My Book Proposal

If I were to write a book called Idiots I Have Worked For, it would be about a thousand pages long, and the two morons who currently sit over me on the corporate ladder would have their own chapters. As we're playing the anonymity game here, let's protect their identities by calling them Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber.

As a distance, Tweedle Dumb looks like a popsicle stick wearing clothes: rigid, pale, flat. Get closer and you'll see the skinny neck, the jutting forehead, the missing chin, the permanent frown on his face. From here, you can't help but think that he looks like either a bird or a spoon, but you can't quite put your finger on the reason why. Perhaps it's the sharp nose and dark eyes that evoke the image of the bird. Maybe it's the nonexistent chin on top of the broad face that brings to mind the concave part of the spoon. You have little time to think things through, though, because whenever you're around Tweedle Dumb, you're on alert. His presence makes you uncomfortable and uneasy. Talking to him is like trying to negotiate with someone who's strapped a block of dynamite to his chest: you might be able to reason with the man, but you must presume that you're speaking with a lunatic who may decide to dispense with reason on a whim. And you don't want to be around for the explosion.

Tweedle Dumber is easier to describe: just imagine a hippopotamus wearing Bill Cosby's sweaters. Tweedle Dumber doesn't inflict damage because he's cruel, but because he's stupid and proud and sometimes has a temper. He's not a bad guy; he's just a bad manager. Like a big dog, Tweedle Dumber will sometimes listen to reason, and will sometimes misbehave without any provocation.

This is my world from nine to five. Actually, more like from eight to seven. Pity me.