Oh Good...No More Quantitative Easing!
Dispatches from The Last Sane Bastard in This Casino
Thursday, December 11, 2025, 5:57 AM EDT
Heavily Fortified Compound, Marco Island, FL
Ah, yes, gather ‘round, you wide-eyed rubes and market junkies, for the Federal Reserve has spoken from its marble throne in Washington, and lo! The gods of finance have decreed: no more Quantitative Easing. That’s right, folks, Jerome Powell and his merry band of economic alchemists announced yesterday—December 10, 2025, for those keeping score in this endless casino—that they’ll be hoovering up $40 billion or more in short-term Treasury bills every goddamn month, starting Friday, all the way through the twilight of Powell’s reign. But hold your applause, because this, my friends, is not QE. No sir, it’s “reserve management purchases,” a fancy term for injecting liquidity into the veins of a jittery banking system without admitting you’re mainlining the hard stuff again.
What the hell is it, then? If pumping billions into the system monthly to “maintain ample reserves” and calm the overnight funding markets isn’t QE, then pray tell, dear Socrates of the spreadsheet, what fresh linguistic gymnastics are we witnessing here? Is it just a polite repo operation on steroids? A balance-sheet Band-Aid for the repo market’s recurrent seizures? Or is it, as I suspect in my gonzo-fueled paranoia, the same old vampire squid wrapping its tentacles around the face of the economy, sucking it dry while insisting it’s just a friendly hug? Remember 2019? When the repo market spiked like a bad acid trip, and the Fed swore up and down their bill-buying binge was “not QE”? History rhymes, doesn’t it, or maybe it just stutters in denial.
Let’s dissect this clusterfuck, shall we? The Fed’s halting its quantitative tightening— that glorious unwind of the pandemic bloat—and flipping the script to outright purchases. Why? Because money market rates are creeping up, the Standing Repo Facility’s getting a workout, and god forbid the banks feel a pinch in their trillion-dollar pockets. They’re even reinvesting agency securities payoffs straight into T-bills, like a junkie recycling his empties for the next fix. But no, this isn’t stimulus; it’s “proactive recalibration.” Bullshit. If it walks like QE, quacks like QE, and inflates asset bubbles like QE, then what is it but the ghost of Bernanke past haunting us anew?
Socratically speaking, inquire with me: How does one add liquidity without easing quantitatively? Is there a semantic safe word these central bankers whisper to avoid the QE label? Powell’s crew insists it’s about stabilizing short-term rates, not goosing the broader economy. Yet here we are, with stocks spiking 500 points on the Dow, yields dipping, and the whole rigged game breathing a sigh of relief that Uncle Sam’s printing press is back in action. Who benefits? The Wall Street wolves, of course, feasting on cheap money while Main Street chokes on inflation that’s “elevated” but apparently not enough to stop the party.
This is the ultimate central bank farce—a Kabuki theater of denials where “ample reserves” is code for “we’re terrified of a liquidity crunch.” Powell’s term ends in 2026, but this monthly $40B IV drip could run indefinitely, propping up a system addicted to intervention. What happens when the next crisis hits? More “not QE”? Bigger doses? We’re trapped in a hall of mirrors, where every reflection screams dependency, and the Fed’s the mad hatter pouring tea from an empty pot.
Oh, but rejoice! No more QE means we’re saved from... what, exactly? The illusion of fiscal responsibility? The pretense of free markets? This is a clusterfuck of epic proportions, a monetary Moloch devouring the dollar’s soul while assuring us it’s just a light snack. Question everything, dear reader: If this isn’t QE, then what’s the difference between salvation and surrender? In this gonzo economy, the only certainty is the lie we tell ourselves to sleep at night.
Alright, you wild-eyed knowledge junkies, strap in for a gonzo ride through the best Substack resources to supercharge your brain and keep your financial wits sharper than a switchblade in a back-alley brawl. These aren’t just newsletters—they’re dynamite-packed dispatches from the front lines of markets, skepticism, and raw insight. Let’s reformat this hit list with some Thompson-esque fire and Taibbi’s razor-edged clarity, laced with a Socratic jab to make you question everything.
Fantastic Resources for You, Eager Young Minds
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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 magnificent 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.