You have
two cows.
You sell
one and buy a bull.
Your herd
multiplies, and the economy grows.
You sell
them and retire on the income.
You have
two cows.
You sell
three of them to your publicly listed company, using letters of
credit
opened by your brother-in-law at the bank, then execute a debt/equity
swap with
an associated general offer so that you get all four cows back,
with a tax
exemption for five cows.
The milk
rights of the six cows are transferred via an intermediary to a
Cayman
Island company secretly owned by the majority shareholder who sells
the rights
to all seven cows back to your listed company. The annual report
says the
company owns eight cows, with an option on one more. Sell one cow
to buy a
new president of the United States, leaving you with nine cows. No
balance
sheet provided with the release.
The public
buys your bull.
You have
two cows.
You sell
one, and force the other to produce the milk of four cows. You are
surprised
when the cow drops dead.
You have
two cows.
You go on
strike because you want three cows.
You have
two cows.
You
redesign them so they are one-tenth the size of an ordinary cow and
produce
twenty times the milk.
You then
create clever cow cartoon images called Cowkimon and market them
world-wide.
You have
two cows.
You
reengineer them so they live for 100 years, eat once a month, and milk
themselves.
You have
two cows.
Both are
mad.
You have
two cows, but you don't know where they are.
You break
for lunch.
You drink
wine.
You make
love.
You sleep
the afternoon away.
You have
two cows.
You count
them and learn you have five cows.
You count
them again and learn you have 42 cows.
You count
them again and learn you have 12 cows.
You stop
counting cows and open another bottle of vodka.
You have
5000 cows, none of which belong to you.
You charge
others for storing them.
You have
two cows.
You worship
them.
You have
two cows.
You have
300 people milking them. You claim full employment, high bovine
productivity,
and arrest the newsman who reported the numbers.