The Last Spaz Out You’ll Ever See
My boss thinks it would be a great idea to induce a competition between me and the woman I work with. As if working with me wasn’t unpleasant enough.
“You want me to compete against a fifty year-old woman?,” is all I could think to ask.
“I think it would be good… get competitive. Compare numbers.”
As you can (probably) surmise, my boss is an ex-jock. A wanna-be football player; injured before graduating college. Living out his failed career on a retail stage. He can only think in terms of touchdowns, giving 110%!, going all the way with the cheerleader, and [groan] providing for the family. Anything outside these guidelines ring false to him; a waste of time.
I don’t know how conning old people into spending their pensions on Chinese crap they didn’t need fits into his scheme. Possibly under the “giving 110%” attitude I guess. Perhaps thinking about how it fits into his life view causes too much discomfort to these types, thus the football fantasies arise.
I play games to play, not to compete. We, my co-worker and I, joke about all the cruel things she does to her grandson. (As it stands, he’s banned her from ever playing Wii with him ever again. He also thinks “robots are cool.”) Something tells me explaining our relationship along the “accidental-Mario-head-stomping-into-a-pit” would not compute with the men upstairs.