes me. The idea that the game has somehow had an impact on me in some psychological way makes me want to smash somebody in the face.

Anyway, it was a day like many others. I vaulted through the door like a little fat red sparrow with a cowlick and a mean expression. I'm always that way when I haven't had my coffee. The thing is, I don't have any superpowers in my human form, so there's not much I can do but shriek and bump into things. I'm much more effective in other iterations.

Take my 10 o'clock meeting with Bollinger, a big round green guy who works in finance. I needed to get some numbers out of him, which is like pulling hen's teeth, so I turned bright yellow, went into hyperdrive, and hit him in the gut at about 100 miles an hour. It was great. Pow! After he stopped regurgitating data, he went up in a tiny puff of smoke and presumably returned to his stinking grotto on the third floor. I felt pretty tired myself, so I deflated, lay on the floor of my office, and vaporized.

Lunch was pretty much the everyday bag of seeds, but after that things went nuts. There was the stuff going down in L.A., a bunch of junk for an investor's meeting, and a personnel issue that required immediate attention. So I broke into three tiny blue dudes and micromanaged each issue until it sort of went away. Or so I thought.

The West Coast stuff didn't work out too well, which was frustrating. I had to just roll away from it and lie there muttering while it loomed over me, snorting and sneering. That's when I got mad. I morphed into my insane toucan persona, launching myself high into the sky. Then, at precisely the right moment, I took a hard left turn and hit that mother from above with all I had! Bam! Zot! Kapowie! When the dust cleared, I had won! After that there were only a few little boogers around to take care of before quitting time. I circled for a while like a gigantic, obese penguin, dropping white bombs on anybody who ventured within my sphere.

But then I noticed that huge, greasy, pustulant personnel issue looming over me. I hadn't conquered it at all. It had merely lost its sombrero and nestled between a couple of loose boards on the other side of my in-box. This made me so damn angry that I turned black, then red, and exploded all over the place.

Then I went home, turned into a slow-moving and immensely heavy red ball, and went to sleep. I need my rest, you know. Tomorrow is another level.

Oh, lord.  Snowing again. Trains will be a mess. Buses will fail to appear. Bob will be in, though. Bob is always in. Bob lives a quarter-mile from the office in a penthouse the size of Versailles and is driven to work in a carriage drawn by Lipizzaners -- why shouldn't he come in? Also, he's non-fungible, Bob is. If he doesn't appear at the office, business will cease. That's why he makes the big bucks.

That's the nub of it, laid bare by the storm. There are those who must come in ... and those whose presence is not truly required. Let's pursue that for a moment. How often do you want the boss to realize that when you are not on the job, everything of import can continue unabated? That's a rhetorical question. The answer is never. You want him to think the opposite -- "Thank God Bing is here!"

Then there's the issue of Brod. Brod lives in the wilds of suburbia, far from the madding hurly-burly. One might say his situation was bucolic, except that Brod is never home. Rain, shine, or blizzard, Ed Brod rises before the worms put on their flak jackets. He scrapes his face, tightens his sphincter, and heads for the office, almost two hours away by train. When the rails are frozen, he climbs into his modest Subaru and slowly makes his way into town, where he mans his turret. He does not depart until the moon is high in the sky. So Brod will be at the office today, in spite of the nine inches of white stuff now blanketing the metropolitan area. "Ed's here," Bob will say when I call in. "But I guess he only has to come from frickin' Maryland."

And let's consider the macho factor. The jungle we work in is run by big, tough gorillas with hair on their knuckles. They are not bothered by a little snow. "When I was a boy in Chicago," Bob will say, "we used to walk to school in snow up to our belly buttons." Of course, belly buttons were lower then, but that's beside the point. These days people freak out a lot worse than they used to about a little bit of snow. London twisted its knickers for a week this year over less than six inches of the stuff. Washington and Baltimore run around screaming like little girls every time they get a light dusting. Do I want to be one of those weenies? I think not!

Anyway, I can't afford to miss a day. There's the Kreeger document that has to be circulated, and the Needleman material that needs revision. Let's tear ourselves away from this frosty window and head off into the wild!

Just look at it snow, though. Pretty pretty snow. When I was a little boy a day like this was a source of celebration. Mr. Weatherbee would wait until the last moment and then grudgingly call off the school day. I would have cocoa with a marshmallow in it. Then my mom would bundle me up in a ridiculous padded outfit and throw me out of doors to make snow angels on the lawn. There was no freedom like the feeling that God had wrested control of the universe, if only for one day, from the corporate powers that ran my tiny life.

There's cocoa in the cabinet, I think.

I should dress. Put on my boots, my shoes in a bag. It would take me at least an hour to get to the office, of course. Maybe longer. Not everything has been plowed. Big waste of time, really. How much more could I get done if I just hunkered down and, you know, worked from home? I have my BlackBerry. I have my computer. But do I have the guts?

Who has more courage? The grownup who goes to work because he fears authority and is mindful of the consequences? Or the child who accepts the judgment of the elements and stays home? In fact, how long has it been since I've had a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup and watched one snowflake chase another across the raging sky? Too long, I say! What am I? A man or a mouse?

Oh, the hell with it. I'm going in.

I read an article about how young people no longer e-mail, preferring to text to each other short little messages understandable only by those who text short little messages to each other. The burden of formulating sentences seems to be too much for them. This rang true. Several times over the past year I've sent e-mail to friends or colleagues and received nothing in reply for days because the recipients no longer stayed in touch with e-mail. "You should have texted me," they will say.

Text messaging isn't the only way people move teeny-weeny little ideas around now, either. I was informed not long ago by a hipster banker that blogs are out, replaced by Twitter. Where in years past a person might work out a complicated thought in, say, 150 words, now they will simply tweet it. "Best of times. Worst of times. More to folo," might have been all we needed to enjoy A Tale of 2 Cities. Likewise, many business announcements are no longer made by press conference or news release. "Buying Romania," a tweet from Sergey and Larry might say. Who needs more?

The opportunities here are as clear as the trends, for those who can figure out how to serve the public's dwindling attention span. Ever shorter and more perfunctory communications. Itty-bitty sentences. Without verbs. Lots of drpped vwls. And applications for people who want their information in minuscule packages, lacking the appetite for anything heavier than a couple of bytes between meals.

Within a year or two Twitter and text will be too prolix for the truly evolved. The apps that drive the market will shrink human expression down to a nub that can be carried on a touchscreen implement no bigger than a slice of toast. A small slice. Probably a crouton. Here are some apps, applets, and sub-appletines that I am patenting for future use:

QBL^® It's pronounced Quibble. You have 40 characters to complain about something. "Muffin insufficiently toasted at Mr. Muffin's on Main" is too long.

BBL^® It's pronounced Bibble, as in bibulous, which means prone to drink. Users have 30 characters or fewer to convey to their "friends" where they are having cocktails that night and, for 99¢ a month more than the basic rate, preorder beverages at certain BBLicious® establishments. Sponsorship opportunities are endless, since selling principles for alcoholic beverages seldom need more than a word or two to hit home. "Have one. Have fun. Have two? Woo-hoo." Right?

BABL^® Pronounced Babble, it provides legal advice to the needy in fewer than 25 characters. In complex situations, like divorce settlements, the full load may be necessary, as in "Cheaters never win, Flynn," while in others a simple "Cop a plea, Lee" may be all that's required.

BLRT^® You have 20 characters to Blurt something. "Make the deal! Pronto!" for instance, or "I love you, man!"

HRT^® When you're hurt by a bad employee or a funky investment manager, you have 15 characters to express your injury. Who could fail to understand "I'm mad @U"?

N/VSTR^® This service provides financial advice in 20 characters or less. "Buy low, sell high." That kind of thing. Those who wish more may punch through a pay wall for enhanced access to experts who will provide up to 60 characters of information.

In the future, it is possible that if you can't express a thought in a single character, it's not going to get heard. The letter "h" will be accepted as the universal symbol for the word "hi," for example, just as "k" has come to replace "Yes, I'd love to have dinner with you -- I've been missing you and looking forward to spending some time with you after several weeks of really hard work where we've had no time to be together." Other letters of the alphabet will be quickly assigned similar duties, and if you don't like the idea, I've got a letter for you that can't be printed in this magazine.

So wadja think? Lemme know. But pls. Keep it brf.

Sunday, 8 a.m. Woke with the ever-so-tiniest trickle of something itchy in the back of my throat. "Oh, Lord," I said to my wife. "I don't want to be sick. Not with all that's going on this week. Please, God. Don't let me be sick." "Are you sick?" she asked me. "No," I said sharply. "What makes you think I'm sick? Do I look sick to you?" "I don't know," she replied. "You don't look not sick." Sunday afternoon I took a flight from San Francisco to New York. Sneezed six times.

Monday. Drank eight glasses of Emergen-C before breakfast. For those who don't know of this miraculous substance, Emergen-C is a "Health and Energy Booster" with "24 Nutrients With Antioxidants, Electrolytes, and 7 B Vitamins" that may be taken before the onset of a cold. Its effectiveness is directly proportional to one's belief in its effectiveness. "I don't want to be sick," I said to my assistant, Beverly. "Not with all that I have to do this week." "No," she said, looking concerned and taking a step back. "Don't be sick." I had a number of meetings, some of them with Bob, our CEO. "You don't look so good," he said to me after one of them. "I'm fine," I said. "Just getting over something."

Tuesday. Woke up at 4 a.m., coughing. "I think I may be getting sick," I said to my wife. "You should stay in bed," she replied. "Well," I said, "My first meeting isn't until noon. I'll sleep until then." I stayed in bed until 10:37, at which point I became so aggravated by the constant BlackBerrying that I got up, put on my uniform, and was at my desk by 11:20. Nobody wanted to come into my office. They gathered in the doorway but would approach no farther. At 3:27 my head detached from my body and began to float five or six inches below the ceiling. My feet grew to several times their normal size and weight. This made moving a slow affair, which was probably for the best since it allowed my head to trail along at a comfortable speed and not bump into doorways. At 8 p.m. I had a dinner that went very well, except for the fact that it was attended by only 15% of me. The rest was at home, dead.

Wednesday. Lay in a semisolid state until noon. Then found myself, after a dream sequence in which I was bathed and dressed by unseen hands, in the General Manager's Meeting. This is a gathering of 40 top executives conducted by senior management four times per year. Each corporate officer -- of which I am one -- is required to give a short report. "Fwahgh," I began. "Argh grach mhrrrgh bwrt." Most of the team appeared sympathetic to my message, so I wrapped it up without further ado. "Phlaugh," I concluded. Then I excused myself and went to the restroom, where I sneezed until what remained of my brain came out of my eye socket.

Thursday. Don't remember much of the day. We were all getting ready for a big Board dinner. There was a staff meeting of some kind, I think. In an attempt to KO this little ailment, I had decided to take some Vick's Day Care and a couple of Sudafed in the morning, washing them down with the remainder of a bottle of Robitussin. This put me in a boisterous mood, and at one point during a discussion of bond maturities I was swept with the desire to laugh. Well, you know how it is. Once you get the urge to laugh in church, there's not much you can do about it. My little fit of chuckling was followed by a little bit of productive coughing, after which I sneezed 10 or 20 times. When I awoke, the room was empty. I didn't recall the meeting having been adjourned, but I returned to my office, where I fell asleep with my face in a bowl of chicken soup until it was dark. Then I went to the Board dinner. I think I had the fish.

Friday. Woke up feeling a whole lot better. Got to the office in good time and went to see Bob, who was at his desk behind a mountain of Kleenex. His nose was red. "Grakgh," he said. "Boy, Bob," I said to him. "You should go home and get some rest." He gave me a dark glare, sneezed twice. "I'm fine," he croaked. "I feel much better than I look." Which is good, I thought. The way we work now, if you don't have your health, you don't have anything.

I was sitting around the bunkhouse with a bunch of wealthy capitalists the other day, and we all agreed that the time was right for bigtime reinvestment. As one of them put it, "The economy is back. It's time to take intelligent risks again and make some friggin' money." I have been aware for quite some time that the fear/greed ratio is once again tipping to the second axis, avarice making its expected return to favor. If we were quants, we could create an equation tracking the desire to invest as a function of these two factors multiplied by a constant, S, for stupidity. But since we didn't go to MIT, let's just look at some of the postulations people are postulating to justify a return to securities.

The economy is back.

But it's not, not in any big way. Banks are doing well because they ingest capital and invest it for egregious gain while paying dust kitties for that privilege. Wall Street certainly feels that everything is roaring back because as we near bonus season, you could fill a fjord with the drool rolling down its collective chin. This festive holiday season, it appears that consumers, too, are tentatively twitching upward in a modest way, with single-digit increases in brick-and-mortar spending, and online shopping, which is generally done drunk, even more robust.

Conclusion: If wishes were horses, all men would ride. We have to wait for a while to see if things have really settled back to a level of growth justifying full-blown greed.

Wall Street has been fixed, and the rascals have been driven out.

This is possibly somewhat true. There has been some regulatory activity, albeit nothing that would impede idiotic fiduciary creativity yet. With the results of the last election, we can assume that Wall Street will once again be cooking up gadgets and gizmos that will thoroughly screw the average investor. So there's that. Of course, the SEC is all over the place in every corporation and enterprise, squeezing folks by their public filings and asking them to cough. The problem from an investment perspective, I think, is that you don't need to have bad guys running the show to wreak havoc on idiots like you and me. It's very good at what it does, our system. It's just not calibrated to do what you and I want it to do -- make money for the essentially uninformed and powerless.

Conclusion: In a casino, the house always wins. This house is very generous to its croupiers, and takes care of them first before scooping what's left into your tiny supper bowl.

The rational process of research, analysis, and financial measurement provides guidance and will yield results.

The thought here is simple: The market is now returning to sanity, where factors like revenue, EPS, cash flow, and Ebitda may be considered when predicting how a stock will fare in the coming years. This is perhaps the saddest leap of all -- the idea that there is a meaningful norm to which we all can return. I'm sorry. There's not. There is only a controlled form of madness, because there's money around. Companies attain and lose favor based on whiffs and vapors and rumors and crazy fears and hopes and dreams. The Street lunges at short-term gain and flees anything that smells of patient strategy that will pay off over time. Everybody reads everything online, and the message conveyed on a minute-by-minute basis is relentless: The world is ending soon. You gotta move fast and make the most of the carnage.

Conclusion: If you have to ask how much it costs, you can't afford it.

Of course, it's really hard to avoid playing when the rest of the gang is at the table chuckling, smoking cigars, sipping fine Scotch, and having all the fun in the world. What if by not playing you're missing the chance to attain not just a fair return but ... wealth? Wealth! Yeah, baby!

By the way, I hear the tech sector is once again poised on the brink of triple-digit growth. Venture capital firms are swarming to Silicon Valley with more cash than Croesus. You'd be a moron not to hop on that train early.