Numbers dressed up in fancy suits pretending to be words.
A period when stock prices are rising and everyone suddenly becomes a financial genius, including your Uber driver. It's named after bulls because everyone charges in head-first without thinking, and the ending usually involves someone getting gored.
Buying something cheap in one place and selling it for more in another, which sounds like a genius strategy until you realize it's basically what your cousin does with concert tickets. Wall Street just gave it a fancier name and added decimal points.
Pertaining to local city government, or a bond issued by said government that lets you bet on whether a town can pay its debts. Municipal bonds are beloved by tax-averse investors who trust city councils more than they probably should. It's the financial equivalent of believing your local DMV will process your paperwork efficiently.
The total return anticipated on a bond if held until it matures, accounting for current price, par value, coupon interest, and time to maturity. It's what you'll earn assuming the issuer doesn't default, which is a bigger assumption than bond investors like to admit.
The gradual increase in value of a bond as it approaches maturity, or the increase in earnings per share following an acquisition. Basically, when numbers get bigger and finance people get to feel smart about predicting it.
The practice of making financial statements look prettier than reality through perfectly legal but ethically questionable timing of transactions. It's like cleaning your apartment only when you know someone's coming over.
Additional information buried in the tiny print at the end of financial statements, where companies hide things they're legally required to disclose but hope nobody reads. It's where the interesting stuff actually lives.
Anything of value that accountants get to play with on a balance sheet, from office furniture to that sketchy intern who somehow speaks fluent Mandarin. In finance, it's what you own that's theoretically worth something—until the market decides otherwise. Can also refer to a spy, because espionage and spreadsheets both involve secrets.
The correction of previously issued financial statements due to errors, fraud, or accounting policy changes—corporate speak for 'we messed up, never mind what we told you before.' It's never a good sign when a company announces one.
The bureaucratic art of dividing limited resources among unlimited demands, usually resulting in everyone being equally unhappy. Whether it's budget allocations, resource allocations, or asset allocations, it's about deciding who gets what slice of the pie—and then defending those decisions in seventeen different meetings. Spoiler alert: there's never enough pie.
The timeline over which stock options or retirement benefits become owned by the employee, ensuring they can't grab equity and immediately quit. It's the corporate version of 'you have to stay for dessert if you want dessert.'
The art of making numbers tell whatever story you want them to tell, staying just barely on the legal side of fraud. It's lying with spreadsheets and a CPA license.
Either the total sales a company racks up in a period, or the depressing rate at which employees flee for greener pastures—context is everything. In finance, high turnover is great; in HR, it's a red flag the size of a building. It can also refer to how quickly inventory or assets get cycled through, because apparently one word needs to do the work of five.
Processes and procedures designed to prevent fraud, errors, and general financial chaos within an organization. They're like locks on doors—ineffective if someone with a key decides to rob the place, but they keep honest people honest.
Internal accounting focused on providing information for management decisions rather than external reporting. Unlike financial accounting's rigid rules, managerial accounting embraces whatever analysis helps executives decide which division to blame for poor performance.
The financial alchemy of bundling loans or other assets into securities that can be sold to investors, because why hold boring old mortgages when you can slice, dice, and trade them? This process converts illiquid assets into tradable securities, spreading risk around like a game of hot potato—which worked great until 2008 taught us what happens when the music stops. Banks love it because it gets debt off their books; investors tolerate it for the yields.
Money given to startups by firms who expect most of their investments to fail spectacularly, banking on one unicorn to pay for all the donkeys. VCs will fund almost anything if you put AI in the pitch deck and promise to disrupt something.
Outstanding customer invoices categorized by how long they've been unpaid, typically in 30-day buckets. The older they get, the more they resemble wine—except instead of improving with age, they become increasingly worthless.
A contra-asset account estimating receivables that customers will never pay, because optimism doesn't belong on a balance sheet. It's acknowledging reality before reality forces you to.
Investment approach starting with big-picture economic factors (global trends, interest rates, sector outlook) before drilling down to individual securities. For those who believe macro matters more than micro.
The readjustment of an asset's value for tax purposes when inherited, eliminating capital gains tax on appreciation that occurred during the deceased's lifetime. It's the tax code's way of saying 'fresh start' while making estate planners very wealthy.
Money already spent that cannot be recovered and therefore should not factor into future decisions, though humans are psychologically terrible at ignoring it. Your brain keeps asking 'but what about the money we already spent?' and economics keeps answering 'it's gone, move on.'
A company's book value after stripping out intangible assets like goodwill and patents—basically what's left if you only count things you can drop on your foot. It's the pessimist's version of book value that assumes intangibles are worthless.
Money you owe someone else, transforming your future earnings into their present income. It's the financial arrangement that keeps credit card companies, student loan servicers, and your anxiety levels thriving. Accountants prefer to call it "leverage" when they want to make it sound strategic rather than terrifying.