Sunday, August 01, 2004

If I were the Boss...

I like to consider myself a humble person. I know I don’t exactly “throw my hands in the air and wave them like I just don’t care”, but I would still love the taste of power on a more regular basis nonetheless.

I am someone who was born to be the the boss *; conditioned to have my own way and exercise my supreme powers with swift and brutal severity with absolutely no regard for the feelings of the lowly peons working beneath me.

I would be a larger-than-life Napoleon figure who would insist on being addressed as “my liege”, as I casually stroll through the aisles with my arms folded behind my back and randomly fire some pathetic rube for no other reason than he looked at me wrong, or their socks clashed with their Dockers, or because their pictures of Elvis or the Queen Mom at their cubicle work desk displease me.

I would lock myself inside my office for hours on end and crank Glen Campbell’s “Rhinestone Cowboy” repeatedly while singing along at the top of my voice: “Like a Rhinestone Cowboy! Getting’ cards n’ letters from people I don’t even know, and offers coming over the phone”.

I would reinstate Medieval Feudal law and demand that each new employee, or “fresh serf” as I would refer to them, would be required to bring me a tribute in order to pay their respects and help carry any future favors I may bestow upon them**.

I would hire food tasters to sit with me at lunch and test my food for poison before I eat. Also, as supreme feudal Lord, I would demand that I have first relations with any new bride of any employee toiling in my office place Dutchy. I would outlaw all Queen music and ‘Dolphin Friendly’ food products - not to mention cord pants.

I would convert the ‘Prayer room’ into an elaborate Arabian Nights themed ‘Orgy Room’ complete with throw pillows, hookahs, incense, and Baba Ganoush-flavored body oils. All important business meetings will be held in this elaborate ‘Orgy Board Room’ and will not be convened until I am either completely satisfied, or my heart explodes from the extreme high levels of hormones.

I will have my morning coffee delivered to my desk each morning by a man in a poncho and big Sombrero leading a donkey, and I would insist on having Guinness taps installed in place of my office water cooler and hire an authentic English bar wench to wait on me hand and foot all day long or until I safely pass out under my desk in the recovery position.

I would disband the work “Social Committee” altogether. Forget about workplace moral, I would install a more drastic method of employee motivation that is bound to get results. If workers get a %100 mark on their “Quality Assurance” scores they will be rewarded with a puppy. Conversely, if they receive a failing grade on their QA scores, they will have a puppy beaten in front of them. Can you picture being strapped into your office chair with your eyelids propped open with toothpicks as someone flails a poor helpless puppy in front of you because you forgot to say “It is important THAT you contact us…”? How can this fail to get positive results?

“Sorry Johnny, you received only a %60 mark on one of your calls yesterday, so poor little Rex here is gonna get it!”

Also on the same vein of thought, I would have a kitten dangled over a tank of starving sharks and have it lowered a few inches proportionately each time work efficiency drops below %85. Failing this, I will have no other choice but to hook electrodes up to the employee’s genitalia to electrodes under their desk. I know I would be more inspired to nail perfect %100 QA scores if there was a threat of having 3000 volts run through my balls making my crotch look like a piece of overcooked Kentucky Fried Chicken with a bad Cory Feldman haircut.

* Even more so than Bruce Springsteen himself.

** Like allowing them to keep their job for another day.


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