Fred's an asshole.
So my company decided to push Fred on us. I think Fred is either an idiot, an asshole, or a retiree with brain damage. But apparently he's the new name in corporate optimism. So, in response to the self-help shlep, I wrote this...
The first time I met a "Frank" was just after I had purchased an "old new house." Located in a questionable area of town, the house had been built in 1989 and was already a "fixer-upper." A first-time homewoner, I'd only been living there for a few days when I heard a knock on my front door. I opened it and saw a mailman standing there.
"'Ere's yershit," he said, and threw my mail in the middle of a puddle. "Wegotta introduce usselves nah 'cuz o' some ss'ole named Fred. Don't like your types, movin' in here and takin' over." He leaned in and glared at me. "Dunfukwitme, you hear? Ah'll cut you."
I was taken aback. I'd been receiving mail for most of my life, but I had never received anything like this kind of an introduction from my postal carrier. I began to wonder if I should buy a dog -- a big one, with sharp teeth.
I replied "I'm a professional speaker. I don't have a real job."
Frank grinned in a way that sent chills up my spine, showing me all four of his rotting chompers. "Course you don't, you rich ss'oles don't, comin' in and buyin' houses 'n...say," he stopped mid-sentence. "You said you's a purfesshunul speaker. You travel mush?"
"I-- uh, I do, and I was meaning to talk to you about that, maybe you could hold my mail --"
"Yeah, sho will," said Frank. "I'll hold i'when I's wipin' muhself wit it!" and he wheezed into a laugh that lasted an uncomfortable 48 seconds. I know. I counted. Finally he coughed himself back into seriousness and his eyes brightened. "How long you gunbe gone fo'?"
"A week at a time or so? Will it be a problem? I can come pick it up at the --"
"You got good 'lectroniks? Puter, widescreen, mebbe? Xbox? Kind o'packages you 'spectin'?" He rummaged around for a pen and finally found a pencil stub in his front pocket. He picked up the driest envelope from my puddle and stood poised, looking at me expectantly. "Fer, uh, postal reckurds n'sheet." Not only was Frank delivering the mail, he was now my UPS carrier, too! I began wondering about those stains around my mailbox that smelled rather like...
Suddenly a thought came to me. "Actually, Frank, I just remembered I have a Mailboxes Etc. account right down the road, so I won't need you to hold my mail. Or come over. Or check my packages. Or even come into my yard," I added, thinking of the mastiff I was going to buy and subsequently name Killer Murderdeath. "But thank you for your diligence."
"Mah what? Ah'll cut you, you sunnuvahoor!" The screams and curses faded as I shut the door. Eventually he got bored, and I thought briefly of the Burb family who had just moved into the house across the street with two small children.
Because of Frank's example, I started sharing my experiences in speeches and seminars across the country. I now have 48% stock shares in MailBoxes Etc. Audiences were enthralled and inspired, and thanks to Frank, I am a self-made millionaire. In a different house. With a mastiff named Killer Murderdeath, but I call him Jojo for short.
Are you a Frank?
The first time I met a "Frank" was just after I had purchased an "old new house." Located in a questionable area of town, the house had been built in 1989 and was already a "fixer-upper." A first-time homewoner, I'd only been living there for a few days when I heard a knock on my front door. I opened it and saw a mailman standing there.
"'Ere's yershit," he said, and threw my mail in the middle of a puddle. "Wegotta introduce usselves nah 'cuz o' some ss'ole named Fred. Don't like your types, movin' in here and takin' over." He leaned in and glared at me. "Dunfukwitme, you hear? Ah'll cut you."
I was taken aback. I'd been receiving mail for most of my life, but I had never received anything like this kind of an introduction from my postal carrier. I began to wonder if I should buy a dog -- a big one, with sharp teeth.
I replied "I'm a professional speaker. I don't have a real job."
Frank grinned in a way that sent chills up my spine, showing me all four of his rotting chompers. "Course you don't, you rich ss'oles don't, comin' in and buyin' houses 'n...say," he stopped mid-sentence. "You said you's a purfesshunul speaker. You travel mush?"
"I-- uh, I do, and I was meaning to talk to you about that, maybe you could hold my mail --"
"Yeah, sho will," said Frank. "I'll hold i'when I's wipin' muhself wit it!" and he wheezed into a laugh that lasted an uncomfortable 48 seconds. I know. I counted. Finally he coughed himself back into seriousness and his eyes brightened. "How long you gunbe gone fo'?"
"A week at a time or so? Will it be a problem? I can come pick it up at the --"
"You got good 'lectroniks? Puter, widescreen, mebbe? Xbox? Kind o'packages you 'spectin'?" He rummaged around for a pen and finally found a pencil stub in his front pocket. He picked up the driest envelope from my puddle and stood poised, looking at me expectantly. "Fer, uh, postal reckurds n'sheet." Not only was Frank delivering the mail, he was now my UPS carrier, too! I began wondering about those stains around my mailbox that smelled rather like...
Suddenly a thought came to me. "Actually, Frank, I just remembered I have a Mailboxes Etc. account right down the road, so I won't need you to hold my mail. Or come over. Or check my packages. Or even come into my yard," I added, thinking of the mastiff I was going to buy and subsequently name Killer Murderdeath. "But thank you for your diligence."
"Mah what? Ah'll cut you, you sunnuvahoor!" The screams and curses faded as I shut the door. Eventually he got bored, and I thought briefly of the Burb family who had just moved into the house across the street with two small children.
Because of Frank's example, I started sharing my experiences in speeches and seminars across the country. I now have 48% stock shares in MailBoxes Etc. Audiences were enthralled and inspired, and thanks to Frank, I am a self-made millionaire. In a different house. With a mastiff named Killer Murderdeath, but I call him Jojo for short.
Are you a Frank?