A few weeks ago I signed up for a LinkedIn account. As near as I can figure, LinkedIn is like MySpace for people who have jobs. It's sort of an online networking site, so that if I need to hire a new Java programmer and your cousin's brother-in-law's babysitter is a Java programmer, then I can spend 10 minutes explaining to her why I still really need to post an ad on Craig's List.
When you sign up, LinkedIn allows you to send invitations to all the people in your Outlook address book, so that you can "stay connected" with them. Now keep in mind that all of the people in my address list are either (1) friends with whom I'm already in contact (which is why I have their email address), (2) relatives that I couldn't lose if I tried, or (3) co-workers that I see every day. So what's the point of a website to help me "stay connected" with this people, you ask. Well, let's say that I get so fed up with the retard circus that is my place of employment that I finally decide to just walk out one day and never come back. Now ordinarily I would never hear from any of those jerks again, but since I'm on LinkedIn, I'm guaranteed to get a bunch of emails saying, "Hey, dude, it's not the same here since you left. We all miss you a ton. Speaking of which, do you have a minute to answer a few questions about that doomed project that caused your nervous breakdown?" LinkedIn is the career equivalent of a herpes infection. As much as you want to leave that bad experience in the distant past, LinkedIn will guarantee periodic reminders at the worst possible times, like a bad outbreak on your honeymoon.
But like an idiot, I clicked the "Invite people from my address book" button, because at the time I happened to be experiencing a unique combination of curiousity, boredom, and inebration. The LinkedIn site gave me a bunch of names of people to invite, including a few people who are just below Patient Zero on the list of people with whom I want to remain in contact. "Geez," I thought, "That's all I need, to be tethered to those human boat anchors for the rest of my life." I unchecked their names and then clicked the button to send the invitations to the people I can actually tolerate.
At this point I noticed that it had sent a lot more invitations than I had expected. I clicked the back button to look at the list again. Turns out that the list was in a text box, so that you had to scroll down to see all the names. I had sent invitations to nearly everyone in my company, including one individual who in my opinion epitomizes not only the Peter Principle but also the Dilbert Principle, and probably the Vice Principle and pretty much every other incompetence-related principle you can think of, not to mention the Jerkwad Principle, the Asswipe Principle, and the Your-Honor-I-Beat-Him-To-Death-With-A-Stapler-In-Self-Defense Principle.
Oh, and in case you're one of the co-workers who got my invitation: Of course I meant to invite you. Just not all those other idiots.
One of the nicer people who accepted my invitation offered to write a recommendation for me on LinkedIn. She even emailed me asking what I wanted the recommendation to say. I thought for a second, then sent back this email:
I'm hoping to get a few other people to back up this recommendation, so that while potential employers may at first be skeptical, they will be won over after reading several recommendation from other individuals all attesting, in their own words, to my giantism and laser-eyes. I'm not sure what kind of job this skillset qualifies me for, but it's got to be better than my current position as Administrator of Kafkaesque Services. I suppose my future employer will be disappointed when I'm nearly 6 feet shorter than advertised and the only thing I'm capable of shooting from my eyes is blank stares, but then I'll just play the discrimination card. "Oh, so you want to fire me because I'm a dwarf with eye problems!" I'll shout. Then they'll give me a quiet cubicle in the back somewhere, where I can play Tetris and practice my blank stares.
I'll let you know how it goes. Join my LinkedIn network and we'll stay in touch.
When you sign up, LinkedIn allows you to send invitations to all the people in your Outlook address book, so that you can "stay connected" with them. Now keep in mind that all of the people in my address list are either (1) friends with whom I'm already in contact (which is why I have their email address), (2) relatives that I couldn't lose if I tried, or (3) co-workers that I see every day. So what's the point of a website to help me "stay connected" with this people, you ask. Well, let's say that I get so fed up with the retard circus that is my place of employment that I finally decide to just walk out one day and never come back. Now ordinarily I would never hear from any of those jerks again, but since I'm on LinkedIn, I'm guaranteed to get a bunch of emails saying, "Hey, dude, it's not the same here since you left. We all miss you a ton. Speaking of which, do you have a minute to answer a few questions about that doomed project that caused your nervous breakdown?" LinkedIn is the career equivalent of a herpes infection. As much as you want to leave that bad experience in the distant past, LinkedIn will guarantee periodic reminders at the worst possible times, like a bad outbreak on your honeymoon.But like an idiot, I clicked the "Invite people from my address book" button, because at the time I happened to be experiencing a unique combination of curiousity, boredom, and inebration. The LinkedIn site gave me a bunch of names of people to invite, including a few people who are just below Patient Zero on the list of people with whom I want to remain in contact. "Geez," I thought, "That's all I need, to be tethered to those human boat anchors for the rest of my life." I unchecked their names and then clicked the button to send the invitations to the people I can actually tolerate.
At this point I noticed that it had sent a lot more invitations than I had expected. I clicked the back button to look at the list again. Turns out that the list was in a text box, so that you had to scroll down to see all the names. I had sent invitations to nearly everyone in my company, including one individual who in my opinion epitomizes not only the Peter Principle but also the Dilbert Principle, and probably the Vice Principle and pretty much every other incompetence-related principle you can think of, not to mention the Jerkwad Principle, the Asswipe Principle, and the Your-Honor-I-Beat-Him-To-Death-With-A-Stapler-In-Self-Defense Principle.
Oh, and in case you're one of the co-workers who got my invitation: Of course I meant to invite you. Just not all those other idiots.
One of the nicer people who accepted my invitation offered to write a recommendation for me on LinkedIn. She even emailed me asking what I wanted the recommendation to say. I thought for a second, then sent back this email:
Hi Karen,
I would like it to say that I'm 12 feet tall and that I can shoot laser beams from my eyes.
Thanks,
Diesel
I'm hoping to get a few other people to back up this recommendation, so that while potential employers may at first be skeptical, they will be won over after reading several recommendation from other individuals all attesting, in their own words, to my giantism and laser-eyes. I'm not sure what kind of job this skillset qualifies me for, but it's got to be better than my current position as Administrator of Kafkaesque Services. I suppose my future employer will be disappointed when I'm nearly 6 feet shorter than advertised and the only thing I'm capable of shooting from my eyes is blank stares, but then I'll just play the discrimination card. "Oh, so you want to fire me because I'm a dwarf with eye problems!" I'll shout. Then they'll give me a quiet cubicle in the back somewhere, where I can play Tetris and practice my blank stares.
I'll let you know how it goes. Join my LinkedIn network and we'll stay in touch.
| posted by Diesel at Tuesday, November 21, 2006 |
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Leave a comment! |
Are laser beams just for destructive purposes, or can you use them to, say, heat up a burrito?
You are such a liar. You are only 5 feet tall, but the laser beams from your eyes are very real.
Can you come help me host a BBQ next weekend btw?
-wolfe.
So you're a Sentinel? Stay away from me dude...all my students say that I'm a mutant.
what, no Principal Victoria? pity.
you know, those laser beams might qualify you for a spot on NBC's hit series, Heroes. although i doubt they're LinkedIn, so they may have trouble finding out about you, but with that cool network of friends (along with all the new pals you've acquired through MySpace) you might have a chance.
tell me why you don't write for a living again? because you could, my friend, you really could. xoxo
Fab - I can really only use them for pointing at things or distracting people during movies.
Wolfe - You need me to point at some people? I can totally mess with their heads and make them think there's a BBQ sniper.
Joel - POINT POINT POINT!!!
Neva - I would have said Victoria Principle, but that might have come across as complimentary.
I don't write for a living because you folks don't pay enough.
not a fan of South Park, are we?
as for the poor pay -- yeah, blogs aren't the gold mines they're cracked up to be, are they? still... i'm guessing there are writing outlets out there for guys like you. (heck, your one liners are better than anything i've heard on Leno lately. of course, i don't watch Leno, so that's not saying much.) xox
Neva - Sorry, no. My wife won't let me watch it. Not that I really want to.
Thanks for the encouragement. :)
You made this sound so wonderful. I'll be signing right up because I can't get enough of the people currently around me. Nah, uh.