To Whom it May
Not Concern
In today’s highly mobile workforce, coworkers are moving on
to new and better things at an ever-faster pace (not you, of course; you’re
stuck). And yet, just as the need to say “So long, suckers” has escalated, the
time in which to say it has seemingly shrunk. Enter the email goodbye. With a
carelessly chosen distribution list, you can bid adieu to everyone you know,
and thousands more, with a single poorly written maudlin composition. It is in
this spirit that I present my actual goodbye letter from my last job.
The Microsoft breakup
has begun and the judge asked me to go first. Yes, today is my last day at Microso-- Hey! Get
back here! You can loot my office after you've read this.
Now I know it is
traditional for Microsoft so-long missives to talk about how wonderful this
place is and how special the quitter's co-workers are, but I'm always left
wondering "If you think it's so great, why are you leaving?", and
also "Who are you?" because these messages are usually sent to a
distribution list that you just happen to be on, like now. Often you've never
even met the person leaving, let alone bonded with them through the vocational
camaraderie to which they allude.
Also common is a tone
of reluctance, of a difficult decision regretfully made, as though the person
retiring or taking a better job were instead Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca, and
the rest of us were so many Humphrey Bogarts peering over each other's trenchcoated
shoulders at the train station to read her goodbye letter in the rain.
But I'm not taking
another job, nor am I retiring to pursue my dreams (because they typically
feature me naked at a rodeo while H.R."Bob"
Haldeman snaps me with a wet towel). Instead, my
fare-thee-well takes the refreshing form of an unabashedly childish celebration
of my pending unemployment; to wit:
Hasta
la vista, wage slaves. You must continue toiling for your corporate overlords,
but I will soon be as productive as an Arctic orchard. Give my regards to The
Man. I'm free, do you hear me? Free as the wind blows, free as the grass grows.
Free as the novelty phone you get for subscribing to Sports Illustrated. Free
as a 31-minute-old Domino's pizza. I rule!
Now for most people,
such extreme slacking (coming soon to ESPN2) would mean a one-way ticket to PovertyVille, but check this out: my wife is going to
support me. Why? Let's just say I have a certain equine quality. And also
because we made a deal when we got married that whoever was earning the least
would stay home with the kids. Little did she know that I would repeatedly
torpedo my career to ensure I would "lose". I'm not riding the gravy
train, sport; I'm the freakin' engineer, and my
Little Engine That Could is saying "I think I can, I think I can, I think
I can day-trade tech stocks to pay for day-care without the wife catching on,
leaving my days unencumbered by parenting."
True, I won't have a
career anymore, but I doubt that will trouble me when I'm lying on the couch at
noon, switching between MSN Investor and SportsCenter
with the sound off--Aerosmith cranked--as I set the
day's second brewski on a stack of muscle-car
magazines. Besides, if I ever need to earn a paycheck again, I'll have plenty
of time during naps to dream up resume-gap explanations couched in
corporate-speak: "Out-of-the-box paradigms and enterprise-wide pro-active
cross-team schemas were my key take-aways moving
forward in the August timeframe." Simple.
I know many of you
must be concerned about how Microsoft will fare in what will surely become
known as the Post-Musian Era. Let me re-assure you
with a simple demonstration: Place your hand in a bucket of water. Now remove
your hand. The hole that is left behind is the hole that any of us leaves
behind. (Profound, eh? It will also work with your foot, and other people's
cell phones at the movies.) Now pour the bucket on your head. Man this is fun.
After you towel off, bring me a latte, extra bourbon.
Please don't let our
parting sadden you. Remember that when God closes a door, He also opens a
window. That's why His utility bills are un-freakin-believable
(as if the high ceilings weren't bad enough). And don't worry that I won't
remember you wonderful people after I leave, because, due to collegiate
overindulgence in bong-related recreation, I've forgotten most of your names
already. Soon I'll forget your faces, and eventually even the hotties among you will fade from my elaborate sexual
fantasies, or be relegated to the occasional cameo.
In conclusion, to
those I have worked with, for, and around: I am the ghost of Microsoft past.
Look to see me...
...no
more.
Bill
P.S. Miss me already?
Email me at lazyass@billmuse.com. If I'm not too busy bidding on eBay crap, I'll answer.
P.S. to the Ladies:
Now would be an excellent time to unburden yourselves and confess any secret
crushes you might have on me. It's good for the soul, especially if you
accidentally use Reply All.
P.P.S.
Theese letters having powerfull
magic's!!! Do'nt breaking it's chain!!! Put you're
name at the top's, send me $50, forwarding this 1000times to your boss, and
within too weeks, you two will being magicly
unemployed!!!
P.P.P.S. to Steve Ballmer: Reconsider my Microsoft Linux
idea. You'll be glad you did.