The Screed: Post Market Wrap, 08:28 PM EDT, June 17, 2025
Dispatches from The Last Sane Bastard in This Casino
Fear and Loathing in the Post-Market Gutter
It’s 7:54 PM from the undisclosed fortified compound, and this day spiraled into a howling shitstorm faster than a bat out of hell! So much for Cramer’s Bullwinkle Monday mosh pit—pre-market ugliness metastasized into a full-on FUGLY apocalypse. Here’s your tale of woe, you trembling degenerates: Dow -299.30, SPX -51.09, NDX -219.73, and the VIX? That leg-humping bastard’s now at 21.82, reeking of raw, primal fear. Smell it, Skippy—this market’s a corpse!
BTC’s clinging to life in the after-hours at $104,613.75, but don’t get cozy—it’s been a puke-inducing rollercoaster from $107,792.90 to $103,363.30, now shackled again in that 104K–105K resistance trap. My “short-termish” targets hold firm: upside to $116,313.22, downside to $98,504.80. Crave the full 2025 crypto prophecy? Choke on Beavis, Butthead, and Bitcoin: A Gonzo Ride to $236,887 or Bust—a lunatic plunge into the digital abyss!
Let’s get drunk and stay drunk, staggering through the rain weeping until tomorrow at 2 PM, when Powell, that bloviating fraud, will spew an hour of jack shit. The algos will dissect every goddamn syllable, triggering spasmodic knee-jerk spasms up and down—this is Day Trading 101, you masochistic fools!
Stocks?
ENPH at 34.92 is bleeding out -23.97%
FSLR at 143.90 teeters on a razor -17.89%
VALE@9.35 is a penny-stock punchline -6.68%
CRCL@149.15 struts like a doomed peacock
Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em—if you survive this carnage without Fireball or shady elixirs, send a postcard. Or join my $5/month paid service, you glorious freaks!
I invite you to follow my post-market rants and brain-dumping madness on My Fucking Notes —raw, ruthless, and a fist to your face, you pikers! High rollers, grab a 7-day free trial and ride this nightmare!
I am KingCAMBO, smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em, and that’s how I ROLL on Post Market Wrap!
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.