Well short of a dream job
How I felt when Steve handed me the keys
I know what you're thinking: How in God's green earth did Underwood land this gig? While Bailey picks mooseberries up in Hooterville, Underwood cozies up to the flight deck at Frenzy HQ and makes himself right at home, tweaking this, jobbing that, just like he owns the damn place. While I'm no Dr. Phil, I do know a thing or two about people, and I think you might be jealous. I think you're all "It should have been me. I should be the one at the helm, not that bootlicking toady Underwood, not that hack Quisling with the fourth-grade vocab and the reaction time of a lobotomized gnu." Shows what you know. It turns out this job truly sucks. The workload here is unimaginable. I have to do everything myself. Other than the little Oompa-Loompas down in the mail room, the place is completely unstaffed (SB pinkslipped everyone at the annual Christmas party - a present to himself). The toilets in the main data processing wing are all backed up, and the break room has just been declared a superfund site. To control costs, Bailey has epoxied the thermostats at a permanent 47Â° and all of the cubicles are half-scale. Good grief. On top of that, the accounting firm that cuts the checks is sending out sympathy cards and free ballpoint pens "until the current crisis passes." Makes me wanna' scream. I'll be doing Kohler in the wind today. Back on wheels tomorrow.