I want to be on a list. I don’t really care what kind of list. “Top-paid CEOs” would be great, but I don’t think I’m going to make that list. (Granted, I could write myself enormous paychecks and sign them, and I’d probably have some time while my bank decides whether to continue laughing at me or have me arrested.)
I could try to get my company on a Top 500 revenues list. But if there aren’t 500 companies out there who made more in sales than mine did last year, then it’s nice to know I’ve fallen unconscious and woken up in a remote village in Micronesia.
Any list is fine. I don’t really care. I mean, not America’s Most Wanted—the last thing I need is for John Walsh to start ranting: “Krause, I’m comin’ for you, you scumbag. Now someone knows something about where this bastard is hiding, and they can remain anonymous when they call 1-800-CRIME-TV. Krause, we take you down tonight. This one is personal with me!”
OK. Maybe not any list.
But there must be some lists I could make. And I’m not talking about those really cheap ones like “Who’s Who Among Struggling American Sole Proprietors” or “Top 783,324 Rick Springfield Fans.” I want to be on a list that means something!
Surely I’m among the top 100, 500 or 1,000 of something. It’s too late for 40 Under 40. And I hate the idea of nominating myself. Or even worse, inventing lists just so I can qualify for them. But absent any other ideas, I will have to do just that. Feel free to submit yourself for inclusion in any of the following lists, but you’ll never rank higher than me:
Top 100 Fly-by-the-Seat-of-the-Pants Sales Presenters
Have you ever spent hours preparing a sales presentation? Poured over every detail? Weighed various possible objections and developed strategies to overcome them? Crafted a clever PowerPoint presentation to make your case crisp, compelling and clean? What was that like?
Who can be bothered with such rigmarole? You want to buy what I’m selling? Let me tell you why you should. Look at you. You’re fat and bald and your pants are too short. Your zipper is down and you missed a spot shaving. I just noticed that when I walked in. If my solution to your problem isn’t the most perfect thing you’ve ever envisioned, I’ll buy you five pounds of Indian food. Does that come in pounds? Pay attention!
Thank you for the contract you’ve just signed.
Try it. It works as well as anything you spent all night thinking up.
Top 100 Completely Unqualified CEOs
Before I was a CEO, I was a journalist. Do you know what that trains you for? Nothing—unless you think taking notes during meetings is actually productive work. Being a journalist is a hell of a lot of fun, don’t get me wrong. But it doesn’t teach you how to run anything.
I’ve also never had a business class in my life. I’ve never read a business book in my life, unless getting through four chapters of Good to Great counts. (It told me to ax my business partner. There was no reason to read further. I had what I needed.)
Otherwise, aside from being completely disorganized, forgetful and highly impulsive, I’m a great choice to run your company. Shockingly, I’m not entirely certain this is enough to land me in the top 100 in this category. After all, my company is actually still in business. Those poor saps who had to fold up? Egad. They’re actually worse than me. I don’t want to even think about that.
Top 106 Distraction Dynamos
What? Oh. Right. My column. It’s so hard to keep these things straight. Some people can work from sunrise to sunset, multitask 11 different items at once and critique an employee’s fashion sense simultaneously.
Me? I’m lucky if I can focus on three words that you say before I start looking around for chocolate to munch on, a ball to bounce or news on baseball signings. There are so many things to think about that are more interesting than business. Trident gum wrappers are more interesting than business, not to mention highly recommended by an overwhelming majority of dentists for their patients who chew gum.
You need me to finalize a proposal? Fine.
Objective: Increase your sales.
What time is it? Is that mildew on the window? Who thought casting Malcolm McDowell as Mr. Roarke would lead to success for a reincarnation of “Fantasy Island”?
Strategy: Ring people’s necks if they don’t buy your stuff.
Is Larry Holmes still boxing?
And finally:
Top 1 Misfit Executives
It doesn’t matter how I try. Nothing works.
I don’t know how to order food properly at a country club. I don’t know how to play golf. Every time I try to put on a tie, it seems like the knot is tilted slightly to the left or to the right. And buttons on my suits are always popping off.
I can never decide how to answer my phone, executive-like. “D.F. Krause!” No. Too in-your-face. “D.F. Krause speaking. May I help you?” No way. What if they say yes?
Then there’s the matter of shoes. Black theoretically goes with anything, but there are shades of gray with just a hint of green, with which I am told black is a no-go. What then? Brown? Snakeskin? I also see no need for cufflinks. My cuff isn’t going anywhere. And I don’t know how to use a Blackberry, do hand gestures or sound stern.
Why am I even in this job? Aside from the fact that I started the company and would surely be fired inside of a day if I tried this act while working for anyone else, I haven’t the foggiest. But I hope that somewhere in the midst of all this, I can earn a spot on your list. Then again, if I have to keep making up my own lists, at least it’s more interesting than whatever work I’m supposed to be doing.
