Posted on September 7, 2020
It’s not that we take pleasure in being spoilsports…
But the truth is, someone has to a call a spade a spade.
And if it weren’t for the few brave and mighty (like us), no one would step up to the plate and swing like Almonzo “Golden Boy” Ritchie, Lord rest his soul – nor would anyone know the truth…
Almonzo was perhaps the greatest slugger you never heard of.
He passed from this world when the tug he was pulling along the Erie Canal (for charity purposes, you know) capsized, dragging him to a murky death just west of Lockport N.Y.
Some suggested foul play, when the jilted EX of Almonzo’s lover, Mona Boddice-Stretcher, surfaced nearby with a giant cork in his hands, hopped on a waiting steed and sped off in the direction of the haunted Spalding Mill, where Mona’s ghost, it’s still said, cries nightly for her beloved home run king.
We’re talking about gold today, friends; we don’t like it, not one bit.
We’re stealing a bit of brother Matt McAbby’s thunder in the process, but as we say in the business, timing is everything.
So here goes.
Gold looks bad.
Whether it’s a temporary phenomenon or longer lasting, we can’t say.
But profits ought be taken, and now.
Maximum loss is $5.11.
Maximum gain, theoretically unlimited.
With kind regards,
Hugh L. O’Haynew