If you’ve ever managed a small or large business of any kind, no doubt this will ring true with you.
Why Writing A Work Schedule Sucks | Articles – Smartasses Magazine
If you’ve ever managed a small or large business, of any kind really, no doubt this will ring true with you.
I would venture to gamble, that most individuals would guess that the best way to attract a crowd, aside of winning the Indianapolis 500, smacking a game winning home-run, or being Prince, is to don a large top hat and peddle magical elixirs in the middle of any town square. But friends, I assure you, it is not at all so difficult.
The simplest method for drawing the undivided attention of throngs of people, grinning and hellbent on your every syllable, boils down to one simple strategy-
Write a schedule.
Like moths to a flame, nothing brings out otherwise self-entertained men and women from the woodwork, faster than a piece of paper with dates across the top, names along the side, and a crossgrid-information-system of arrival times.
Salmon must swim upstream, lemmings must plummet to their death, and people must stalk schedule-writers- and often do so with the same zeal and fervor one would employ if Supergirl herself suddenly graced the skyline.
“Look! Up on the wall! I’m in at six!”
Schedule writing, as hard as it is to believe, even blows away the “I-just-want-to-be-left-alone” method of accidentally gathering curious, talkative, drooling onlookers, who find your personal space bubble more interesting than a kitten in a catnip field.
In fact, it’s my bet that this is how Jesus got his start. He didn’t start out as a prophet. Rather, he garnered his first few followers simply through his quiet, deep, pseudo-depressed, Kurt Cobain-esque persona… and also for being the one in charge of the carpenter & fisherman’s schedule. He probably never taught anyone to break bread. More likely than naught, this was merely an embellished tale by one of his sycophant prophets, who would say anything just to keep getting Thursday nights off for their tunic making class.
“Sweet! Tuesday night I’m in at five with Lamb’s Blood again! Jesus rulz man!”
It’s Five Blades! FIVE!
Okay, I’m smart enough to know that wearing Tag body spray nor Right Guard, nor calling those 900 Number late-nite chat lines, suddenly means that I am going to be attacked by nubile-hotties ensconced in slinky Kelly Bundy dresses and/or pseudo-cheerleader Roller Derby outfits.
I’m also smart enough to know that my “Small Town” State Farm agent is not going to be up my ass with a nice glass of water, a smile, and a soothing washcloth for my forehead if my dryer suddenly decides to blow up, while waiving insurance-loot in my face.
Big Mac’s are not so mammoth that they require two hands to lift them up to your piehole, Colt-45 never has, and never will “work every time”, and I’m sorry, but kids do not stop drawing chalk on each other’s faces or leave the kickball field just because some “Cool-Mom” poured a f*cking glass of “Sunny-D”. However, I really and truly believed that when I shaved this morning, my bathroom was going to turn nuclear green and I’d feel as if I just drove a jet-plane.
I mean, come on. It’s five blades!
Old Navy Or A Space Mission?
Some things are just always going to be the same. Your Mom is always going to be too nosey, Fox-Sports is always going to pretend that they can’t afford to bring you today’s starting lineup unless Pizza Hut sponsors it, and you’re never going to get any real mail on Tuesdays aside of the inevitable furniture-store-ads that habitually include some hot-mom ‘relaxing’ on a sofa-recliner in taupe, low heeled pumps.
But some things just need to change. Like Old Navy. Seriously.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great store. High quality clothing, low price, fashionable. It’s hip, it’s now, we get it. But what is with the headsets? Since the enthralling-appeal of a good Janet Jackson video wore off… oh… say a decade or so ago, what exactly is it that Old Navy is trying to prove with these things? Do they really need to stay this en-communicado to sell you a pair of cargo-shorts? Does it really require the collective consciousness of a space shuttle mission just to get you into a rugby shirt that doesn’t make you look fat?
“Misty! I spot a pigeon hawking the thermal socks over by the big rusty truck! Let’s move it people! Stat!”
“Roger that Austin! Pigeon spotted. I’m moving in on the target from the flannel-pajama position now. Copy?”
Honestly. This is way too much effort to buy a T-Shirt.