12 Million Dollars and Two Words for the Boss: ‘I Quit’

Here’s the letter you wanted to write but now can’t:

Dear Boss:

During my 25 years of employment with the company, the last 17 under your supervision, there have been many occasions on which I wanted to write to you. The one that comes to mind most readily was when you grudgingly granted me a day off (without pay) to attend my grandfather’s funeral and then called the mortuary to make sure that he had, in fact, died. The fact that he had, in fact, not died and that I had just used it as an excuse to go to the track doesn’t detract from the smallness of your action.

So, yes, I had wanted to dash off a few lines to you before but the wife talked me out of it. But now she’s all for it, because as you might have heard, I just won the California Lottery. We figure to be raking in roughly $12 million, which computes to just under 500 K a year for life. But hey, who’s counting?


Can your little brain imagine that much money, Harv? (By the way, do you mind if I call you Harv? Or would you prefer Harverooni? How about Tonto, which is what the staff calls you when you’re not around?) Anyway, I mentioned the $12 million because I recall asking you for a raise a couple of years ago when my oldest kid was going to college and you saying that I should have planned for that a long time ago. You also said I should never expect to make more than $30,000 a year, given my “limited growth potential.”

Guess what, Tonto, I’m going to be making that much per month from now on.

Remember how you always tell the staff that you value employee input? Don’t worry, we never believed it, but let me offer some, anyway.

For starters, the annual employee evaluations are a farce, especially when someone with the insight of a frog is handling them. I know evaluations have been your responsibility in the past, Harv, but let me be honest--you’re way over your head, man. You can’t even eat lunch without spilling soup on your tie; what makes you think you can evaluate other people?

During my evaluation last year, you said I had an attitude problem and was “seemingly indifferent to instruction.” Says who, you fatuous fraud?

You said during the evaluation that you hoped we could have a dialogue. I wasn’t quite up to it then, but now I feel like a dialoguin’ fool.

Where do you go every day from 1 o’clock to 3:30? Do you expect us to believe that somebody as goofy as you actually knows people who would eat with him for that long? Do you just go home and take a snooze? Do you go to the mall? And why do you shut the door and pull the blinds in your office in the afternoon? Are you watching cartoons on your TV? Who’s your management role model, Julius Dithers?

You might have noticed that I usually laugh at your jokes. You have no idea how painful that has been.


They’re usually OK for the first 10 seconds or so, but, Harv, have you ever heard of the concepts of timing and delivery ? Can you envision a day when you could possibly tell a joke in under six minutes? And do you think just once you could get to the punch line without shooting some spittle on a guy?

I have to mention the annual Christmas party. You know how you always get up and talk about employee loyalty? Are you really talking about this company, Harv? I hate to break it to you, but we only show up for work because we have to.

You drained the last bit of loyalty out of all of us long ago. We wouldn’t even go to the Christmas party if it weren’t for the near-certainty that your wife will make a fool of herself every year. If you knew what she tells us about life around your house, you might consider going to a nonalcoholic party this year. And really, Harv, baloney sandwiches at the party?

You know how I always ask how your kids are doing, Harv?


Confession time again. You want the truth? I can’t stand the little termites. The staff only nods and smiles at your stories about them because we’re trying to be nice. Truth is, there’s an office pool on which one of them goes off to reform school first.

Harv, I have got to run. I wish I’d written sooner, but at least we finally got that dialogue going, huh? And I feel like I’m just getting started.

We’ve got 17 years to catch up on; I haven’t even gotten to your potbelly, your comical toupee and how the company has gone to hell since you got into power. Maybe I’ll touch on those when I write to you from Tahiti.

By the way, in my excitement I almost forgot to mention something. . . .


I quit.