Fat Cat and friends

It's board meeting time in the office, my monthly reminder I chose the wrong career. I was good at maths and economics, but the butterfly effect of me winning a Popeye colouring-in contest in the Sun Herald at age 10 means I spend my days shepherding pixels around a screen, tilting my head in the hope they've fallen into the right spot. They haven't.

The hushed whispers around the office tell me the Chairman is around.
"Did you hear how he promised to resign on the day he earned $30 million... and he did!"
I can't imagine what goes on in that meeting, but I'll give you five bucks if it doesn't include a degree of dick measuring and/or sucking. When they erupt in communal laughter, I imagine that one of them has copped a load in the eye. In reality they are joking about the graphic designer who hasn't had a pay review in a three years, three months and four days. Probably.

I wonder whether the Fat Cat is the type of guy that will pay a ransom for the kid of his I steal, and whether the Gary Sinise approach to kidnap and ransom is the way I want to go.

Mostly I'm just thinking about doing his wife - all lonely and vengeful and shit because she didn't realise "retirement" included him being a paid member of a thousand different boards - who is telling me to keep my Converse on while I give it to her.

Paul