Both of these funds, you understand, are constructed to mimic the price of gold bullion itself. For the investor who wishes to dabble in precious metals without the bother of a safe deposit box and a burly guard, they offer a remarkably straightforward solution. However, a closer inspection reveals a few subtle differences, rather like discerning the cut of a diamond – only a keen eye will truly appreciate the nuance.
Until recently, one had to suffer the indignity of an injection to partake of these weight-loss wonders. Novo Nordisk, bless their innovative spirit, led the charge with Wegovy. But Lilly’s Mounjaro and Zepbound, dashingly clever concoctions, quickly gained ground. However, the game, as they say, is afoot once more. Novo Nordisk, exhibiting a commendable sense of timing, has introduced a pill version of Wegovy. A pill, you understand, is infinitely more agreeable than a needle. Lilly is, naturally, working on its own offering, but Novo Nordisk has a distinct head start – a chance to regain some lost ground while the field remains, shall we say, somewhat sparsely populated by pill-based solutions.
By the market’s close, the company’s stock had shed more than a quarter of its value. A rather dramatic depreciation, even for an era accustomed to fleeting fortunes. It seems the public’s appetite for indoor exertion has, shall we say, cooled.
Tesla started fancy, a rich person’s toy. Then they figured, “Hey, even the little people need to pollute… er, drive electric!” Smart. Rivian’s doing the same thing—starting with a truck that costs more than some small countries, then promising a “people’s car” in 2026. The R2. Now, listen closely, because this is where it gets interesting. The R2 is either going to be the miracle Rivian needs, or… well, let’s just say I’ve seen more promising acts on amateur night. If it hits, Rivian could actually become a real, sustainable business. If it flops? Let’s just say they’ll be looking for a new line of work. Maybe artisanal buggy whips? Right now, only those with a serious gambling problem – or a deep affection for the color forest green – should consider investing.
The figures, alas, were not precisely dazzling. Total revenue for the fourth quarter of 2025 registered at a shade under $14.19 billion – a diminution from the $14.74 billion enjoyed in the corresponding period last year. Net income, adjusting for the usual accounting legerdemain, fell with considerably more precipitousness, landing at $1.3 billion, or $1.02 per share – a noticeable decline from the previous year’s $2.4 billion. One suspects the bean-counters were not popping champagne.
Powell’s message, boiled down, was this: things aren’t terrible. Not yet, anyway. Which, for a country obsessed with growth, is about as good as it gets. But for the former president, who’s been having a disagreement with the Fed since, well, forever, it wasn’t exactly music to his ears. A president wanting things his way. Imagine that.
But let us not be seduced by the glittering surface of quarterly earnings. The market, dear reader, is a fickle mistress, and valuations based on projected growth are built upon foundations of sand. I suspect, with a degree of morbid fascination, that Alibaba Group, currently languishing in relative obscurity (a mere $400 billion valuation – the indignity!), will eclipse Micron’s fortunes before the year is out. A bold claim, perhaps, but one I shall endeavor to justify, lest I be accused of mere financial necromancy.
I’ve been digging into these two, and it’s not just about returns. It’s about how those returns are made, and what you’re actually signing up for. Because, let’s be real, “exposure to gold” can mean a lot of things. And some of those things are less…golden than others.
The research boys at IDC figured every dollar dropped into the AI pot comes back almost fivefold. PwC thinks it could add fifteen points to global GDP by 2035. Numbers. They always sound cleaner than the reality. But even a cynical man like myself has to admit, that’s a hefty return.
The pitch is simple enough: you become a landlord without the actual… landlording. No midnight calls about leaky faucets, no awkward confrontations over late rent, no peeling wallpaper that haunts your dreams. Just… dividends. It’s the dream, really. A little slice of someone else’s rent check arriving each quarter. I suspect there’s a catch, of course. There always is. But I’m willing to entertain it, mostly because the alternative is another hour spent untangling Christmas lights.