Why Shouldn't We Euthanize The Dumb?

Listen. Here's the thing. I don't ask much of the people who work for me. Show up more or less on time. Don't take longer lunches than I do. And for christ's sake, put the teensiest bit of professional care into your work.

Like I said, I'm not asking for much. But one of them can't even live up to those already low expectations.

"Parker!" I shouted from my office. "Parker!! What the hell is with this spreadsheet?"

"Mmm, what do you mean sir?" he said, suddenly materializing beside me.

"Gah! I told you to stop doing that, you creep!"

"Sorry sir."

"Sorry nothing! Look at this thing -- it looks like a frikkin' five-year-old did it! A retarded five-year-old at that!"

Parker got huffy at that point, like he always does when he's cornered. "How do you mean, sir?" he asked, blinking dumbly behind his coke bottle glasses.

"Look at it!" I shouted, waving it in his face. "It's done in crayon -- and on the back of a goddamn McDonald's Happy Meal placemat! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Mr. Carver, I have to say I don't appreciate being singled out like this," he said. That's when I lodged my foot so far up his ass they had to call in the Jaws of Life to turn me loose. Goddamn Parker.