Asking the boss for a party
I was reading about this Chinese tycoon who took his 6,400 employees to France for a vacation. Cost him $14 million, not counting those who swiped robes, raided the mini bar and ran up spa bills. Which would've been another million or two. His Accounts department must have committed collective hara kiri.
Impressed with this largesse, I called an ex-boss, whom I thought had a soft corner for me, and said, let's have a reunion, sort of get all the old gang of scribes together, you fly them in, put them up, and we can have a riotous weekend of fun.
Because bosses do that sort of thing, see, there is this Chinese guy, he flew 6,400, we are only about a couple of hundred journos, max.
He said, let me get this straight, you want me to pay for 200 namby-pamby, cry-baby, spoilt-rotten, pain-in-the-neck, never-grew-up, sulky journalists, yes?
I said, that is pretty much the idea, though the editorialising is a bit harsh.
He said, that is not even a warm-up, has it ever crossed your mind I didn't love any of you when we worked together, why would I get you all back into my life and pay for it, do I look crazy to you?
I said, forget France, take everyone to Goa or Colombo, celebrate the end of Covid, when it happens.
Silence at the other end.
Imagine, I said, 200 senior journalists from way back when, bonding under your mentorship, recalling the old times, the action on the editorial floor, the wars over unpassed vouchers, saving the world...
More silence, then a weeping sound.
I said, I am still here, your old favourite son.
You, he said, were not my favourite son, not even 25th favourite.
We can rem. remin. remines... you know that word where we talk fondly about the past.
Whatever for, I celebrated the day I retired, no more journalists in my life, that's why it's called the past, it's over, I came home and danced the night away.
Guess we can't all have worked for Chinese billionaires... Au revoir, Paris.