Wednesday, July 26, 2006

W. M. D.

While you may think the subject of this post is W(eapons) of M(ass) D(estruction), it is more than decidedly not. It stands for something else completely different. If you are one of my campers or my staff you may be able to figure it out.

Now, I'm sure most of you at one time or another have had to work along side or under a person you really didn't respect and, while it may've been necessary to maintain at least a veiled civility with the other person to ensure projects and deadlines are met, it still leaves an incredibly violent taste of bile in your mouth. This is the position I find myself currently in and , quite possibly, the first time I have ever been in it. Let me tell you, when a summer camp becomes a higher factor for stress and drama than breaking up with a girlfriend, you know your in the fucking twilight zone. Rod, if you can hear me, give me at least a clue to where the hidden camera is, so I can show you my best side.

I have done my best the past few weeks to stay level headed and be diplomatic about what to do with information I receive. I have tried my best to back up a person who's administrative decisions stem at times from a personal base rather than a responsibility to maintaining and progressing the core values of an institution. I have seen my campers ill managed and treated inappropriately. I've had my staff and professional peers lied to and belittled as if they hadn't the intelligence to do the jobs they were hired for. And I've had to endure all of the above as well as being told, in not so many words, I'm a poor administrator and that I've been passive aggressive (which I have) to a point where I have hurt a grown man's feelings.

Well, shit, before you go demanding respect from me it's advisable to make certain you've brought a little to my fucking table.

When we have reached a point were I feel, as a twenty-seven year old man, more of a boss than my boss, more of a leader then a man twice my age, I'm pretty sure we're heading in the wrong direction. When a man, who makes three times what I do for six weeks of work, is petty and vindictive in the most childish of ways, I'm firm in believing that the wrong person is captain of our ship.

And when I have ceased to be able to do my job and conduct myself in the manner to which I am accustomed because I've been dragged into the kindergarten sandbox of another man's insecurities, I say...

...It's on!

If you want me, you got me! And I'm bringing my little yellow Tonka dump-truck to fuck your shit up.

I'll let you all know later how the Coup d'etat goes.


(>_>); Work at the Magic Box with Giles?

(^_^) Sure. Why not?

(>_<) Ugh! Are you kidding me, I'd rather be dead...again.