Now that I was spending more time on the floor, I wondered why the men’s room always stank. Then one afternoon at three, when I was in there taking a leak, I discovered the hideous truth. Traders had a contest. Coming in at eight, they never left their desks all day, eating and drinking while working. Then, at three o’clock, they marched into the men’s room and stood at the wall opposite the urinals. Dropping their pants, they bet $100 on who could train his stream the longest on the urinals across the lavatory. As their hydraulic pressure waned, the three traders waddled, pants at their ankles, across the floor, desperately trying to keep their pee on target. This is what $2 million of bonus can do to grown men.
Extraído de My Manhattan Project, un relato en primera persona sobre el mundo de las finanzas que ahora se va por el desagüe desde el punto de vista de un programador que ayudó a crear alguno de los programas utilizados para empaquetar hipotecas o lo que quiera que sea que han hecho los tipos de las corbatas y los pantalones por los tobillos.
(Visto en el viejo Slashdot.)
