From the quivering, digital birchwood of X, Anthony Scaramucci, financier and soothsayer of fortunes (with hair as resilient as the American dollar), delivered dispatches: 2025’s Berkshire Hathaway annual meeting is primed for spectacle. 🌪️
Exit, Pursued by Legacy: Buffett’s Curtain Call
In a gesture Dostoevskian in gravity and Tolstoyan in its surprise, Warren Buffett cast his final act upon troubled waters—announcing, as snow falls on the Volga, that he would surrender the scepter of CEO by year’s turn. The only witnesses to this clandestine coup? His offspring ensconced upon the board, peering quietly over their glasses. Yet Buffett, ever the vigilant grandfather of capitalism, assured he would not sell his shares nor retreat entirely—after all, who abandons the chessboard mid-match? ♟️
He saluted American resilience, almost as if toasting at a Moscow railway cafe under a drizzling rain. “The luckiest day of my life was my American birth,” he declared with Churchillian optimism, his voice woven with the melody of prairie winds and Wall Street’s humming wires.
The Tariff’s Soliloquy (Or Why Trade Needs a Hug)
With the vigor of a man fencing shadows, Buffett decried tariffs—”economic cudgels,” he called them, threatening the fragile ballet of global commerce and stability. No politician named, just a quixotic urging: trade is for building bridges across the Neva, not walls on the steppe. 🇷🇺🕊️
Tossing aside hysteria as one discards last year’s earnings report, he greeted volatility as an old friend—”A 50% market tumble? Delightful, more bargains!” With characteristic disregard for panic, he warned that America’s fiscal deficit is growing like a bear after hibernation—cuddly now, but hungry soon enough.
The $10 Billion Waltz: Deal or No Deal?
Berkshire’s vault, heavier than any czar’s coffer—$330 billion deep—nearly lightened by $10 billion in an almost-deal. Buffett, with the patience of a poet waiting for spring, pulled back at the last verse: not the right value. One can almost see him shrug, pen in hand, muttering, “There will be other poems.” Investors, rapt at the window, await the next stanza. 💼
Scaramucci Sings the Blues
Our modern bard Scaramucci summarized thus: Buffett wearing the philosopher’s smirk, ever-cautious, eyes horizon-bound, steps lightly where numbers bloom. The mood? Optimism, tinged with the somber light of an autumn evening in Omaha.
Tomorrow Beckons (With Hope, Suspense, and a Bit of Shpilkes)
Baton extended, Greg Abel stands poised at the threshold—will he waltz, or will he trip? Berkshire’s compass points to value, patience, and the cold facticity of numbers. In this winter of succession, investors squint at the dawn, wondering: will the kingdom endure, and will the next act dazzle, or befuddle?
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2025-05-05 17:37