LEAVE IT TO THE POO-FESSIONALS

I had always been under the assumption that business people know something I don't; that to succeed in their dog-eat-dog, power lunch-and-tie, work-a-day world, they must somehow have a sharper intellect in areas where mine is worn to a dull and useless nub, or have an iron-clad constitution that allows them to deal with the stress and intensity in a way my marshmallow-y insides never could. Or maybe they're just more grown up, whereas I like frosted flakes and cartoons. With this, I assumed that their fat paychecks, private jets and cars named after viscous animals were somehow like a flag flown to show how far they'd come.

But don't take this to mean I have a teary-eyed respect for those hardworking business folk out in the corporations buybuybuy-ing and sellsellsell-ing. I have an evenly mixed feeling of contempt and indifference to the corporate soldiers. If they wanna deal with all that banal and uninteresting claptrap, let 'em. 'Cause I sure as hell don't want to, and as an overgrown boy-man, I like to have options as to what kind of cereal to buy to accompany my cartoon watching. Without those business go-getters, I would be left with one type of dry, cardboard-y flavorless flake to choose from.

But as I get older and meet more people who are out there duking it out in the corporate battlefield, I've realized that it's not generally about who's "smarter" or who works "harder," it's about skillsets and aptitudes and all that stuff High School guidance councelors brow beat you with when you just want to leave so you can go to Taco Johns and do donuts in the parking lot. It also has a lot to do with how much and what kind of crap you can put up with, which is really what a lot of life in general can be chalked up to when it comes right down to it.

Turns out, a lot of these corporate types are, dare I say it, much MORE childish than folks of my ilk. I'd wondered about this for some time- but that image of the steely, serious 1950's businessman had been burned into my brain as the image these people must hold ideal. Then I see a gaggle of office ladies, drunk on apple-tini's stumbling down Damen Ave at 4PM singing "The Diarrhea Song" at the top of their lungs, staggering in and out of traffic as they go.
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So... that MBA? Maybe not as hard to get as I thought.

'Course, if I buckle down and start chasing that almighty buck, I might have to re-learn "The Diarrhea Song" for "casual Fridays."