The other day I referred to my friend Anne as a “successful executive”. Thankfully, she wasn’t insulted by this.
Anne on being an executive:
Okay. I am flattered by the mere mention in your blog - not to mention that you called me an executive! Woo-hoo! But - this is seriously weird. I have no idea why I'm having such a hard time with that concept (could it be that most of my misspent youth was spent in servitude as a support person???) - but, indeed, I am having a hard time with this concept.
In March I spent 3 days in training with people my level and above in my company - the training was in Pittsburgh...ugh... The first day there, I'm looking around this big-ass room at all the people in this training session and I'm thinking how all of them are executives at our company. That's when it hits me...duh. I'm in the same room...that must mean...dare I say it...I'm an executive, too. This may sound ridiculous, but I swear to you that was my train of thought. Then I spent the next 15 minutes or so, considering the possibility that I had serious issues if I didn't even know my place in the foodchain around here. Meanwhile, I've tuned out to about 20 minutes of the so-called training, and finally realized I needed to get my head out of my ass and pay attention.
However, the tale continues. The very next week, my boss tells me that I am in line for promotion next year to...Vice President. The very thought of those two words following my name - it's just so...establishment.
So, then to read your blog entry - well, I must tell you my head is reeling. What is a poor girl to do? Drink heavily, I'm thinking. <----leaving no doubt as to why we’re friends in the first place - Anne’s a chick with her priorities in order. Once she’s promoted, we’ll have even more in common since I’m already a Vice President. Of course, mine means a wee bit less given that we’re a company of 18 - 20 people, but hey - I’ll take my props wherever I can find ‘em. I know what she means though; it’s a derivative of that horrible, horrible realization that, despite all efforts to the contrary, somehow I have become a responsible adult. Of course, I try to behave irresponsibly whenever possible but what I mean is, most of the time when I see some suit, I look upon him as a totally different species and it’s overwhelming and disconcerting to stumble upon the realization that, exactly like him, I am a home-owning, taxpaying Republican. How the bloody hell did that happen? Screw it, I’m gonna be a punk rocker.
If I’m gonna be a punk rocker, I’d better write some songs. Since most punk songs are angry, I’m venting a wee bit of my anger with the following, which I have tentatively entitled, “Ode to a Chubby, Whining, Pissing, Puling Stinking Maggot Pusswad Minger Who Labors Under The Impression That He Is A Talented Race Driver Despite All Evidence To The Contrary”. Or I might just call it “The Juan Pablo Montoya Song”.
Juan Pablo Montoya, I hate that chubby dumb shit
He’s ruining F-One, I wish he would quit
Or die in a flaming fireball style wreck,
Wish his car would flip over and break his smack-talkin’ neck
Juan Pablo Montoya, I hate him the most
Please chop him to pieces and make him compost
I don’t understand why he doesn’t just die
Don’t driving for Williams mean drive-shaft through the eye?
Juan Pablo Montoya, or as I call him “Chubbs”
Stab him with knives and strike him with clubs
Do anything to him as long as it pains
Puncture his lungs and rip out his veins
The grosser the torture, the more I approve
For I hate him far more than Jacques Villeneuve
I’d pay you to tamper with his stinkin’ clutch
Whatever you charge, I hate him that much
Juan Pablo Montoya, a pox on his car
Watch me beat him to death with my Les Paul guitar
(here the song ends with a loud, horrific sound effect)
Anne on being an executive:
Okay. I am flattered by the mere mention in your blog - not to mention that you called me an executive! Woo-hoo! But - this is seriously weird. I have no idea why I'm having such a hard time with that concept (could it be that most of my misspent youth was spent in servitude as a support person???) - but, indeed, I am having a hard time with this concept.
In March I spent 3 days in training with people my level and above in my company - the training was in Pittsburgh...ugh... The first day there, I'm looking around this big-ass room at all the people in this training session and I'm thinking how all of them are executives at our company. That's when it hits me...duh. I'm in the same room...that must mean...dare I say it...I'm an executive, too. This may sound ridiculous, but I swear to you that was my train of thought. Then I spent the next 15 minutes or so, considering the possibility that I had serious issues if I didn't even know my place in the foodchain around here. Meanwhile, I've tuned out to about 20 minutes of the so-called training, and finally realized I needed to get my head out of my ass and pay attention.
However, the tale continues. The very next week, my boss tells me that I am in line for promotion next year to...Vice President. The very thought of those two words following my name - it's just so...establishment.
So, then to read your blog entry - well, I must tell you my head is reeling. What is a poor girl to do? Drink heavily, I'm thinking. <----leaving no doubt as to why we’re friends in the first place - Anne’s a chick with her priorities in order. Once she’s promoted, we’ll have even more in common since I’m already a Vice President. Of course, mine means a wee bit less given that we’re a company of 18 - 20 people, but hey - I’ll take my props wherever I can find ‘em. I know what she means though; it’s a derivative of that horrible, horrible realization that, despite all efforts to the contrary, somehow I have become a responsible adult. Of course, I try to behave irresponsibly whenever possible but what I mean is, most of the time when I see some suit, I look upon him as a totally different species and it’s overwhelming and disconcerting to stumble upon the realization that, exactly like him, I am a home-owning, taxpaying Republican. How the bloody hell did that happen? Screw it, I’m gonna be a punk rocker.
If I’m gonna be a punk rocker, I’d better write some songs. Since most punk songs are angry, I’m venting a wee bit of my anger with the following, which I have tentatively entitled, “Ode to a Chubby, Whining, Pissing, Puling Stinking Maggot Pusswad Minger Who Labors Under The Impression That He Is A Talented Race Driver Despite All Evidence To The Contrary”. Or I might just call it “The Juan Pablo Montoya Song”.
Juan Pablo Montoya, I hate that chubby dumb shit
He’s ruining F-One, I wish he would quit
Or die in a flaming fireball style wreck,
Wish his car would flip over and break his smack-talkin’ neck
Juan Pablo Montoya, I hate him the most
Please chop him to pieces and make him compost
I don’t understand why he doesn’t just die
Don’t driving for Williams mean drive-shaft through the eye?
Juan Pablo Montoya, or as I call him “Chubbs”
Stab him with knives and strike him with clubs
Do anything to him as long as it pains
Puncture his lungs and rip out his veins
The grosser the torture, the more I approve
For I hate him far more than Jacques Villeneuve
I’d pay you to tamper with his stinkin’ clutch
Whatever you charge, I hate him that much
Juan Pablo Montoya, a pox on his car
Watch me beat him to death with my Les Paul guitar
(here the song ends with a loud, horrific sound effect)
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