This Week’s Dumpster Fire Digest: Edition 2, June 15, 2025, 7:06 AM EDT
Dispatches from The Last Sane Bastard in This Casino
Oh, what a glorious week it’s been, folks! The markets threw a pity party, and everyone’s invited! Let’s start with the Dow, which decided to take a swan dive off the cliff, shedding points like a drunk shedding dignity—down, down, down into the abyss! The S&P joined the fun, stumbling like a rookie trader on a bender, while the NDX proved it’s not immune to a good old-fashioned beatdown. The Russell 2000? Ha! That little engine that couldn’t just sputtered out, proving small caps are the red-headed stepchild of this circus. The VIX spiked like a caffeine-addled lunatic, hitting levels that scream “panic, you fools!”—20-something, because who needs calm? And the 10-year yield? It’s been doing a awkward dance, teasing us with stability before flipping us the bird. As for Shitcoin—sorry, Bitcoin—it’s been a rollercoaster of getting its ass handed to it, hovering around $105K after a week of relentless mule-whipping. Bravo, market gods, bravo!
Now, let’s snark about Friday’s napalm meltdown—oh, what a beauty! The tape turned into a war zone, and poor Bullwinkle ended up in the nervous hospital with a severe case of PTPD (Post Traumatic Piker Disorder). Those shell-shocked Reddit Retail Retards are probably still crying into their ramen, wondering where their meme stock dreams went. The market didn’t just crash—it gang-raped itself and left a smoking crater. Hilarious, right?
On to Bitcoin, still my favorite punching bag. My “short-termish” targets hold firm: upside at $116,313.22 and downside at $98,504.80. Want the full gonzo prophecy for 2025? Choke down Beavis, Butthead, and Bitcoin: A Gonzo Ride to $236,887 or Bust—it’s a wild, brain-melting trip through the crypto jungle, you masochists!
Stocks: The Weekly Slaughter
Let’s eyeball the carnage, you bloodthirsty hyenas:
$IBIT—crypto ETF taking a beating, down with the digital dung heap.
$SPY—broad market bleeding, a sad shadow of its former glory.
$QQQ—tech’s pride took a tech-tonic plunge.
$DIA—Dow dogs dragging their tails in the dirt.
$IWM—Russell 2000 reeling, small caps crying uncle.
$TLT—bonds bending under the yield curve’s cruel laugh.
These are your weekly war wounds—trade ‘em if you dare, you gluttons for punishment!
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Market Movers: A Dumpster Fire Symphony
This week’s recap is a symphony of chaos—geo-political tantrums, Jobs Data bombs, and a VIX that laughed in our faces. Friday’s meltdown was the grand finale, a napalm-soaked encore that left Bullwinkle twitching. Stock up on whisky and tissues, you pathetic pikers, because this dumpster’s still smoldering!
Engage, You Spineless Wonders!
Craving my unhinged rants? Dive into my intraday inane drivel and sporadic brain droppings on My Fucking Notes —short, savage, and kicking you in the teeth harder than this week’s carnage, you gutless ghouls! Follow, scream back, or crawl under your desk!
Join the High Rollers, You Cheap Skulls!
Tired of this dumpster fire roasting your soul? Snag a 7-day free trial to my paid service for $5 a month—cheaper than your overpriced booze and packing a brutal edge. Dominate the ashes at KingCAMBO’s Fear and Loathing. High rollers only—don’t waste my time!
Final Word
This week’s dumpster fire was a masterpiece of misery.
I am KingCAMBO, smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em, and that’s how I ROLL on this Dumpster Fire Digest!
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.