Emily Connell, the president of the multi-national conglomerate where you temp, is sad today. You spotted her in a café staring out the window at the rain.
“Should I go in and see if I can cheer her up?” you ask your 7-year-old daughter.
“Do it. It could be good for your career. I can go see The Good Dinosaur some other day.”
Your daughter hails a cab and you go into the café and stand at the edge of your company president’s table.
“Why so sad Ms. Connell?” you ask.
She looks up at you through her tears.
“I know you.”
You sit down across from her. You wave to a waiter and tell him you’d like a glass or Port.
“This one’s on you, since you make 1500 times my salary at our shared place of employment.”
“Oh,” she says. “You work for me.”
“Tell me,” you say.
At that she unloads a tale of her third husband’s confession that he’s in love with her brother, a prominent member of British Parliament. He’s going to divorce her and announce his relationship with her brother, which will likely cause the board to oust her from her position as CEO due to a ridiculous “undue controversy” clause in her contract, and her brother will also have his government post threatened. Meanwhile, her (soon-to-be-)ex-husband has refused to offer testimony in a corporate malfeasance case, testimony that would be necessary to exonerate her of accusations that she manipulated the stock price with false accounting.
“So I’m facing public humiliation, professional disgrace, jail-time, and a broken heart,” she tells you.
You do the only thing you can do, the only thing you know how to do in situations like this. You try to cheer her up by farting the National Anthem.
It works.
“You’re quite talented,” she says, laughing through her tears.
“Thanks,” you say. “If you’re feeling better, I’d better hit the men’s room and check my underpants.”
When you come back from the men’s room, she’s gone. The waiter comes by and says she paid ahead and told them you could have whatever you want for the rest of the night. You get drunk on port and eat a half dozen scones, stuffing yourself until they lock up for the evening, making sure to bring one scone home for your daughter, who hasn’t eaten in hours.
Happy Emily’s Sad Day!
