Last Month Tonight: May’s Market Madness, a Fear-and-Loathing Frenzy Where Bulls Bleed and Shitcoins Scream
Dispatches from The Last Sane Bastard in This Casino
Fasten your seatbelts, you degenerate gamblers, because May 2025 was a psychotic carnival ride through the blood-soaked canyons of Wall Street, where the S&P 500, Dow Jones, VIX, 10-year Treasury yields, and Bitcoin—oh, sweet, manic Bitcoin—danced a meth-fueled tango with your 401k. One minute you’re Elvis in ’68, strutting with a fistful of green candles; the next, you’re Nixon in disgrace, sweating bullets as the Dow pukes 800 points in a single day, leaving your portfolio a smoldering chalk outline on the trading floor. Buy the dip, you fool—it’s only blood
Vampire Squid Vomit: Goldman Sachs and their slimy tentacles jerked the S&P 500 like a rigged slot machine, up 6% for the month—its best May since 1990—only to spew despair with a 1.61% gut-punch on May 21. The suits laughed over martinis while retail traders choked on margin calls, their dreams of lambos reduced to ramen. The Nasdaq, drunk on tech juice, surged nearly 10%, while the Dow limped along at 4%, a tired old dog kicked by rising yields.
Bat Country Bourses: The VIX, that fear-gauge fever dream, dropped to its 30-year average of 20 by mid-May, down from a psychotic 60 earlier in 2025. But don’t kid yourself—this wasn’t calm; it was the eerie quiet before a rabid bat swarm claws your net worth to confetti. Investors, high on hopium, bet on a “risk-on” environment, only to get blindsided by Treasury yield spikes that turned their 401ks into roadkill.
Wall Street Walpurgisnacht: The 10-year Treasury yield spiked to 4.59%, a middle finger to anyone hoping for Fed relief. A piss-poor $16 billion 20-year bond auction signaled investors were done funding Uncle Sam’s deficit orgy, sending yields screaming and stocks tumbling. The Dow shed 816 points on May 21, the S&P 500 lost 95, and the Nasdaq bled 270, with real estate, healthcare, and financials leading the slaughter.
Meth-Addled Marts: These indices twitched like tweakers at a pawn shop, pumping 10% on trade-deal rumors, then crashing into a dumpster fire when Trump’s tariff threats resurfaced. The S&P 500 climbed 17% from April lows, but May’s volatility was a schizophrenic beast, biting hands that fed it. The Fed’s plunge-protection team pumped liquidity like a cartel cutting coke, but the market still spat in their face.
Casino Royale Carnage: Bitcoin, that digital delirium, hit an all-time high of $109,000 on May 21, riding a wave of tariff relief and stock market rebounds. But don’t get cocky—volatility’s lurking like a loan shark. My short-term upside call? $116,313.22. Downside? $98,504.80. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em, you silly bastards, but don’t cry when the rug’s pulled. And shitcoins? Pepe Coin, that meme-fueled fever dream, danced with Dogecoin and Shiba Inu, fueled by Bitcoin’s rally and a no-tax policy that had moonbois howling. Yet, when Bitcoin dipped, those YOLO freaks were left holding bags heavier than a Vegas hangover.
Doom-Orgy Derivatives: Hedge funds, those hyenas in Brioni suits, shorted grandma’s pension while toasting “market efficiency.” Retail traders, screwed by leverage and lies, watched their life savings vanish in a penthouse bacchanal where the ticker burned red. The market’s a rigged game, and the house always wins, you poor bastards.
Month of May’s Notable Stocks (No Magnificent 7 Allowed):
Coinbase (COIN): Added to the S&P 500, this crypto casino rode Bitcoin’s wave, only to get slapped by a DOJ probe over a data breach. Shares wobbled but held, a testament to the lunacy of crypto fever.
Target (TGT): Slashed its annual forecast as shoppers ditched discretionary spending, sending shares down 5.2%. Tariffs hit like a sledgehammer, and HSBC downgraded it to “reduce.” Ouch.
Wolfspeed (WOLF): This semiconductor supplier plummeted nearly 60% on bankruptcy rumors, a bloodbath that left traders shell-shocked.
Gap (GAP): Took a multimillion-dollar tariff hit but kept its 2025 forecast, a defiant middle finger to the chaos. Shares sank anyway—retail’s a cruel mistress.
MercadoLibre (MELI): Up 35% in 2025, this Latin American e-commerce beast dodged the volatility bullets, a standout in a market of carnage.
When I embarked upon my vast and illustrious market plunger career in the summer of 1996 - you used a 2400 Baude dial up modem to check your delayed stock quotes on AOL or trade on Datek. And when you made a whole bunch of money you could quit your day gig, go high tech and pay for DSL - a higher form of dialup. There was no social media to speak of back then. Blogs and piker tip sheets maybe…Fast forward 29+ years and now I am surrounded by GenX and GenZ cretins, and what is far, far worse - Reddit Retail Retards…
The Freaks, Ghouls, and Moonbois:
Mescaline Moonbois: High on X hype and cheap leverage, they YOLO’d rent money into Pepe Coin, screaming “Vegas or bust!” as the chart flatlined. Pass the amyl nitrate, Ralph.
Lehman Lizardmen: These suited ghouls bet billions on subprime sludge, then cried “force majeure” when their yacht money evaporated. Matt Taibbi’d call ‘em carrion feeders; HST’d just shoot the bastards.
FOMO-Fried Freaks: Eyes like pinwheels, they chased every pump, only to get rekt by a flash crash and a margin call from Satan’s brokerage.
Wailing WSB Wretches: Reddit’s diamond-hand warriors stormed Citadel with memes and mommy’s savings, only to drown in their own delusions. The American Dream, my ass.
Coke-Fueled Chart-Chasers: Snorting hopium, they bought the top with a maniac’s grin, then sold the dip in a cold sweat, cursing the algo gods.
Hedge Fund Hyenas: Laughing through Bloody Marys, they shorted your future while toasting efficiency. Taibbi’s got their number: soulless grifters.
Panic-Pump Pundits: X-post prophets screamed “LFG” at dawn, then ghosted when the rug pulled. HST’d call ‘em swine; they’re just noise in the machine.
Bagholder Bacchanalians: Drunk on greed, they HODL’d to zero, chanting “it’ll bounce” like cultists at a Jonestown mixer, their net worth joining the choir invisible.
Teaser Time: Want more of this gonzo madness? Dive into my Bitcoin screed, Bitcoin or Bust: Can Bitcoin Eventually Moon or Is It Doomed to Crash and Burn? at https://kingcambo812.substack.com/p/bitcoin-or-bust-can-bitcoin-eventually. And for you high rollers, join the paid service for a 7-day free trial—$5 a month gets you front-row seats to the financial apocalypse. Don’t be a cheapskate; upgrade now, you degenerate!
May 2025 was a savage beast, a Walpurgisnacht of greed and despair where traders sold their souls for a 2% gain, only to weep into their whiskey when the market shat the bed. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em, and if you win, send me a postcard from Vegas.
I am KingCAMBO, smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em, and that’s how I ROLL on this batshit market recap!
King Cambo’s Fear and Loathing “Legal” Disclaimer: Alright, buckle up, you madcap truth-seekers, ‘cause I’m about to sling this disclaimer straight from the edge of a neon-drenched abyss, for you silly bastards, with a belly full of cheap whiskey and a mind like a chrome-plated slot machine spitting sparks. This ain’t no polite suggestion to buy or sell stocks, securities, or any of that Wall Street bullshit—it’s just my raw, unfiltered brain-droppings, spewed out like a busted fire hydrant. I’m a walking financial disaster, hemorrhaging cash on trades and investments like a gambler on a three-day bender. I might snatch up any stock I yap about here or dump it faster than a getaway car at a bank heist, and I won’t send you a postcard about it. This ain’t a pitch to buy or sell jack shit! I might own the names I’m ranting about, or I might not—could be bullish and empty-handed, bearish with a fistful of shares. Hell, assume I’m playing the exact opposite game you think, just to keep you on your toes. If I’m long, I could flip short before the ink dries; if I’m short, I might go long by lunch. No updates, no apologies—my positions shift like desert sands in a sandstorm. You’re out here in the wilds, solo, so don’t you dare lean on my blog for your big money moves. I’m a fringe-dweller, howling at the moon, and the publisher ain’t vouching for the half-cocked “facts” I sling. These ain’t the opinions of my bosses, buddies, or anyone else dumb enough to know me. I do my damndest to keep my disclosures straight, but I’m scribbling this after a few beers, maybe a shot of mezcal, so don’t bet your ranch on my accuracy. I tweak my posts after they’re live ‘cause I’m an impatient bastard, too lazy to proofread. Spot a typo? Come back in 30 minutes, it might be gone—or worse. And let’s get one thing crystal: I fuck up. “I fuck up a lot.” I’m saying it twice ‘cause it’s the only gospel I’ve got. Now go, you beautiful lunatics, and don’t blame me when the market chews you up and spits you out.