Babies, Diapers and Influence

People tell me that I am so smart about work issues, especially the issue of getting out of work. Invariably they ask "the secret." No, not "that" secret. Note the small "s" and fact you did not need to give me your credit card info for this priceless information.

It certainly makes life easier if you have mastered the art of influence, or my definition, the art of getting other people to do your work. I mean, wouldn’t life be easier if you could just get whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted, from whomever you wanted? I used to have that ability . . . anything I wanted from anybody. I could flex those influence muscles even at a young age.

Until they insisted on potty training.

At least I got 16 good years out of that gig. I can remember the day everything changed. "Son, no driver’s license until you learn how to use the potty." They ganged up on me. Even my girlfriend was in on it.

No one understands me, they just don’t get it. I mean, diapers are a lot more efficient. One less thing on your mind, one less thing to schedule, one less thing "to do”.

Showed them . . . the minute I got my license.

" . . . 14, 15, 16 . . . 16 boxes of Depends. Will that be all, Sir?"

You know, babies have it easy. And this can teach us a lot about real life. Babies are the perfect example of managing up (that means "managing your boss" for all you Pottery Design and Maintenance majors). Yes, influencing the boss is the key to your work happinness.


Think about it, when you were a baby, you were helpless to feed yourself, dress yourself, AND you were broke. But somehow - somehow - you ran the show. Like the conductor of the National Symphony Orchestra.


"Waaaah!!"

Everyone comes running, fighting to wipe poop off your body.

"I’ll get him."
"No, I’ll get him . . . you get his milk ready, not too hot, not too cold."

A new wardrobe every 3 months! People lining up to visit you like you were the Pope.


Waaaaah!!
"Put a breast in his mouth!
"He just had a breast is mouth 2 hours ag . . ."
"Put it back in!"

Top that gig.


Now, I’ve done a lot of dumb things in my life, but everything started going downhill when they figured out I could feed myself, and, of course, the aforementioned potty training directive. If I only knew then what I knew now. Lessons learned. I’ve deconstructed and dissected all of this, and ran it by the guys at Harvard Business School (smart bunch of guys). Here is what we came up with: when I was helpless, but doing my best, and trying to learn, everyone did everything for me. But once they figured out I was gaming the system, the gig was up! Hence, the aforementioned withholding of said drivers license until potty trained.

A Rat's Ass: Worthless or Priceless?

I got into an argument the other day, and this guy says my opinion "isn't worth a rat's ass."

Now, I'm no genius, but does he know the true value of a rat's ass? Are they trading rats' asses on the exchange? Can you buy rat ass futures? Use 'em as chips in Las Vegas? Put 'em in the basket at church?

How much is a rats ass worth? Don't know? Well maybe you should think about that before spouting off. Heck, I paid good money for a tasty rump roast the other day, rats' asses may be the new Starbucks of ass steaks. You never know, I once paid 300 dollars just to borrow a piece of ass for ONE hour!

The guy ended up offering me seed money to raise a rat ass farm.

Dumb ass.

Dust Mites: A Bad Rap

Have you ever heard a recording of your voice, like on an answering machine? It's never the most flattering . . . I can never believe its my voice . . . I don't sound like that . . . who is that? I mean, I know my real voice is much deeper, much more masculine.

Or have you ever seen a picture of yourself, or worst of all -- see yourself on video, and thought, "Yeah, that's flattering. I'm a lot uglier, fatter and dumber in real life . . . excellent picture . . . great photographer." I see a picture of myself and its like, "ARRGGHH!"


You folks heard of dust mites - those microscopic things that live in your bed . . . in your carpets. They eat dead human skin flakes. I mean, how do you think dust mites feel? There they are, minding their own business, not hurting anyone, not making a peep, cleaning up after us . . . we cant even see 'em . . . and next thing you know, they are up late watching TV infomercials, and the announcer comes on: "Millions of dust mites are living in your bed right now . . . and they look like . . . THIS!" And then a picture of a towering, ferocious dust mite is flashed on the screen.


I mean, you may be a little uncomfortable with the sound of your voice, or think a picture is a bit unflattering, but imagine how a dust mite feels! And come on now -- how did they get that picture? "OK, he's sleeping, lets get the picture . . . " And the infomercial producer is like "that's not very scary, can't we put some fake fangs on him, or give him a fire-breathing dragon look? I don't want PETA on our ass." "Don't worry, we'll blow up the picture 54 million times, and then doctor it in Photoshop."


King Kong's got nothing on these dust mites! He'd be crying like a sissy at first sight!


And why do dust mites get this bad rap? Apparently, they make us sneeze; some people are allergic to them. Excuse me, but these little guys are chomping up and cleaning away our dead skin flakes lying all over the house, and these infomercial guys want to boil them alive with a steam cleaner? Dust mites are like toilet paper for dead skin. Do we enlarge pictures of toilet paper 54 million times and Photoshop them to make them look bad? I don't think so.

And dust mites are even more advanced than toilet paper. Dust mites are like toilet paper on autopilot. They clean up your waste without you having to lift a finger -- you don't have to do a thing.

You have activist groups fighting to save polar bears, crocodiles and sharks. They kill people. They eat people. Who out there is going to stand up for the little guys - the dust mites? PETA? The Hollywood elite? Jon Stewart? Ben Affleck? Nowhere to be seen. Barack? We can only hope.


This fight has just begun.

High Maintenance? If You Have to Ask . . .

A friend of mine asked if I thought she was high maintenance.

A simultaneous guttural laugh eye-roll combo did not seem to do the trick, so I followed it with a standard, "Are you serious?" before having to resort to concrete examples:

• If you ran the postal service, mail may be delivered on sunny Thursdays in leap years.
• Are you kidding? "High maintenance" looks like an ant from your orbit.
• Yeah, they call you high maintenance -- someone would have to be high on drugs to think they could maintain you.
• Your existence disproves the "6 degrees of separation" theory. You are not within 23 degrees of separation from the Maytag Man.

She argued that running the post office was beneath her.