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tourbi
Age: 57 Zodiac: 
| Joined: 09 Jan 2008 |
| Posts: 2640 |
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Location: tourbiland, at the foot of Pikes Peak, USA
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 Posted: Tue Jun 24, 2008 4:33 pm |
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Employee of the Year
Ken Swarner
I have been enjoying my job a whole lot more now that Larry Johnson packed his belongings and moved out of our department. I don’t want to appear insensitive, but you can’t have someone with that much free time, and a calm disposition, dragging down you or your coworkers.
For years, my associates and I attended to our jobs just fine, and we all planned to stay there until we retired.
Then, Larry arrived last December. I took one look at him and called an emergency meeting in the break room.
“I don’t want to panic anyone,” I said, “but there’s something peculiar about the new guy.”
The staff looked concerned.
“Did anyone notice his clothes? They’re pressed.” A wave of fear spread across their faces.
“His complexion is clear. His hair is combed. His shoes are shined.” People started to weep.
“You mean to tell us . . . ,” Steve from accounting started to say.
“Yes,” I interrupted. “I don’t think he has kids.”
Everyone screamed.
We sent a reconnaissance squad to Larry’s desk to confirm my suspicions. “Sure enough,” the squad leader reported back, “but it’s worse than you thought. He’s not even married.”
The problems started immediately. While we were doing what we always did—shuttling kids to doctors’ appointments, rushing home for forgotten school lunches and hawking Boy Scout fundraisers in the elevator—Larry was working late, arriving early and eating his dinner at his desk.
Then, the inevitable happened. The boss noticed.
“Has anyone noticed how hard Larry is working?!” he barked.
How could we tell our leader from the “Leave It to Beaver” generation that we had responsibilities to our children? He’d never understand.
“Maybe Larry would be a good candidate for that new job in Department Six,” I suggested to the boss. “You’d look good, sir, for recommending him.” And that’s how we got rid of Larry “No Kids” Johnson.
The next day, Larry’s replacement showed up with a hint of baby formula behind each ear and a dried macaroni necklace as her only accessory. I was the first to greet her. “So, do you plan to work overtime here?” I asked nervously.
She winced. “Do you see these dark circles around my eyes? I was up at the crack of dawn digging a pacifier out of the compost pile, and when I leave here, I have to drive ten giggly Brownies clear across town to the slaughterhouse so they can earn their farming badge. Who has time to work?” She has my vote for Employee of the Year.
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