A while back I promised to tell you about the roots of my Ambition Aversion.
I hadn’t actually planned on fulfilling that promise but these days every know-it-all says we need to have an origin story.
My Ambition Aversion: An Original Origin Story
I was born and raised in the hamlet of Alligator Valley, a desolate two mile speck of suffering and poverty located in Venom County. I grew up on a broken-down farm in the Appalachian foothills.
Alligator Valley is known among weirdo anglers as the home of the world’s fattest crappie (a fish that some will tell you tastes like alligator but in reality tastes like it sounds).
My childhood memories mostly revolve around dust clouds, grass fires, and hail storms that could kill a cow.
That’s right dear, the land was hard and the life even harder.
Possum Herders
My mother and father, Agnes and Samuel Bodsworth, herded possum, felled trees, sold whiskey from their still — and feared ambition.
Like most of the families from the region, we were an oddly knit clan who distrusted our neighbors, outsiders, and anything associated with happiness.
Our family motto was “Soon We’ll Be Dead” and dreams of better things were, as my mother used to call them, “Satan’s Fancy Lies.”
I wore a threadbare gunnysack dress all through my youth and my feet never experienced the soft kiss of shoes.
Fear of Ambition
My only ambition was to survive the spring floods and my sole dream was the vain hope that whatever local farmer’s son that my parents would eventually force me to marry didn’t have 14 toes, a cleft palate and a tail.
My family didn’t just fear ambition, they gravely frowned upon it. My mother would needlepoint seat cushions that read “I spit on ambition’s grave!” And then my father would spit on the needlepoint cushion.
Instead of bothering with ambition we put our minds to such questions as “Do we have enough turnips to survive the winter?”
Turkey Troubles
My family thrived on the drudgery and responded to the harshness that surrounded them with a mixture of grim smiles, weary pessimism, and strange acts of violence.
My brother beat up a fence after it looked at him the wrong way. (My parents both agreed that the fence “had it coming.”) My mother boasted of having a particularly virulent strain of ice water in her veins that I suspect psychologists today would likely call an antisocial personality disorder. My father used to wrestle wild turkeys for fun and profit. When he was pecked to death by a rather feisty Rio Grande gobbler, my mother just shrugged and philosophically stated that “the turkey wanted it more.”
Life in Goobertown
Naturally, I had to get out of Alligator Valley.
So I took the biggest risk of my life. At 15 I ran away and moved to the big city of Goobertown. But all that got me was married, divorced, and living in poverty.
I stopped thinking about ambition and let the years fly by.
I was raising a teenage son on my own and working three jobs to try and pay the bills. At night I flipped burgers at the local Rennet Juicy Beef Shack, in the early mornings, I mopped floors and cleaned the toilets at Strippy McNudes, and during the day I was a telemarketer selling newspaper subscriptions to the Goobertown Statesman. On the upside: I had enough turnips for the winter.
One day while working the telemarketing phones, my boss, Terry Leach, stopped by my desk to share with me the wisdom of his 24 years on this planet. While stroking a cluster of stinging red pimples on his pumpkin-sized face, he asked me where I saw myself with the company in 40 years.
I said that it in all likelihood I’d be dead.
Terry frowned at this bit of news but then told me, “Millicent, I’m a leader. And if I know one thing, it’s that leading people is like pruning roses. Dead stems need to be cut off in order for the plant to fully bloom.”
While I didn’t like the sounds of where this was going, I felt some sort of response was required on my part and so I said, “That’s interesting, Terry. Did you know hydrangeas thrive on big piles of manure?”
He didn’t laugh.
Instead he looked me over like I was something he’d dug out of his nostril and said, “Powwow. Now. My office.”
I had no idea what he was saying so I gave him a “thumbs up.”
Well, he got all red in the face (which really brought out his whiteheads) and scream-whispered, “Powwow. Now. My office.”
And with that, he stormed off as purposefully as he could while flapping about his arms about like an epileptic chicken, which I interpreted to mean that I should follow him.
The “Powwow Now!”
When I walked into his office, Terry was seated in his imitation leather chair and his phone headset was stretched to painful proportions atop of his melon sized crown. It appeared he was reading a document while practicing his signature at the same time. He grunted, waved me in and gestured for me to sit on the stool opposite his desk.
After finally concluding his perusal of the document, he wrote one last signature which he finished off with a dramatic flourish, and then turned his attention to me. “This is for you,” he announced while handing me a single paged questionnaire entitled What Is Your Role in My Office Rock Band?
“Why, thank-you,” I said looking over what appeared to be some sort of bizarre Personality Test.
“It’s a personality test,” he confirmed. “You don’t need to worry about filling it out, I did that for you.”
“Why, thank you,” I said, hoping there wasn’t a question on it that asked, “Do you repeat yourself?”
“This is a psychological test that I thought up all by myself. It’s based on my theory that we can all be broken down into one part of the rock n’ roll collective. Whether it’s lead guitarist, roadie, publicist, dealer, whatever… My test determines our appropriate office rock n’ roll role.”
“Rock n’ roll roll?” I said getting more confused by the second.
Terry sighed balefully, “Milly, it’s imperative that we at Team Goobertown work together – as a team! And that means teamwork. Am I right?”
Before I could come up with an appropriate answer, Terry was already filling in the blanks, “Of course I’m right! And in order to work as a team we have to function like a rock n’ roll band. And I want my band to totally rock out like a well-oiled and world famous rock n’ roll machine. Do you see what I’m saying?”
“I see what you’re saying,” I told him, even though I didn’t. “You’re saying Team Goobertown needs to be more like a well-oiled machine. Like a robot.”
“Robot?” he sputtered. “Who said anything about freaking robots? I’m talking about Kiss!”
I had no idea what this indecipherable maniac was going on about. So I waded further. “That’s very interesting, Terry. Now, by Kiss, do you mean ‘Keep It Simple, Stupid?’”
“What the –? No! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! You know, The Kiss Army! Love Gun! Lick It Up!”
This was all starting to sound rather filthy, but for some reason I nodded my head in agreement. This seemed to appease him.
“Good.” He let the word hang in the air even though I couldn’t see anything good about any of it.
“So, as a well-oiled rock n’ roll machine,” he continued, “we need to know who we are in that structure: Our role in the Kiss Army. I’m like a combination of Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons. A Paul Simmons, if you will.”
“Or a Gene Stanley,” I chirped in, figuring it was best to try and stay engaged with my young lunatic boss.
“No, Milly, not like a Gene Stanley,” he snorted. “That’s just idiotic.”
I decided that from here on I’d keep my comments to the bare minimum.
“Look,” he carried on, “we have a rocking mix of people in this office and as their leader, my job is to make sure that this band of workers crank out some kickass tunes. That they shout it out loud, and rock n’ roll all night and party every day. But to do that successfully, everyone has to know their place.”
“Their place…” I finally muttered in way of a reply.
“Right. I’ve done the test for everyone in the office and results have been interesting. Take Dave Singleton…”
“Dave, who?”
“The janitor with the lazy eye. Turns out he’s more than that. He’s also the drummer of this organization. He keeps the beat. Like a… Galley slave drummer… I’m joking of course, but you see my point. Rashida from reception is the tour manager of our rock n’ roll band… And as for you, well, according to the test results… You’re a groupie.”
“I’m a what now?”
“A groupie. It’s a sort of hanger on, only with special privileges. Your job is to adore the real talent, do what they say, run my errands, be available on demand, and put out when required.”
“Run your errands? And put out what? The recycling? I’m afraid I just don’t understand what this kissing army of yours is all about, Terry.”
Terry smirked and put his feet up on his desk. “Of course you don’t understand. You’re a groupie.”
It was at this point that I was beginning to comprehend just what the little creep was saying, when much to my relief, Terry chuckled and added, “But the test must be flawed. I need to work out some of the kinks. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like these things are an exact science, but…. I mean, obviously, you’re not groupie material.”
“I’m not?”
“No, not at all. Look at you. You’re not hot. “
And with that, grinning boy Terry fired me.
When I asked why, he told me, “Because a band needs hot groupies.”
The next thing I knew my desk had been emptied and a rather sympathetic Security Guard named Orson was ushering me out of the building.
I stood in the parking lot, dumbfounded by what had just happened when I realized that I was still holding the “Personality Test” that Terry had created and answered for me.
So I wandered over to a nearby coffee shop, ordered a double-double and apple fritter, plunked myself down in a plastic seat, uncrumpled the paper and started reading…
Terry’s Test
What Is Your Role in My Office Rock Band? ™
Answer all the questions honestly. There are no right or wrong answers, just ones that don’t rock as hard as others.
1. The perfect rock guitar sounds like…
a) Ace Frehley
b) Dimebag Darrell
c) Slash
d) I have no idea who these people are ✔
2. How do you rock?
a) Heavy metal
b) Glam
c) Rhythm and Blues
d) In a rocking chair ✔
3. I wear my rock n’ roll hair…
a) Up
b) Down
c) Up and Down
d) With a glass of prune juice ✔
4. Complete the following sentence: I like my rock n’ roll with…
a) Heavy metal thunder
b) Whips and furs
c) Leather pants
d) Preparation H®✔
5. My original rock n’ roll ideas are as appealing as…
a) Flaming guitars
b) Headbanging
c) Awesome tattoos
d) Old people smell ✔
6. My rock n’ roll jewellery includes…
a) Snake belt buckle
b) Skull ring
c) Devil pendant and chain
d) Necklace that looks and smells like mothballs ✔
7. I have the personality of a…
a) Rocker
b) Roller
c) Shaker
d) Quaker ✔
8. I persevere and rock on a work project until…
a) I flame out
b) I nail it
c) I trash my hotel room
d) I have to leave work early because my son has been arrested ✔
9. What rock band name sounds coolest to you?
a) Sex Dwarf Kittens
b) The Vikings of Vingólf
c) Engorged
d) The Tea Baskets ✔
10. Respond to this statement: “I am outgoing, sociable, reliable, sometimes rude to others, and an ingenious worker who rocks out until the task is complete.”
a) Hell to the yes!
b) Rock n’ roll!
c) Party on, dude!
d) Who’s up for a nap? ✔
We’ve tallied the result! Congratulations, you are a GROUPIE. This means you are a class ISIL type (Insecure, Simple, Ignorant, and Lame).
You process everything around you in an often silly and confused fashion. But that’s okay because Groupies have a strong sense of duty when it comes to fishing for trouser trout; on this front you are always motivated to follow through on the task. Well done, Groupie.
You see yourself as a catalyst of change in other people – but you’re not. You’re intuitive awareness and excellent insights aren’t as intuitive and excellent as you’d like to think. Ha! Not at all.
That Stupid Fake Test Changed Everything
And there you have it. Terry’s test was total nonsense. I was 40 years old and the cretin was telling me I smelt like old people. And let’s face the facts, groupies aren’t likely candidates who rock out with Preparation H™.
As for the insensitive inclusion of my son, Sheridan, in question number 8, well, that not only cheesed me off (sorry about the language) but it proved that this wasn’t a blueprint of my personality but a biased piece of nonsense. Terry had written the thing to fulfill his personal agenda of firing me.
I was so angry that I made it my goal to destroy Terry.
And I did too. A few years later I crushed him like a bug. It was easy.
Just kidding!
What I learned And How It Made Me A Power Marketing Machine
I didn’t kill Terry. Instead I learned an important lesson that day.
I learned that if I didn’t get ambitious, and soon, I would end up destined to be forever toiling for the Terry’s of the workforce. My parents had taught me to avoid ambition but I knew it was time to embrace it! (In a platonic manner, of course.)
I realized that the people who are going to succeed at everything are the ambitious few who are teaching everyone else how to succeed at everything. And that those who are going to succeed at everything need to have more integrity, more authenticity, and a book deal.
I figured that there had to be a simpler way to teach people everything about marketing – an easy, step by step plan. So I decided to try and whip one up!
I created a series of different power marketing techniques using specific learning shapes and tactics that in turn helped me to create 183,246 different kinds of marketing concept programs that are easy to learn and do.
And to keep myself motivated, I wrote my famous Go Get ‘Em List. And you should too! (Don’t write mine, write your own… Just in case I wasn’t clear about that.)
Anyway, that’s my origin story and I’m sticking to it.