Post Market Wrap -The Meltdown: Sedated and Scorched - June 11, 2025...
Dispatches from The Last Sane Bastard in This Casino
9:17 PM EDT—Pre-Market was a trembling wreck, sweating bullets before the CPI MOAB landed. When it hit softer than expected, the floor trader pigfuckers went berserk—snorting fairy dust and screaming “BUY ALL THE THINGS!” The SPY grazed 609, and for a fleeting moment, it was all sunshine and debauchery. But then, around 2 PM, the rug got yanked: “DOWN GOES FRAZIER! DOWN GOES FRAZIER!” The rally imploded, leaving bag holders dazed and broke. Closing bell tallied the wreckage:
Dow: -1.10 (a pathetic whimper)
SPX -15.99 and NDX: -74.59 (a real gut punch)
VIX: 17.16 (snoozing like a drunk uncle while the house burns)
What triggered the collapse? Who cares—just sing it with me:
“Twenty-twenty-twenty-four hours to go, I wanna be sedated / Nothin’ to do and nowhere to go, I wanna be sedated.”
The Week’s Incoming Chaos
The market’s got more punishment lined up, you masochistic fools. Brace for:
Producer Price Index (PPI)—May data drops June 12, ready to blow.
US Jobs Data—Non-Farm Payrolls, Unemployment Rate, Average Hourly Earnings hit June 13, a triple-threat shitstorm.
European Central Bank (ECB) Rate Decision—June 12, Euro clowns stirring the pot.
$22 Billion Treasury Auction—Thursday, Uncle Sam begging for scraps again.
Survive this gauntlet, and you’re tougher than a two-dollar steak.
Bitcoin: The Crypto Circus
BTC’s clawing at $108,706.50 after hours, ramming its head against the $110,000 resistance and getting nowhere. Break that wall, you crypto lunatics, and it’s off to the races! My short-term calls:
Upside target: $116,313.22
Downside risk: $98,504.80
For the full psychotic breakdown, check my screed Beavis, Butthead, and Bitcoin: A Gonzo Ride to $236,887 or Bust—it’s a wild ride through the crypto swamp.
Stocks: The Molten Mess
Here’s the ticker rundown, dripping with greed and despair:
RGTI: Quantum chaos bubbling up.
NVDA: AI chip tyrants ruling the ashes.
INTC: Legacy tech wheezing in the dust.
QUBT: More quantum madness simmering.
ABD: Some obscure bastard, but it’s here.
TSLA: Elon’s circus tent flapping in the storm.
These are your lottery tickets to ruin or riches—play at your own peril.
Engage, You Filthy Pikers!
Catch my intraday rants and unhinged brain farts at:
https://kingcambo812.substack.com/notes—short, savage, and unfiltered. Subscribe, yap back, or lurk like a creep—I don’t care, just do it!
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There’s your market wrap, you twisted freaks—chew it up and spit it out. I’m KingCAMBO, and I’ll see you in the next meltdown. Smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em!
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.