Sunday Screed: The Mother of All Crashes – Zeberg’s Naked Truth and My 29-Year Circus of Doom
Dispatches from The Last Sane Bastard in This Casino
04:33 AM EDT, June 29, 2025, Heavily Fortified Compound, Marco Island
Wake the fuck up, you battle-scarred degenerates, for this Sunday’s long-form descent into the abyss—the Mother of All Crashes screed! I’ve traded through 29 years of Wall Street’s guillotine—LTCM’s 1998 hedge-fund circle-jerk gone wrong, Asia’s 1997 currency domino of drunk dictators, the dot-com bust’s 2000-2002 tech geek wet dream turned ash, the 2008 subprime scam bailout bonanza for bankers, the 2010 Flash Crash’s millisecond shitstorm, and COVID’s 2020 panic porn with printer ink galore. Now, Henrik Zeberg’s Final Warning: The Emperor’s New Clothes June 25, 2025, is the lone boy yelling “Naked!” at this S&P 500 sham—60%+ crash, 8% unemployment, 6% inflation by ’26-’28, all courtesy of the Fed’s zero-rate heroin and Congress’s money-printing orgy. Credit where it’s due—Zeberg’s the prophet I wish I’d heeded sooner. This is Fear and Loathing in Trader Hell, where I, KingCAMBO, your ink-drenched gonzo survivor since ‘96, wield a sarcasm-soaked flamethrower to expose this mother of all meltdowns.
Market Mayhem: A Carnival of Delusion
This week’s market was a rollercoaster from the devil’s funhouse: DOW hit a hopium hallucination of +507.20, S&P soared on bullshit stilts to +68.11, NDX blasted its last gasp at +336.33, Russell 2000 wobbled like a drunk on a tightrope, VIX snoozed in comatose complacency at 16.48, 10-year yield flipped the bird at 4.26%, and $BTC swung from a gut-wrenching $98,164.17 low to a euphoric $108,387.26 high —quite the fucking range, eh, you eager pups? $BTC at $107,392.79 now teases my $116,313.22 upside, with $98,504.80 held since June 22—the only damn thing holding value in this circus. Want my 2025 crypto prophecy? Guzzle Beavis, Butthead, and Bitcoin: A Gonzo Ride to $236,887 or Bust—a jungle refuge from this bubble nightmare. Meanwhile, the “experts” at CNBC and Bloomberg peddle this rally as gospel—blind fools too stoned on QE to see Zeberg’s cliff.
Meme Stock Cults: The Last Gasp of Retail Rage
Oh, you pitiful pikers, let’s wallow in the meme stock cesspool—$GME and $AMC, the tattered flags of a retail rebellion that’s more delusion than defiance! $GME closed at $23.59 yesterday, a measly 15% weekly twitch from $20.50, teasing a $24 resistance before crashing to $23 or lower if Roaring Kitty’s X hype fizzles—29 years of watching these pump-and-dumps, and this ain’t no 2021 moonshot. $AMC limped to $3.07, a sad echo of its $5 dreams, up 1.66% but teetering on a $3.50 hope or a $2.90 flop if the zombie army runs out of ammo. These cults are a middle-finger circus against Wall Street’s Vampire Squid, born from my LTCM and 2008 scars—amateur apes thinking they’ll bankrupt hedge funds again. But let’s not kid ourselves; this is a rigged casino where the house always wins, and Zeberg’s crash looms to bury these bag-holders under their own greed. I’ve seen squeezes die harder than a dot-com startup—hold at your peril, you delusional bastards!
The Bag Holder Seven: Overvalued Tech Trash
Now, let’s turn our cynical gaze to the so-called “Magnificent Seven”—Alphabet, Amazon, Apple, Broadcom, Meta, Microsoft, Nvidia—a parade of overblown tech gods teetering on Zeberg’s guillotine! These bag-holding bastards have suckered the masses with their “all-time high” bullshit, but 29 years of watching bubbles pop tells me they’re a house of cards ready to collapse. Alphabet ($178.27) is a fading AI fart, its Google Search throne wobbling—$172.92 dip if Waymo flops, you deluded drones. Amazon ($223.30) is a tariff-choked retail wreck, potentially sliding to $216.60 if AWS growth stalls—bag holders, enjoy the markdown! Apple ($201.08) clings to iPhone’s last hurrah, perhaps drooping to $195.05 if innovation dies—polish those overpriced toys, suckers! Broadcom ($269.35) ticks like a chip glut bomb, could be crashing to $261.27 or lower when AI demand dries—short these greedy bastards! Meta ($733.63) sinks with ad revenue’s sinking ship, tanking to at least $711.63 if users flee—Zuck’s metaverse is a bag-holder’s nightmare! Microsoft ($495.94) balloons AI costs to a $481.07 pop, bleeding as cloud growth lags—Bill’s empire’s a paper tiger! Nvidia ($157.75), the poster child of overbuy, plunges to $153.02 or far worse when the chip bubble bursts—sell, you greedy apes! Web trends scream 20-40% overvaluation, and with Zeberg’s crash looming, these tech titans are primed for a 60%+ face-plant—laugh while you can, you bag-holding fools!
The Mother of All Crashes: A Cynical Prophecy Unleashed
Zeberg’s model isn’t just a warning—it’s a goddamn death knell for this market’s house of cards. The Fed’s zero-rate heroin and Congress’s money-printing orgy have birthed a “complacent cycle peak” so delusional it’d make a carnival barker blush. Hunter S. Thompson would’ve called it a “Titanic iceberg, steaming toward a super-cycle supernova,” while Matt Taibbi would skewer it as a “Vampire Squid grift, feasting on the 99% while the 1% cackle in their penthouses.” This crash will make 2008 look like a warm-up—a 60%+ plunge where meme stock cults implode in a short-squeeze suicide, the Bag Holder Seven’s bags burst in a technicolor explosion, and $BTC at $107,392.79 rises as the anti-fiat phoenix. My 29-year scars—LTCM’s hedge-fund implosion, Asia’s currency collapse, dot-com’s ash heap, subprime’s bailout bonanza, the Flash Crash’s gut-punch, and COVID’s printer ink flood—scream: this is the mother of all meltdowns. Short this naked parade before the Fed’s printer jams, Trump’s tariff circus torches the last shred of sanity, and stagflation—8% jobless, 6% inflation—eats the working stiffs alive. Laugh now, you suits, while the guillotine sharpens!
Next Week’s Inferno: A Preview of the Abyss
Brace your sorry asses for next week’s economic shitstorm. Monday, June 30, Q2 GDP drops—will it flex at 2.9% (Atlanta Fed’s pipe dream) or flop like a drunk on a barstool? Tuesday, July 1, Jobless Claims could spike to 240K+ if tariffs gut the working class—bet on it, you optimists! Wednesday, July 2, ISM Manufacturing hints at industrial rot—good luck, factory fools, as supply chains choke. Thursday, July 3, ADP Employment and Fed minutes might ignite a sell-off, with Powell’s drivel fanning the flames of panic—watch the suits squirm! Friday, July 4, markets close early—perfect for a hangover amid this tariff-fueled meltdown, you patriotic pikers. This week’s the calm before Zeberg’s storm—mark my words.
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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.