Kill Bill - The Sacking

I was in a sour mood this morning due to the Board kicking the crap out of me at last night's Budget Meeting. Expenses were too high, especially personnel costs. The Board Chairwoman openly criticized my management style, calling the Dump a "...country club for a cadre of pampered, unmotivated loiterers."

I defended the team hotly. "That depends on the definition of 'Pampered'" I had remarked. That gave them something to chew on.

Sure, we have a generous benefit and vacation package. But we are in the idea business. It's a competitive jungle. We work with foul and dangerous concepts. We operate heavy ideation equipment. We interact with the word dumping public, and as ambassadors of recycled metaphors, we are Professionals.

But the tiny minds of the board are focused on results. This concept of getting results has eluded me throughout my career, and now it has come back to bite me in the ass once again. What is the big friggin deal anyway? Isn't it enough to intend to do something? If you are going in the right direction, why should anyone care whether you actually accomplish a goal or not? To me, the magic is in doing the job, not getting it done. Done is just a detail to me.

The Board didn't agree. They think the DFM ought to be more results oriented. In fact, they implied that if I didn't cut staff costs, I would be transferred to the satellite dump in Baghdad. (There is a high turnover in that area, even though the Iraqis are running the country.)

So I was in a sour mood when I came in this morning. I had to shitcan somebody. I got out a sheet of paper and wrote the names of the full time staff: George, Bill, Lardass. Hmmn, who should go, I mused.

Lardass would be the last to go. He did 90% of the work anyhow, and he would do anything he was asked. Employee loyalty like that you cannot buy.

George was the memory and conscience of the organization, with his high-minded principles. Besides, we needed him at the holiday cook-outs. No one else had quite the same elan at the grill as George.

That left Bill, who did nothing but bitch and moan about everything. He had not showed up for a month, calling in sick.
Our insurance costs were the highest of any dump in the grid, because of his constant MRI's and CATscans. It had become glaringly obvious that he was not committed to dump excellence.

I circled Bill's name on my yellow pad. I dialed his home phone. When he answered, I gave him the news: "Your Fired." And hung-up the phone. It was a strangely satisfying Trump-like moment.