I been hibernating,like, sleeping, ya know? Its a freakin’ metaphor maen. I was sorta busy doing stuff thats kinda important for survival.
What exactly was I doing? I have no effing clue. I had a vision that writing code all my life wont get me anywhere. Since I didnt wanna go anywhere anyway, it looked like a perfect fit. Then one night, over a lonely red bull mixed with Vodka, I had a supercharged vision of a Monkey Wearing a Suit. A suit with a tie.
I knew what I had to do, without doubt. I have a monkey brain, and I hate making decisions. I was born to be a Manager.
I come from a family of Managers. Its a metaphor, again. How, you may ask, when my dad never worked as a Manager,how can I claim to be from a family of managers? We shall have to dig in deep into a typical Manager’s psyche to get the answer.
I am a software engineer by choice, and at the expense of sounding vain, a pretty good software engineer.
But Harold said — “If you are hung like a Moose, you dont have to be a porn star.” Just cos I am good at it doesnt mean its my density. No sir, its not an Honourable Monkey’s density. No one in the awesome Monkey dynasty worked as an Engineer [Cos no one in the awesome Monkey Dynasty ever really did anything].
Okay, so I come from a family of managers. My dad is a lazy guy who made, and still makes, a living out of being lazy and making smart comments on other people’s work, or the lack of it, depening on whether its someone else or The Monkey he is making the smart comment on.
“Its a motivational technique”, he tells me.
I find it a de-motivational technique, but who am I to tell him, I’m just a monkey who wants to wear a suit to work and sit in an air conditioned cabin making posts on Linked In about random books on IIT that were published in the last year.
As a choice of vocation, once upon a time I decided to write a book on my life in IIT. Chetan Bhagat, the other guy who studied at a different IIT in a different city having different moral values and different bars, plagiarised my idea using his wonderful time travel machine [Patent pending]. He stole a copy from a roadside pirated book store in the year 2011, went back to 2001 and wrote most of what happened to me, time-shifting it by 15 years (-ve). Since he stole my idea, I have been out of sorts, really.
I have limited skills, social, mental, and especially physical, and those skills rarely find me a suitable employment that may offer me the wonderful corner cabin where I may be seated sipping diet coke and illegally smoking a cigarette in my awesome suit. Most people who hire me arent smart enough to know that I am genetically destined to have that cabin and the money to afford those suits.
So I contemplated more and more on The Monkey becoming a manager.
Finance, is it for me? The world’s in recession, I think I could live off watching a computer screen displaying $xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx in a firang’s account while I tell him to invest it all in Microsoft cos Google just says dont be evil and does the evil thing by never releasing Chrome for Linux. That would be awesome.
Human Resources, wonderful. The Monkey, as the HR head, would strike off all clauses from the Sexual Harrasment section of his, and only his, offer letter. That should get him laid, once he is the only legally bangable dude in the entire office compound. That would be awesome, too.
Sales and Marketing, even more awesome. S&M has always been my thing, judging from the entries in my educational movie collection. I heard they even get paid when they dont get results. I could get used to that.
The confusion was never ending, so I called up my dad, the Awesomely Demotivating Old Monkey.
Monkey : “Dad, I wanna do an MBA”
Dad: “Get married, you moron”
D: “Get married. You are short, fat and earn less than a day labourer. Once you lose hair, even Cher wouldnt marry you”
D:”What? Have you lost the ability to understand spoken English? Get married before you become even fatter and lose all your hair. I assure you, once you cross 30, even a blind unmarried pregnant lady on a wheel chair wont marry you”
M:”Thanks, Pa. Good night.”
That went well, thought the monkey, and immediately decided to join a Gym, visit a Trichologist, and become a Manager.
Its been a month. The gym he joined keeps calling and he keeps making excuses of being out of town. The trichologist told him its male pattern baldness, a sign of maturity, so he chose maturity over hair he would have to wash every week.
The Management whim faded with time, too. A dude in a Tie and a Suit tried to sell him a Personal Loan, when he refused the dude insisted, and the monkey saw this as the future of an MBA rather than the awesome corner cabin with illegal smoking privileges.
I really cant make any decisions. Being a manager is in my genes, definitely.