Be the boss? Nope.


57 years into this experiment called life, I’ve come to learn that the worst job on earth is managing people. People suck. We’re unreliable. We tire easily. We lie and make excuses. We hate other workers who we think don’t work as hard as we do and make more money. We bring emotional issues from home to work. The average worker’s goal is to make more money by doing less work. This makes being the boss an absolute nightmare.

Sure, I’m generalizing. Not all workers are lazy shits, but we’re all lazy shits sometimes.

Staring at a computer in my home office for 15 years has made me less dough and more doughy, so I decided to take on part-time work. I’ve been working in restaurants and bars since I was 16. I can cook, wash dishes, and pour drinks. Easy-Peasy.

When I interviewed, it was similar to the scene in American Beauty when Lester re-enters the workforce and is deemed a bit overqualified. The interviewer asked if I wouldn’t rather take on a supervisory role. I laughed and said, “Oh f… I mean, heck, no. But, thank you.”

I just want to show up on time, clock in, do my job, clock out, and go home. I want to take nothing home from the job other than some smoke-laced dollar bills and wine stains. Deal with people? Sure — the ones next to me or on the other side of the bar, no problem.

The same thing goes for owning a business. I owned a bar for 10 years. It almost killed me. People ask if I’d consider owning another bar. Again, “Fuck, no. You could hand me the keys to the Bellagio, and I’d hand them right back to you.”

Look, life isn’t about owning more, bigger, better; It’s about stress reduction. Being able to earn a living and leave work at fucking work, is what it’s all about. If I bring home stress, it’s nothing a little bourbon can’t erase. Bourbon doesn’t pay the bills, though. Especially when it’s the bourbon you’re trying to sell.

Sorry if I’m a little preachy and self-helpie here. This is just my perspective. If you love having two screens on your cubicle desk and don’t mind the odors of corpocracy — coffee breath and Jason’s farts — keep slapping that keyboard, sweetie. For me, at this point in life, I’ll trade a Benz for a Bolt and employee reviews for salted rims. Cheers.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.