This issue's features include:
Although management textbooks come and go much like a herpes outbreak, few have had the lasting impact of "The Seven Habits of Highly Unsuccessful Bosses" by the Machiavellian management guru Brock Manly. Indeed what other consultant can claim the CEO's of Studebaker, REO Speedwagon, and Apple Computer as disciples? Flying firmly in the face of 1990's conventional management wisdom, with its socialistic management concepts such as teamwork, empowerment and trust, the conceptually well-endowed Mr. Manly has constructed a veritable Bible for the ruthlessly ambitious. With the benefit of certain compromising photos, we were able to arrange a meeting with Mr. Manly. Our own management specialist Guru Lenny Ramakrishna conducted the following interview.
First of all, your title puzzles me. Why would anyone want to be an unsuccessful boss? I mean unsuccessful in terms of the wimpy, simpering, relationship-oriented management style of the 1990's. Personally, I would rather vomit than "empower" and much rather elevate my own ego to its rightful position of supremacy rather than castrate myself with "teamwork." Basically, in any business situation I ask myself "What would John Wayne do?" I am puzzled that you would elevate the human ego-- deluded, temporal, irrational--to a position of primacy. Speak for yourself pencil neck. A geeky guru such as yourself may have a temporal ego, but mine has a longer half-life than styrofoam. Even when my massive physical presence has ascended to heaven, the anger and mistrust I engender will live on after me. You must possess some killer karma! Perhaps we should discuss your seven principles. To my many friends and sycophantic groupies, I am known as Uncle Tom because I developed the concept of "Total Object Management" or T.O.M. for short. All my other principles stem from this fundamental corollary. Basically, life is a game of chess and all the people we encounter are pieces to manipulate. The goal of life, or checkmate if you will, is whatever I decide is my own narrowly-defined self-interest.How can you taken human beings--each infinitely complex as they cycle thru endless karmic happenstance-- and treat them like cheap plastic game board pieces? It's simple. All the rest of my principles are designed to dehumanize your coworkers or "victims" as I prefer to call them.The first step is to Demand Perfection: measure people by an unachieveable standard and watch their self-esteem plummet as they wheeze and gasp their way along the treadmill of life. A closely related notion is Impatience is a Virtue:essentially this means "I want perfection and I want it yesterday." Create expectations so unrealistic that even an Einstein with ESP could not succeed. Often these two synergistic concepts alone will help the cunning master achieve total primate dominance. What if the person/object/game board piece whom you are attempting to manipulate is not intimidated by such infantile tricks? Well, what would John Wayne do? He'd put away his six shooter and launch some serious Machiavellian missiles, wouldn't he? First we need to understand that Anger Conquers All: most people are intimidated by anger and even the most preposterous policies can become carved in stone if delivered with sufficient nastiness . If that does not work then remember If you can't beat 'em, scare 'em: if you act like a potentially violent, florid psychotic, doors will magically open for you. Better yet, if you really are psychotic, you can belligerently propose "pay raises for everyone taking Thorazine," and then begin planning how to spend that hefty pay raise. How about long-range career planning? One simple rule: Self-promotion equals self-preservation. If you humiliate your subordinates, back-stab your co-workers and claim all good ideas as your own, then you'll do just fine.Does your management philosophy have any moral justification? Of Course: The Divine Right of Type-A Personalities. While freaks like you are sitting naked in caves, meditating, the unsuccessful manager is busy carrying our God's plan.
The venue for this annual event was the Yakima Mortuary & Pawn Shop (an ideal place, I might add, to augment one's collection of Velvet Elvis paintings). The first sign of activity involved a group of local gang members, who sullenly wheeled a mahogany casket onto the stage. Just as wild speculation began rippling thru the audience, the casket opened and out popped the Master of Ceremonies, the cadaverous Dick Weeder ("abuser of steroids since 1936!!!!!!!!") As always, The Dickster displayed an infant's desperate need for attention and a politician's flair for self-promotion. During a rambling 15 minute soliloquy, he claimed to have invented weight training, breast implants and placebos, and closed by offering a bare buttocks full of steroid injection scars as final proof of his credibility. Although somewhat hampered by a cumbersome external liver unit, he continued ranting until a restive member of the audience maced him into submission.
Although the competition was fierce among the dozen or so contestants ( all of whom doubled as the dozen or so audience members), to this novice attendee the evening was an endless succession of twitching muscles, forced smiles, and embarrassing stains. Nonetheless, a standout did emerge in this most contrived of competitions: a certain Michael Mozzarella. As he strutted on stage to the sounds of Michael Jackson's "Stand By Your Man," the Mozart of Mass gave credence to the theory that Neanderthal genes are buried deep within us all. At five feet three inches and 326 pounds, the Pectoral Prince has charisma best measured on the Richter scale and the smirk of a man who just quit his job at the bowling alley. His routine followed strict symphonic form, with a first movement (allegro grosso) of particular note. Although I was expecting--indeed dreading--a certain amount of atavistic primate posturing, I was nevertheless stunned by his choice of attire. Although Betty Boop panties were certainly in keeping with the spirit of the evening, the Beethoven of Bulk pole-vaulted the boundary of good taste by wearing his garb at approximately a 90 degree angle to that recommended by missionaries throughout the world. While this left Mr. Mozzarella's relatively puny hips hidden from the judges view, it left his manly shortcomings rather tellingly exposed. The other movements were similarily crude, demarcated as they were by a quick cold shower and a panty change. The Godfather of Glute finished with a sublimely tacky coda, mixing acne-pocked "moon shots" with a belligerent speech promoting the Dickweeder Dominator line of anabolic supplements. The Ass of Mass encored as the "Cretin of the Black Lagoon" attired in a bizarre combination of grape jello and super glue. This added a precious note of honesty to an otherwise hopelessly pretentious evening.
Though Mr. Mozzarella may indeed be the Next Big Cheese of professional Bodybuilding, he currently lacks the technical virtuosity of Yo Yo Ma, and the understated elegance of Dennis Rodman. Only his love of and commitment to the classical modality redeems him in the eyes of this reviewer.
Few athletes can match the shredded, low-moisture physique of bodybuilding's Big Cheese, Mike Mozzarella. And nothing grates on the Parmesan Powerhouse more than wimpy, natural supplements masquerading as anabolic activators. In fact, the Cheddar Chimp injects only the slicing-edge line of Anabolic Dominators; conceived, researched, developed, marketed and sanctified by the Clown Prince of Placebo---Dick Weeder. In a moment of Supreme Clarity, the Dickster swiftly brought the Dominator line to large-scale production, bypassing useless and time consuming FDA safety testing. The Weedmeister (who single-handedly invented the sit-up) humbly requests that you peruse the following:
3skin stayed together only long enough to record one 45 rpm record. What happened?
The members of 3skin were determined by a intricate computer algorithm, utilizing as inputs the results of a comprehensive consumer preference survey. Members were chosen to appeal to specific target markets of organismic musical aficionados. An elite squadron of fashion commandos was responsible for determining apparel strategy on a "need to wear" basis. Lyrics were synthesized using hormonal induction criteria--essentially we chose whatever lyrics seemed to elicit prodigious glandular secretions in adolescent males.
That sounds profoundly superficial. But why only one record?
We hated each other. In particular, I loathed our guitarist, Ennui-or the "Prince of Prozac" as I called him. Though he possessed near-average musical ability (he knew every song Bill Wyman ever wrote), he was a brittle individualist who refused to coordinate his fashion strategy with the rest of the band. While the rest of us were nattily attired in faux-diamond studded jockstraps, he insisted upon wearing Gothic surplus: dark glasses, Australian Hunting jacket, and an effeminate French Beret. Not to mention those ponderous Nurse Martin's crusted in perpetuity around his malodorous feet. Ultimately, the fact that he knew "Monkey Grip Glue" note for note could not compensate for his abysmal fashion sense.
The one song you did manage to record with 3skin, "Stairway to Omaha," is a bona fide classic. What was the recording session like?
It was agony. The disco era was just beginning and I had undergone an excruciating chest hair transplant. As always, I was a ravishing physical specimen. The gal at McDonald's said I had "buns of titanium," which made the agonizing transplant pain somewhat more bearable. As for the song, it was another one of Ennui's full-gainer's into the murky Pond of Pretense I mean, who else would use diminished 19th chords in a rock song? He was diminished all right. I got the lyrics from the Little Nickel--the music was so lame that all my finely-crafted hormonal induction lyrics could not save it.
How did you plan your next career move?
It was the gal at McDonald's again. She added partial-dimension fractals to the algorithm, and suddenly the Ouija board was advising me to pursue the Hot New Sound of Today's Young Country.
Editor's Note: To be continued in future issue.
If your loins still throb with passion you can jump to Part 1 of the Lust interview or read a review of a Lust Hemingway concert
Its late at night. You are tired. Perhaps you should return to the list of features
© 1996 by Dennis L., Charlotte A., Michael R. Hayes