Sex, Drugs, and Savings Accounts
After our poop jokes last week, D.A.’s mom sent us an e-mail suggesting that these columns might affect our employment prospects. We were thrilled. But, as we read on, we realized that she actually was predicting a negative effect. Forced to reevaluate, we did some hard thinking and decided to stop writing this column. However, when ABC News released the transcripts of our IM chats with Representative Foley last Friday, we figured we’re just going to go balls-out and keep writing. Might as well put it all on the table; D.A. has had a handful of unsuccessful short-term relationships here at Harvard, and Peter is a closeted homosexual (don’t tell mom !!!).
In spite of those skeletons, we are confident that we are going to hit some big home runs in this year’s e-recruiting season. We weren’t always so gung-ho about the soul-selling world of investment banking, but this summer we decided to give it a whirl, and since then we have been completely converted. We applied for some hardcore finance jobs in Milwaukee, and with glowing recommendations from Derek C. Bok we were soon accepted into the Junior Teller program at Second National Community Bank.
We began by scrapping everything we learned at Harvard. Ec 10 was full of hard data and macrovariables, but our new employee pamphlets told us that investment banking is really all about people...people investing in banks. Mankiw talks a big game, but we doubt he’s ever wiped down an ATM after hours. And here’s a sneak peak of the future that not even Amartya Sen can provide: it really is full of pneumatic tubes and you’ll never have to leave your car to do investment banking again.
As the summer went on, the negative stereotypes that we had formed at Harvard continued to crumble. Gutless humanities concentrators always accuse the industry of being heartless. But this misconception was soon debunked when D.A. helped a six-year-old girl open up her first savings account. And she didn’t just reach up to the teller window with her big brown eyes and her pink piggy bank full of pennies; she reached out with a child’s innocence and a lifetime’s savings of love. Unfortunately, D.A. took this love the wrong way and is no longer allowed within 500 yards of an elementary school. Luckily, he’s already found a great janitor costume.
We must admit, however, that one stereotype was fulfilled: the world of finance is criminally misogynistic. Any girls who are thinking about banking, bank on not being able to make a copy without a loan officer copping a feel. We even adjusted to the climate. A week into work we were making copies of our genitals and sneaking them into the lunches of our female coworkers. A week after that Peter got a HUGE bonus (read: boner) after firing four women for taking more than three days of maternity leave. Hey, take an epidural, slap on a pantsuit, and get back in there.
It was things like that that convinced us that investment banking was one of the absolute worst, most terrible opportunities for any Harvard student who wants to save the world to pass up. Sure the 100-hour work weeks might seem like a drag, but not when you’re taking nightly rides down the double black diamond slopes of Yayo Mountain. For those would-be masters of the universe who share our dream—our dream of stroking JP’s Organ and fondling Goldman’s Sac—we’ll see you atop Manhattan’s Mt. Olympus: Wall Street.