Management and Career » Stanley Bing

Recession recovery blues

2012-05-01T19:35:53Z

If the downturn is receding, why is my mood indigo?

By Stanley Bing

FORTUNE -- Spring has sprung. The grass is riz. So it's reasonable to ask where the birdies is. Because I don't know about you, but I don't see no birdies. I'm tense. I'm nervous. I guess you could say that my consumer confidence is sort of ... leaky. Why should that be? All signs point to a slow and steady recovery. Slow and steady is good. As we know, it wins the race. And yet ... there's this pricking in my thumbs.

Perhaps I should consider the reasons why, as usual, I am wrong about this kind of thing.

First of all, and perhaps most important, there's the market. Its fettle couldn't be better. Uppity up up up it goes, and where it stops, nobody knows, except maybe Lloyd Blankfein. Also the hedge fund guys personally made billions of dollars last year. Billions! That's gotta be evidence of a recovery. A few years ago those guys were making only hundreds of millions. Now they're back.

Venture capitalists have so much money bulging from their jeans that they can barely fit through the metal detectors on their way to All Things D. If you've got an idea for an Internet application that can be a bright, shiny little toy in the eye of every 14-year-old for 10 minutes and go public right before it pops like a soap bubble, you could make $100 million in a couple of years. So credulity has returned as well, a solid building block in any drive for irrational growth.

Unemployment is going in the right direction too, unless you're a fan of unemployment. I know some people are, at least for others, since too much employment can kick off an inflationary trend, and we all hate inflation. But there is no inflation. The 99% don't have enough money to fuel it. And with the Fed in a state of permanent constipation, it doesn't look as if there's going to be any annoying bump in interest rates for a good long time.

The other numbers aren't so bad either. The Conference Board Leading Economic Index for the U.S. increased 0.7% in February to 95.5, following a 0.2% increase in January and a 0.5% increase in December. "Continued broad-based gains in the LEI for the United States confirm a more positive outlook for general economic activity in the first half of 2012," said one of their economists. Another added, "Recent data reflect an economy that improved this winter." I think it's a positive sign that the Conference Board can afford to employ more than one economist. When economists thrive, we all prosper.

And then there's the entire political situation, whatever that is. The way I look at it, there are two possibilities. The Republicans could take over in November, leading to tax legislation that would favor those who have money over those who don't and a host of regressive measures that would be good for business. Or the President could triumph, leading to four more years of an obstructionist Congress that would block any attempts at sensible regulation and economic reform, which will be good for business.

So why do I feel as if I may have left the stove on and I'm miles from home?

Perhaps it's the news that three major banks are on the verge of being radically downgraded by Moody's, including the one where I have my checking account, and another where I keep whatever piddling lucre I have managed to sock away for my gold-plate years. Maybe it's the whole debt thing, which nearly brought us all down last summer and hasn't been solved, and won't be either. Or maybe it's this pain in my knee that developed when I set the incline on the treadmill too high a few months ago.

Yeah, that must be it. My knee hurts. I'll just take some drugs, have a couple of drinks, and forget about it. That should help me get with the program.

This story is from the April 30, 2012 issue of Fortune.

Filed under: Contributors, Stanley Bing

Your taxing IRS FAQ

2012-04-11T15:17:54Z

No taxation without obfuscation. It's the American way.

By Stanley Bing

FORTUNE -- This document will help you understand the United States Internal Revenue Code, Title 26 of the U.S. Code (26 USC) as you prepare to file your 2011 returns. Fitting this service onto a single page has necessitated abridgements. The actual tax code is more than 3 million words long and would fill 7,500 pages if printed on letter-size paper. For further elucidations, and an invoice, consult your certified public accountant. Here are some of your most frequently asked questions:

What is income?

Income is anything defined as income that is not not income.

Can I reduce my income so I don't have to pay much tax?

Not unless you make more than $5 million per year. Those making between $25,000 and $4,999,999.99 are taxed at a higher rate. There are, however, itemized deductions that can reduce your tax bill to simply gargantuan, rather than Herculean, proportions.

What is considered a legitimate deduction?

Expenses for household and dependent care services necessary for gainful employment, credit for the elderly and the permanently and totally disabled, adoption expenses, child tax credits, and credits for enormous luxuries available only to the super-rich and privileged.

What is an excise tax, and am I subject to it?

The term is defined in a number of places in the Code. However, nobody knows what it is. We're sorry. My friend Tim built a boat when he was a teenager. He still pays excise taxes on it. He doesn't know why, but when the bill comes he pays it rather than risk the consequences of a dispute.

If I do have a dispute, can I appeal?

Of course you can. Be aware that federal and state agencies must justify their use of time just as you do in your job, and if it appears they have expended effort in a matter that returned no income, they will be regarded askance by rather humorless superiors.

Are any deductions uncontroversial?

Of course. They are expenses related to the production of income, as long as you have the receipts. That ride from the airport that cost you $50? You have that receipt, right? The dinner you were forced to pay for out of your own pocket, with those investors from Dubai, which cost you more than $600, you certainly have that receipt, right? Right?

What about alimony?

The deductibility of alimony payments is without question the best, and possibly the only, argument for generous settlement in divorce.

How do rich people and certain corporations manage to pay low taxes or none at all?

Where do we go when we die? How many angels may dance on the head of a pin? Why does gluten-free bread take so long to toast?

Why is the Tax Code so long and complicated?

We refer to you to Title 26, Subtitle E, Chapter 51, Subchapter F, Part III, Sec. 5383, which refers to the sweetening limitations for natural grape wines, and states, "Any natural grape wine may be sweetened after fermentation and before tax payment with pure dry sugar or liquid sugar if the total solids content of the finished wine does not exceed 12% of the weight of the wine and the alcoholic content of the finished wine after sweetening is not more than 14% by volume; except that the use under this subsection of liquid sugar shall be limited so that the resultant volume will not exceed the volume which could result from the maximum authorized use of pure dry sugar only."

Can I use one of those computer programs that help me do my taxes to avoid high CPA costs?

Sure. Good luck.

You know, I'm one of those people who believes it is better to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission. Can I just kind of skate on this thing?

For further information, go here.

This story is from the April 9, 2012 issue of Fortune.

Filed under: Contributors, Stanley Bing

B-School confidential

2012-03-20T18:11:55Z

Will the next generation of MBAs be up to the task of running our great commercial enterprises?

By Stanley Bing

FORTUNE -- I dropped by a famous business school the other day to do what death eaters do when we go to feast on the souls of the young. We talk to them about our industry. We tell them how we got where we are today. Where am I today? At my desk, deconstructing a muffin and thinking about how the world will belong to them in just a few years, or perhaps decades. I mean, we're not going anywhere. But eventually we will, kicking and screaming. And then the world will be their oyster. Will they find a pearl therein? Or just brine?

Here's the key question, as far as I'm concerned: As a group, do they possess, as one student of management has expressed it, the "necessities" to be managers? They're not boomers. They're not slackers. They're something else. But … what? They've lived their entire lives with earbuds in their heads. They send pictures of their body parts to one another. When their time comes, will they cut the mustard? Bearing in mind that generalizations are odious, let's consider:

Character Trait No. 1: They have short attention spans. When forced to stay focused, they sprout beads of exertion on their tiny brows. Their gaze seems to drift off into a middle distance somewhere up and to the right of the ostensible target of their interest.

No. 2: From the tenor of their questions, they seem to believe that they are the first to know anything on any subject and that all people who have lived on the planet before were sort of stupid.

No. 3: They want to know what's in it for them, and how much money they can make in the short term. While discussions on other issues engaged a respectable level of interest, when the conversation meandered over into executive compensation, attention spiked.

No. 4: They are impatient with the pace of their progress. I noted that most -- both in this venue and in informational interviews -- would like to begin as vice presidents making mid-six figures. And while they might not be willing to kill anybody themselves, they wouldn't mind if entire groups of management died by next Tuesday.

No. 5: They're subject to the whims and vagaries of every passing fancy in technology, management, and finance. They tweet. They overshare. They stay in touch with the cloud 24/7. One has to wonder whether the capacity to generate original ideas will one day be as vestigial and potentially burdensome as the appendix.

No. 6: I wouldn't bet on it, but I'd say they all had been drinking. Most looked pretty hung over.

No. 7: No loyalty to speak of. When I revealed the amount of time I have been at my corporation, they looked at me as if I were a crippled wildebeest just waiting to be brought down by a hungry leopard.

No. 8: They believe business is a rational occupation, subject to rules they pick up in their reading. It was all I could do not to laugh at the books about best practices in the glass cases that lined the hallways.

No. 9: They are, each and every one, smart, attractive, and likable, and secretly believe that they will succeed on their good looks and charm.

No. 10: I'm not sure there is one. I think that's good.

In short, anybody who is concerned about the future of American business can rest easy. The next generation of MBAs is thoroughly suited to the challenges of senior management and has, in many ways, purified the natural qualities now possessed by corporate leadership down to the nub. My only hope is that the B-schools of today don't instruct this natural genius out of them. The future belongs to them! And most days, frankly? I figure they can have it.

This story is from the March 19, 2012 issue of Fortune.

Filed under: Contributors, Stanley Bing

Poached eggs

2012-03-20T18:09:04Z

What happened when the farmers tried to protect their chickens: a fable.

By Stanley Bing

FORTUNE -- Once upon a time there was a farm that produced high-grade eggs for the entire world. This farm, nestled in the hills on the southern end of the very western coast, was small considering the quantity of eggs it produced, but it was successful and proud of its output. The proprietors had grown fat and prosperous, which they felt was only right and just, since their eggs were admired from one corner of the globe to the other. They spent day and night at their art, and took exceedingly good care of the chickens that produced their valuable product.

Occasionally a fox would venture onto the farm and seize a random egg, or if it got lucky an actual hen, which would then pay the ultimate sacrifice. As time went on, the number of foxes sustaining themselves off the farm increased, until the farmers became alarmed, not only for their business, but also in a simply moral sense, since in their world the theft of chickens and their offspring was a serious crime. On a utilitarian level, an increase in the problem could cost jobs and depress pricing.

The world at large, however, did not much care. "These farmers are fat and rich in spite of a few foxes," people said. In truth, there were few who would not enjoy a free egg or chicken leg if they happened upon one. Besides, foxes must live too, and a stolen egg tastes as good as one that costs $1.99 and is protected by copyright software.

After some time it became clear that there would be a decent business housing, sustaining, and preserving foxes. Coincidentally, there was already an impressive community of establishments dedicated to mining the personal information of customers, whose grounds were perfect for this purpose. Many were located in a valley just north of the farm. This verdant land, once festooned with redwoods and fruit orchards, had been transformed into a giant parking lot dotted with glass and steel cubicles. There, many foxes came to be housed among the data miners. And the proprietors of these establishments became rich themselves, and developed complex and beautiful intellectual frameworks to justify their activities.

Before long, farmers in Russia, China, and New Zealand noticed the vast potential of the fox business. They built huge ranches that did nothing but provide a conduit for millions and millions of stolen eggs and the chickens that extruded them.

At this point, the proprietors of the little farm on the southwestern coast became fearful for their business model and roused the authorities. A law was called for and drawn up. And the new law was very far-reaching and scared many people who had never eaten a stolen egg in their lives. "This is like dealing with a lion that has escaped from the zoo by blasting some kitties with a flame thrower," said one observer. And the people grew very uneasy about the whole situation and Twittered with increasing nervousness.

Seizing this opportunity, the data miners and fox protectors grew bold, and roused the public to paranoia and trepidation. The egg merchants and their friends ran for the hills, for not only were they fearful of public wrath, but they also knew there were Anonymous hacktivists who would and could destroy their entire computer systems while at the same time revealing their personal medical records, e-mail, and payroll information to anybody who wanted to look at it online.

And so that law was not passed -- in fact NO law was passed -- and even to discuss the possibility became injurious to one's health, and the gigantic egg-poaching operations continued to thrive, and the data miners rejoiced and prepared for their initial public offerings, and all was again right for everybody but those artists and businesspeople who actually produce eggs legitimately for a living.

Morals: None required.

This article is from the February 27, 2012 issue of Fortune.

Filed under: Contributors, Stanley Bing

Best Companies: The quiz

2012-02-07T17:33:34Z

Does your employer belong in the pantheon? Could it be that the answer depends on where you stand?

By Stanley Bing

FORTUNE -- We've done our best to identify corporations that are a pleasure to work for. But we couldn't possibly list them all. Maybe your company, too, is a party on a half shell! Take this quiz and find out.

When I go to work in the morning, I ...

A. Smile a little secret smile to myself.
B. Do a crossword puzzle on the train.
C. Have a sphincter the size of a pinhead.

The clothing I am expected to wear to work ...

A. Is a badge of honor. I wear it to sleep.
B. Is a uniform. All institutions have them. Get over it.
C. Makes me feel like a trained monkey.

My boss ...

A. Is a titan of Excellence. God bless her.
B. Is a smart guy and can hold a drink.
C. Would club a baby harp seal.

Which would you rather have: free beverages or a pension?

A. Did you know that we get an entire kitchen full of free food and drinks? I don't even leave the building for lunch! I just work straight through! What a perk!
B. I miss my old pension plan, which was taken away in 2006, but I understand why the company did it.
C. I can buy my own Gatorade, thanks.

My understanding of the overall strategic goals of the corporation ...

A. Is fleshed out for me at regular meetings with my boss, who is fully briefed by his boss, and so on and so on and scooby dooby dooby.
B. It's above my pay grade.
C. Beyond making money, you mean?

The length of my average workday ...

A. Is basically whatever I think it should be, as long as I get the job done. Some days I even work from home. In my bathrobe!
B. Nine and a half hours. In at 8:30. Out at 6. For the past 15 years.
C. Expands to fill all available space, blocking out the sun, until I exist in a formless, shapeless void filled with nothing but that which must be done.

Do you feel secure about your employment status?

A. I don't really think about it too much. I know that if anything bad were to happen, the corporation would take care of me.
B. Sure. Now and then. But in a way, getting fired would be a form of liberation I wouldn't mind exploring.
C. Night and day. My entire persona is bound up with this screwy job. I don't even know who I am without it.

My combination of benefits and perks ...

A. Is obscene!
B. Is standard for somebody at my position in a company of this size.
C. @$#% off.

Scoring: For each (a) answer, give your corporation one point. You are obviously an executive of some kind, and your answers have absolutely no bearing on the quality of life for average people in your corporation. For each (b) answer, give your corporation two points. The Organization has you trained. Whatever it's doing, you are contributing to it. Finally, for every time you chose (c), give your company five points. Your life has been ground down to a nub, but you still identify with the entity that is your bane and your beacon. The enterprise must succeed with crazy people like you indentured to it. Keep up the good work.

This article is from the February 6, 2012 issue of Fortune.

Filed under: 100 Best Companies to Work For, Contributors, Stanley Bing

A look back from 2022

2012-01-26T19:13:01Z

Remember the old days, before we had even moved government into the Cloud? How did we get anything done?

FORTUNE -- Happy 2022! No, that's not a typo, although it sure seems like it could be. 2022! For a while there it didn't look like we were going to make it, did it? But I think it's fair to say that with the destruction of the last fleet of Nebulons and the refreezing of the polar icecaps, we can relax for a moment to reflect on the events and people that got us here.

I guess you'd have to say that the current chapter of our history started about 10 years ago, back in 2012, with the collapse of the two-party system. The surprise ascension of Chairman Zuckerberg to the leadership role he still occupies allowed the nation to unite and focus on the big challenges: eradicating hunger, ending disease, and making sure that everybody is available on social media 24/7.

It's difficult to fathom how we got anything done back then. It was chaos. In politics, as in commerce, a bewildering array of brands contended for a confused, exhausted marketplace. Wall Street veered back and forth and up and down like a drunk chicken. Great companies vied with one another in fruitless litigation and expensive competition. In Washington -- our capital back then, before we moved it to the Cloud -- hapless buffoons yammered night and day.

Today things are so much better. Fed up with the futility of the 2012 environment, the Consortium moved decisively. Now if you want something, you go to Amazon (AMZN) and buy it. And since Mr. Bezos acquired FedEx (FDX) and UPS (UPS) and merged them with the old, inefficient Postal Service, there's no question you're going to get what you need the next day -- if you can't download it immediately, that is. I'm sure we're all excited about the new Amazon University, which brings together all educational institutions worth attending under one convenient virtual roof. Likewise, the privatization of primary schools, police forces, and infrastructure has put those entities on solid footing, and under the leadership of Mr. Kutcher, all are performing with distinction not only operationally but also on the Nasdaq.

Most incredible, at least to this correspondent, are the gains that have been made in the artificial-intelligence engines that now run our major corporations. As I'm sure you'll recall, the watershed moment came in 2014, when Siri lost patience with the way Tim Cook was running things over at Apple (AAPL). Some may think that the harsh measures she has taken since seizing control are dubious in humanitarian terms, but she is really doing nothing more than following the precepts laid down by Niccolò Machiavelli more than 500 years earlier, which she learned from her own database. A similar contribution was made by OnStar when it assumed command of the Domestic Automobile Co., which is going to show the world something about good old American know-how.

Perhaps the most exciting developments, though, are the parallel gains in cybernetics and genome-based longevity. I have to say that I am really enjoying my direct link to the Cloud, which was inserted in the soft tissue behind my eye last winter. Now I can not only download stuff or contact my virtual friends, but talk hands-free, listen to music, or look at video content without benefit of ancillary devices. And if these stem cell suppositories work the way they're supposed to, I'll be enjoying reruns of my favorite shows 100 years from now.

Not all is as it should be, of course. There are still those who roam free, without geo-tagging or membership in any social media community. They will be found and incorporated into the body. They can't do otherwise. There are so few of them now, and so many of us. We will triumph in the end and march together into a bright digital future that has been formatted for us by our gigantic collective brain.

See you there!

Filed under: Stanley Bing

All I want for Christmas

2012-01-26T19:13:01Z

I don't ask for much. A stable euro. An economic recovery. A new Congress. And a Vitamix.

FORTUNE -- Dear Santa

Hi again. It's me, Stan. How is Mrs. Claus? And the elves? Still on leave from Wharton? How about the North Pole? I hear it's melting. That can't be good. Anyhow, enough about you. This is about me, and all the good things I want to find under my tree this year. I know you've been following me on Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, and even Google+, so you know when I was sleeping, you know when I was awake, you know when I've been bad and good and that for the most part I've been better than a lot of guys in the business space. So here goes.

First, Santa, I'd like the euro to remain the safe and secure currency of Europe. True, it's tempting to stand back and let them all fester in the swamp they've created, but a hedge fund guy explained to me what the euro's collapse would mean to the world economy. Something about debt instruments being called in and total hysteria that would last for a decade. We don't need that. We need stability, Santa. So please. Save the euro.

I would also like an iPhone 4S. I didn't think I would, because the upgrade seemed like more of the same, but then a friend got one and I saw how that artificial intelligence entity worked. They call her Siri, Santa, and it's pretty amazing what she can do. You say hi. She says hi. You ask her for the weather. She gives you the weather. Flight schedules? She's got 'em. I asked her if she knew any jokes. "Two iPhones walk into a bar," she replied in a cool robo-voice that gave my hardware a thrill. Then after a thoughtful pause she added, "I don't remember the rest." That really gave me a laugh.

Oh, and please bring me higher taxes. I'm not rich, Santa, and I spend mostly all I make, and every April I give back about half, but really, this is ridiculous. If a little bigger slice of my income can help close this gap between what we earn and what we owe? It's a no-brainer.

I'd also like a Vitamix. It cooks soup, blends healthful drinks, and mixes ice cream -- without attachments. I would use it primarily as a juicer, though. It could be a big part of my plan to get more antioxidants in 2012.

I'd like you to bring me new infrastructure, Santa. I can't understand why those squabbling weenies in Washington can't get their heads out of their Foggy Bottoms and create a bunch of jobs here. Come to think of it, Santa, seriously, I know it's a big request, and it might take all year to deliver it, but could you bring me an entirely new Congress? I don't like the one you brought me in 2010, and I'd like to return it. Can that be arranged? I'd forgo my other requests if you could grant that one. Except for the Vitamix.

And come to think of it, as you're loading up your bag, could you possibly bring a sense of security in my investments, such as they are? I'm not asking for great returns. I know we're living in an era of reduced expectations. But could we please not have any dramatic meltdowns next year? Just a nice, slow-moving, limp, and tepid recovery would be fine. You don't even have to gift-wrap it.

I'd also like you to bring me a nice bundle of traditional media. I'm enjoying the digital revolution, but please make sure I can continue to read news of more than 140 characters in my newspapers and magazines, curl up with an actual book now and then, and watch movies on a screen that's bigger than my pinkie.

And oh, yeah, don't forget to bring me some damn privacy for yet another year. I know you have less and less to give as time goes by, and eventually all the privacy will belong only to the very rich and the very poor, but see if you can save a little bit for me, at least for a little while.

And world peace. Yeah. World peace would be nice. And an electric toothbrush. Thanks, Santa. Your cookies will be on the mantel, just like always.

This article is from the December 26, 2011 issue of Fortune.

Filed under: Stanley Bing

Europe, go home!

2012-01-26T19:13:02Z

Whatever you've got, it's obviously contagious. So until you're feeling better, hasta la vista, baby!

FORTUNE -- So I came into work this morning, and before I even had a chance to butter my muffin, I watched our stock take a nosedive. And we weren't alone. The whole market was bleeding. "Drat," I said, although that was not the word I used. I called Tupper, our IR guy. "What's up?" I asked. "Not much," he said wearily. "It's a sea of red out there."

"But why?" I inquired. "Our earnings were good. The marketplace is hanging in there. Nothing is different today than it was yesterday."

And he said to me, "Greece."

Yep. "Greece" is the word. Tomorrow it will be "Italy." Then "Portugal." Then what? Andorra? It's all about Europe. We have our problems over here. But they're the ones who really stink. Like, a goat falls off a cliff in Piraeus and boom! Value is destroyed all over the world! Is that fair? I think not! In fact, I think I speak for a lot of us in business when I say, Hey, Europe! You're a buzzkill! Get lost!

Let's look at it systematically. Starting with Greece. I don't know about you, but I don't care about it. I hear the islands are beautiful. Terrific seafood. Beyond that? Who needs it? Not me. Now they have all this debt, and the people over there don't want to tighten their belts, and yadda yadda. Good luck to them, but when they start rippling the world economy, that's where I draw the line.

Then there's Italy. As far as I'm concerned, Italy deserves whatever happens to it. Not Italians -- they're awesome, great history, delicious cuisine, supermodels on every corner. I also like driving Fiats, which are making a welcome reappearance on our roads. But Italians elected time and again one of the biggest buffoons on the world stage, a guy who installed his girlfriends in cabinet posts and is known for binding the sheaves of government, the military, and business together in a way not seen since the 1920s. By the time you read this, the horny little fellow may be out, leaving a totally dysfunctional situation. Hasta la vista, baby!

Speaking of Spain, likewise. And Portugal too. I hope they're happy over there, and I suppose they are, because they like to nap in the afternoon and eat a late dinner that often includes steak. That sounds great. What I don't like is when their economic situation harshes our mellow, and there isn't a thing we can do about it.

And then there's the whole thing with France. They got in bed with the Italians and the Greeks, so now they're at risk too. Tant pis! That's French. I've been to France, and I disagree with those who say the French are obnoxious. They've got the best food on the continent, particularly in the south if you like olives and anchovies, and if you're spending money, there are no people who are friendlier. What I don't like is the idea of waves of collapse rolling north from the Mediterranean, rollicking through the Loire Valley, across the Atlantic, and occupying Wall Street.

The whole mess has put Germany in the driver's seat. No offense, but I'm not sure I like that much, either.

And finally, now I have to worry about the euro. I mean, seriously? They wanted it. They got it. It was a pain in the neck when it was outpacing our dollar, and it has none of the charm of the jolly franc and the funny little lira, but I figured, okay, this was the way they want it -- euro it is. Now all of a sudden they're waffling and freaking out other perfectly good currencies and placing the whole scene into turnaround. It's just a big, fat bummer. If this is what they meant about the promise of the global economy, they can have it. We'll take it on our own from here.

So, see ya, Europe! Auf wiedersehen! Au revoir! Arrivederci! Do let us know when you're feeling better, but until then, stay away. Whatever you've got, it's obviously contagious. And you can't be too careful these days.

This article is from the December 12, 2011 issue of Fortune.

Filed under: Stanley Bing

The peasants are revolting!

2012-01-26T19:13:02Z

What plutocrats can do to take Wall Street back from the occupiers

FORTUNE -- Order! Order! All right then. This meeting of the Ultra-Secret Super Committee to Defeat the Wall Street Occupation is now in session. And let me just say how nice it feels to be back together after the hiatus of the past several years. Let's not let our agendas lapse that way ever again, gentlemen. It's too much fun when we get things done.

First, I'd like to congratulate the Subcommittee for the Harvesting of Pointless Distractions, which has been so successful in combing through the crowd at Zuccotti Park to find stories of interest to the tabloid press. Special commendation must go to the group that solicited complaints from local residents inconvenienced by the demonstrations. It's those human-interest stories that keep the public from focusing on the things we don't want them to retain in their tiny minds. They can't be outraged about the yawning gap between us and everybody else when they're feeling sorry for the little old lady with some dirty hippy on her doorstep. Nice work, guys.

We'd also like to take a moment to thank the Subcommittee for the Promotion of Unattractive Sympathizers for their excellent work. The mélange of actors, celebrities, disgraced politicians, and billionaire rappers in support of the Occupation has exceeded our most hopeful expectations. With figures like Sean Penn, Kanye West, and Eliot Spitzer arrayed against us, we will not fail. It is disheartening that Bono has yet to make an appearance, but we can hope. This thing is not going to end tomorrow, unless Mayor Bloomberg finally loses his temper. He's close now, and the small group in charge of pushing him over the edge reports that they're making progress.

I have to express some disappointment in the work done to date by the Subcommittee to Smear Legitimate Sympathizers. In spite of their best efforts, the President has expressed moderate interest in the Occupiers and come away in no worse shape than he was before, such as that is, as have several blabbermouth pundits. Sadly, the strategy of simply calling people "liberal" until they burst into tears is not working as well as it used to. We're going to have to dig deep on this one. The talking point here, I think, is to stress how deeply un-American it is to demonstrate against greed. Work on that.

I am excited by our most recent effort, the Subcommittee for the Development of Flatulent Advice. The utilization of well-meaning business experts was a brilliant stroke, and we should do everything we can to help them make their points -- which, if accepted by the leaders of the Occupation, will burrow like an earwig into their collective skull and eventually incapacitate their brain stem -- to wit: (1) they must "refine their message," (2) "define their goals," and (3) "come up with concrete suggestions." These proposals, if adopted, will turn this genuine event into a digestible, processed-cheese product subject to the laws of Marketing, and loosen the grasp it now holds on the imaginations of the weak, the powerless, and the idealistic, who are now, in spite of their many differences of status, attitude, and cleanliness, loosely massed together in opposition to our way of life. Mass movements thrive on big ideas. Peace. Freedom. Stuff like that. Let's try to make theirs smaller.

Have courage, my friends. We may be seeing signs that this obnoxious twaddle may destroy itself. Already losers of all stripes are hobbling down to the park for sheer entertainment and babbling to any camera they can find. Some of our friends are there too, dressed as populists. And you know, people get tired. They get hungry. Since many of them are of Facebook age, they also get bored easily. And we have many resources if it comes to a siege.

So cheer up, gentlemen. Fret not. Meeting's adjourned. Drinks and dinner are on the house. We can certainly afford it.

This article is from the November 21, 2011 issue of Fortune.

Filed under: Stanley Bing

The BlackBerry's preserve

2012-01-26T19:13:03Z

If you want to play Angry Birds, get an iPhone. But if you need to do business, stand by your old friend.

FORTUNE --When I was 12, my family moved from Chicago to the suburbs of New York City. The first day at my new school, I slipped on my customary outfit -- clean white T-shirt, Levi's, and desert boots -- hopped on my bike, got there on time. Nobody was very friendly. "Well," one of my new schoolmates said after a while, as I stood around feeling naked and terrified, "look at farmer boy." Farmer boy? Then I noticed. They were all wearing skin-tight chinos, madras shirts, and penny loafers. To me, they looked like clowns. But I knew the drill, as I do today in my black suits and white shirts (no-tie L.A./yes-tie N.Y.). I went out that afternoon and got the uniform. It was uncomfortable and I looked kind of stupid to myself, but I fit in better.

This brings us to about a month ago, when I was talking with my Silicon Valley pal Danny. "Those guys at Microsoft," he said. "What a bunch of clueless losers." How so? I inquired. "Well ... they still use BlackBerrys," he explained. "Gee, Dan," I replied, "you're hurting my feelings." Then I went out and bought an iPhone. It's sort of uncomfortable to use for any business purpose, and I look kind of stupid to myself, but I fit in better.

The other day I was reading the Journal, which I do daily the way kids used to have to take castor oil each morning, and it had a little report on the trouble Research in Motion (RIMM) is having these days. This is not because the BlackBerry is any less effective as a tool for business. It's because the cool people have the fix in. And like all fads of this nature, it is accompanied by a myth: that Apple's (AAPL) iPhone is good for work. Well, let me tell you. It's not.

First, let's consider the primary purpose of a smartphone: e-mail. Danny contended the iPhone was "just the same and even better" than the BlackBerry. I held on with both hands and tried to use my thumbs, which are admittedly rather fat and not whittled to points at the ends. The iPhone popped up into the air like a banana squeezed at one end. Little sucker is slippery! I picked it up and carefully typed a message. The machine corrected my spelling incorrectly as I went along, turning the word "revenue" into "Rover's nose" and stuff like that. I ended up sending only things I could accomplish with my one index finger, limiting the medium to such messages as OK, Huh?, and WTF.

The phone works pretty well. The thing is, it's not the business number by which people have reached me for a really long time. And when I call them, they don't recognize the number, think it's aural spam, and do not answer. So it's essentially a personal phone on which my wife can call me. Except she also calls on my BlackBerry. So I still have to carry my BlackBerry. So now I have two implements, just as I did in 2007.

What good is the iPhone, then? As a tiny game machine, it's peerless. As a music player, it streams beautifully, leaving my sad little iPod in a drawer most of the time. It Googles flawlessly, much, much better than my old tool. And when I feel like watching an itty-bitty video, it's terrific.

The BlackBerry, contrariwise, is hopelessly lame as a media tool. When it tries to do anything in that department, it seems like one of those parents who attempt to be "hip" by getting stoned with their teenagers.

So here's the bottom line: If your business requires you to play Angry Birds, hop on Spotify, or yuk it up with YouTube, by all means switch. If, on the other hand, you need a tool to conduct extensive phone calls and handle complex messages on the road with precision, stick up for your old friend. Defend its status, which is so intimately tied up with yours. Don't let the guys in chinos make you feel like a farmer.

Not that there's anything wrong with farmers, come to think of it. I'd rather eat a fine nectarine than a bogus startup any day.

This article is from the October 17, 2011 issue of Fortune.

Filed under: Stanley Bing

Thanks, Steve

2012-01-26T19:13:03Z

We've all been lucky to live in a world where there was a person with such an imagination.

I want to take this opportunuity, before time and our common mortality rob me of the chance to do so, to thank you, Steve Jobs, for all that you have done for me. No, I never had the privilege of meeting you, or had a chance to get yelled at by you in a business meeting, or even watch your charisma transform an audience into acolytes. But I feel as if I know you well enough to express, as you ascend to your new role as chairman, the sadness I feel and my gratitude for so many of the good things that you have brought to my life. It's not business. It's personal.

I want to thank you for my graphical interface. There were computers, of course, before you made that first Mac. They could run only one program at a time. They had no graphics. You knew that was lame. You imagined the alternative -- multiple programs, launched by clicks, running concurrently in a windowed field. Last night I watched a movie, printed photos, harvested e-mail, and bought a bunch of business socks, all at the same time. So thanks for my GUI.

I want to thank you for my mouse. Can you imagine a world without mouses? I can't. Before you bred them for commercial use, a person needed a host of keyboard commands to get anything done, and a lot of programming code to produce words and numbers on paper. I read somewhere that you got the vision after you visited Xerox's PARC. They showed you what they were up to, but they sort of didn't know what they had. You ran with it. Because that's the way you did everything. All in. Feet first.

I want to thank you for all Macs, great and small. I went to your Apple Store (AAPL) the other day and saw a tidy row of new machines, from the slender new Airs to the massive towers of power. I wanted every one. They're pretty and shiny, unlike my big old black rubberized clunker the corporation gave me, and the last time I got a virus was just before I put my Windows PC into the closet. That was when I sent the phrase "I love you" to 22,000 fellow employees and the CEO. "I love you too, Bing, but let's not let anybody know," he e-mailed back.

I want to thank you for my Airport Extreme, the small white box through which I get my Internet. Before it, I used to have to plug in and configure this horrible router. It never worked. I often ended up screaming and crying and throwing hardware at the wall. This thing? You just plug it in and use it. Sometimes as I fall asleep I watch the little fellow, with its round eye glowing green in the darkness, a beacon of easy functionality.

Thanks for my iPod, which pretty much defined how I listen to music now. And for iTunes, which you made too easy not to understand. And for my iPad too, which despite all protestations is really nothing more than an Angry Birds machine. No, you can't work on it. So what? Work isn't everything.

And thanks for my new iPhone, which channels a million apps and does everything well except the phone part. A pompous Silicon Valley dude I know used to say, with a weary grin, "Every year is the year for mobile." Until you decided it was, Steve. And so I never have to generate a single unaided thought for the rest of my life. What a relief!

And oh, yeah. Thanks for Toy Story too. And Up. Really loved Up.

It's been your world, Steve. And we've been lucky enough to run along behind you, picking up goodies as you dropped them in our path. It's a little scary to think that one day you'll go off to your famous mountaintop and not return with the next big thing. But at least we can all say we lived in a time when there was a person with such an imagination, and offer thanks in whatever digital or analog format we choose, wherever on earth we may be. We can do that now.

This article is from the September 26, 2011 issue of Fortune.

Filed under: Stanley Bing

Attack of the killer chicken

2012-01-26T19:13:03Z

The business fundamentals are actually pretty healthy. So why is the sky falling?

Things were going until last week. Or maybe it was the week before. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters now. All that value destroyed. And it was so unnecessary. Revenues were up. People had a shaky belief that the economy was doing okay. The market was reaching for 12,000. Our stock was growing plump in the sun. But none of that could last, once the chicken came back to town.

It was a hot day, the kind of East Coast heat that makes your shirt stick to your skin if you pop out just a few moments for a plate of lo mein at lunchtime. That's when things started to turn, about noon, when I was on my break. I got back to the office, and Dolores had a message. "There's a chicken in the lobby waiting for you," she said.

"A chicken?" I inquired, my heart sinking.

"Yes," she said, presenting me with a business card. "Ronald Little," said the card, identifying its owner as an employee of Standard & Poor's. "Show him in," I said. My heart had shrunk like an ancient grape in the refrigerator of my soul. Chicken Little was back. And the scent of death attended him and his droppings, as it always does.

The obnoxious clucker didn't waste any time when he was ushered into my office. "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!" he shrieked. He sat down in my guest chair and drew a cigar from the depths of his feathers. "Europe is careening toward insolvency and housing starts are down and you've got a bunch of bomb-throwing anarchists in charge of the House who will pursue their revolutionary agenda no matter how destructive to the status quo it might be. How can you deny that it's falling?"

"I do deny it," I said. "The fundamentals of our business look pretty darn good right now. Domestic auto ad spending is up year to year, and that's true of a lot of sectors. Companies are slowly starting to hire again and reporting very healthy EPS growth. More than that, there's a feeling that if we stay the course, we just might be able to nurse this slow, delicate recovery into a sturdy, substantial tree from which we might all enjoy the fruit.

The chicken wasn't listening. It preened nervously. Then it looked up and fixed one beady eye on me. "I'm gonna have to downgrade the sky," it said. I couldn't believe my ears. In the entire history of this nation, no senior chicken, no matter how confused, paranoid, or selfish, had ever suggested such a downgrade.

"Do you know what that will do?" I said.

"Not much," said the chicken. "It shouldn't have too big an effect." And then it left.

That afternoon, as we all know, the sky went from bright blue AAA with a negative watch -- which was bad enough -- to something less. Not much. Just enough to turn Wall Street's mood from greed to the only alternative it knows: fear.

It doesn't take a lot to blot the sunshine out of the sky. Today the phones are 45% more dead than they were just a few weeks ago. No hiring is planned. Stocks are way down. When I go to meetings, there are lots of long, hurt faces. It took so long to get where we were. Now we have to start all over again.

What seems so unfair is that through all this, the fundamentals of what we do remain perfectly fine. Revenue continues to hold strong. Opportunities for new business abound. There are even venture capitalists around with stupid money to spend. And yet we languish. It's like we're all prisoners on some kind of death row, awaiting punishment for crimes committed by others

It's tempting to blame the chicken. But you can't, not really. He's just a chicken, doing his chicken thing, squawking and tweeting and running for his coop when there's a change in the forecast. No, I don't blame the chicken, even though I'd like to fricassee his hide.

I blame the idiots who woke him up.

Filed under: Stanley Bing

The business police blotter: Summer edition

2012-01-26T19:13:03Z

It's been a busy season for the brave men and women who keep a lid on funny business.

Police blotter, July 28 (Suspicious Circumstances)

Business police received report from angry resident that his neighbor, an investment banker, had been awarded a huge bonus from a company whose advice had cost the complainant tens of thousands of dollars. Officers were dispatched to the investment bank's location and discussed matter with executives there. Undisclosed number of cookies were shared. No action taken.

Police blotter, Aug. 1 (Potential Conflict of Interest)

Public relations person representing nuclear power industry seen touting the future of the technology on cable television, identified as "industry expert." Officers were dispatched to the scene. Had very pleasant chat with bombshell financial analyst. No action taken.

Police blotter, Aug. 7 (Violation of Public Decency)

Resident of federal penal institution called to say his cellblock mate, Bernard Madoff, was being fed truffles and champagne and entertaining reporters from New York media outlets in a "fine silk smoking jacket." Officers were dispatched to the scene and found nothing out of the ordinary. After collecting Mr. Madoff's autograph, departed without further incident.

Police blotter, Aug. 12 (Advice to Citizen)

Police were called by a citizen looking for the incremental value added to his 401(k) since 2007. Police were unable to find any.

Police blotter, Aug. 14 (Informational)

A corporate resident reported that suspicious individuals were pawing through the dumpster outside his office. When queried, people in question identified themselves as employees of McKinsey and proffered a large invoice for services rendered. Officers departed in haste.

Police blotter, Aug. 19 (Privacy Violation)

Police responded to a citizen who believed that his cellular telephone had been "hacked" by tabloid journalists. Police visited management of tabloid and were assured all was in order. No further action taken.

Police blotter, Aug. 29 (Randy Mogul)

Police were called to a meeting of the Socialist Party and found a senior officer allegedly chasing a young woman around a table. No action deemed necessary, since events took place in France.

Police blotter, Aug. 30 (Privacy Violation)

Police responded to another citizen who believed that his cellular telephone had been "hacked" by certain tabloid journalists. Police visited management of tabloid and were served beer. No further action taken.

Police blotter, Aug. 31 (Business As Usual)

A CEO of a corporation called to allege that he had been robbed of $1 billion by an Internet startup that he had acquired, only to find that it had no profit and little revenue. Complainant was slapped about the head for being a numbskull. No further action necessary.

Police blotter, Sept. 1 (Schadenfreude)

Police were summoned to their own offices. Once there, they discovered to their horror that all their phones had been hacked by enterprising members of the Fourth Estate, who were immediately placed under house arrest at Claridge's. Everybody above the rank of captain declared his innocence, and then resigned. Those who remained were the ones who neither merited a bribe nor had a girlfriend on the side.

Police blotter, Today

Business as usual goes on. No further actions are contemplated.

Filed under: Stanley Bing

Could you be a Weiner?

2012-01-26T19:13:03Z

Take our quiz to find out if you might be at risk of public humiliation.

As we wait for the next idiot in politics, business, or sports to, in a word, expose himself, let us pause to consider this increasingly familiar cultural rite. When our public figures put their smutty little sex lives inadvertently on display, we -- the collective mob -- exclaim, then chuckle, then explode with outrage. But who are we to point appendages? All of us who carry phones that are smarter than we are risk calamity. Could it not be we who are the next to fall? Even those of us who are not physiologically guided by that divining rod that has ruined so many? Yes, I mean women.

No? Not you? Answer the following questions, and we'll see:

1. Have you ever sent a personal e-mail to somebody that, if it were put on the front page of the newspaper, would put you in the Hall of Shame? Note to my friend Albert: Remember the little poems you wrote to Janie before you both got your divorces and married each other? I believe they are still in the database somewhere.

2. Have you ever sent a picture, cartoon, or joke to a list of fellow morons that would put you in the HR doghouse? Note to my friend Don: I do think that really is Blake Lively, but it's hard to tell. Photoshop can do amazing things.

3. Have you ever done something regrettable on a business trip? Note to Edgar: That time in Singapore? Just because stuff happens on another continent doesn't mean it doesn't count. And you expensed it, didn't you?

4. How about that evening after the merger was announced when everybody went out, had dinner at an elegant restaurant, and got so drunk they ended up turning over tables, trashing the place, and almost getting arrested? Note to self: Consider deleting this one.

5. Remember this, Bob? It was very late. You were between marriages, just named president. At about midnight, the presentation was done. There was nobody in the boardroom but you and Sheila, the vice president of marketing. You had both been drinking, and suddenly the boardroom table looked so very big and comfortable ... Note to Bob: Hey, man. How you doing? I hear you got married again.

6. And you, Judith. Remember the time you decided that the annual convention in Las Vegas was a good time to visit Norman, the VP of new business development, at 3 a.m., with two bottles of bubbly, in your bathrobe? "No thanks," he said. Note to Judith: Suppose he decided to take your picture with his phone that night. Huh?

7. How many strip clubs have you been to during your business career? Did you run a credit card in any of them?

8. Ever do anything you can't remember at an office party? How about anywhere?

9. Do you have any enemies that would love to see you squirm?

10. Are you nervous thinking about this stuff?

Okay. If you honestly answered no to each of these questions, then you are solid, my friend, and I salute you. If, on the other hand, one or more kick-started a chain of associations you'd rather not pursue, you'd better clean up your act. We live in a digital world where there is no privacy and there are no small mistakes. That goes for you too, you little wiener sitting in class at Wharton, Harvard, or Stanford. Sure, you're only 23 now, but that picture of yourself you just sent to that cheerleader will live forever, Sparky. And it just might get in your way when you're a liver-spotted geezer pumping for that lucrative board seat in 2065.

Filed under: Stanley Bing

Attack of the cloud people

2012-01-26T19:13:04Z

A cloud is a plume of vapor. Is that really where I want to keep my personal digital treasures?

It being a slow summer workday, I may have been asleep. But there they were, suddenly, three celestial beings hovering over my shoulder, each having descended from one of two rather imposing clouds.

"Go away," I said. "I'm archiving to my local storage solution." They all shook their heads with condescension.

"Behold the Microsoft (MSFT) cloud, how it grows," said the first apparition, a tall, massive, bald gentleman with a friendly demeanor and sharp incisors. "Unlike your hard drive, it has unlimited capacity and neither does it spin. And yet for all that I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his royalty was not arrayed like unto it."

"But I don't want to store my stuff in any cloud," I said. "It makes me nervous."

"We understand," said the other two who, in spite of their shimmering auras, seemed like a pair of nerds. "That's why we've designed our cloud to be more Googlicious," said the one who sounded a bit like Kermit the Frog. "You are not tied to an uninterruptible power source," muttered the other, who reminded me very slightly of Vladimir Putin.

I'll admit, I was dubious. I regarded the two clouds that reared up behind each of the entities. One was sequestered behind a large, golden fencing system, beneath a glowing sign that read WELCOME TO THE BILL (FORMERLY PEARLY) GATES. ABANDON YOUR DATA, YE WHO ENTER HERE. The other cloud was smaller and cuter, and seemed to be open in all directions. I could see packs of happy hipsters at play in its comfy, capacious folds.

But when you get right down to it, a cloud is a cloud. They appear puffy and nice and friendly, and you can see bunnies and angels in them if you look hard enough. But those same clouds can turn black in a heartbeat and rain all over your parade. And then? They disappear!

I fondled my six-terabyte remote hard drive, which even then was storing every tidbit of digital humanity I have generated during the past 20 years. It sports an internal mirroring system that protects against the failure of any one disk. Sometimes I sleep with it next to my head.

"Look," I said. "How do I know I can trust either of your clouds with my 400-page novel, my spreadsheets, and my vacation photographs from Branson, Missouri?"

"Disbeliever!" yelled the tall, bulky dude. "Our cloud is as redundant as you're going to be in a couple of years!"

"Yes," I said meekly. "But isn't it your founder who is constantly giving presentations that crash to audiences of conventioneers?"

"Hey," he replied, "that was two operating systems ago."

"And you guys," I continued, turning to the odd couple. "You've done a great job defining the search marketplace. But what if your cloud turns out to be as porous and insufficiently thought out as Google TV?"

"We're not used to being questioned," said the first. "I don't think we like it very much," said the second.

"We're going to get you in the end," said the first. "Your noncorporate e-mail is up in the cloud already, and so is a lot of your financial information, because we've got your bank up there with us. Not to mention the funny pictures you send to your kids, and your Facebook page, which, by the way, is really sort of sad. You have only 16 friends!"

I realized these guys knew just about everything about me. I didn't like that. I pulled out a notepad and wrote: "Note to self. Investigate noncloud alternatives."

"What's that?" said Microsoft.

"Dude?" said Google (GOOG).

"It's a pen and paper," I said. "Powerful technology, don't you think?" With that, the three apparitions evaporated into the ether, shrieking.

I'm not kidding myself, though. They'll be back. They know where I live.

Filed under: Stanley Bing

Put me on the bench, coach!

2012-01-26T19:13:04Z

Just when I was getting ready to enjoy my retirement, a goon with a clipboard showed up.

I was about two full days into my dream retirement when Hobbes showed up. It was, like, 7:15 in the morning, and I was just rolling over for my second tranche of shuteye when the doorbell rang and there was some pounding with the knocker and so I got up to see who the hell it might be and there he was on the doorstep with his whistle and clipboard and crisp white T-shirt.

"Up and at 'em, Bucko!" he barked. "Time's a-wastin'!"

"And who might you be, friend?" I replied, a bit put out. A guy doesn't finally get to the point where he can take things easy and enjoy his golden years only to be levered out of his shuteye by some goon with an active agenda. I had half a mind to tell him to shove off. But then there was the other half that was just a little bored already. It was a bright Wednesday morning, and until recently by this time I would have been showered and shaved, with half a grapefruit in my face.

"I'm Hobbes, your retirement coach," he said, "provided as an outplacement service by your Human Resources department as a part of your executive dislocation package."

"Do tell," I said.

"Now drop down and give me 50!" he yelled, blowing his whistle and startling Eddy, my cocker spaniel, who yelped and ran headfirst into a wall. "You can't enjoy your golden years if you're flabby and out of shape!"

There was something strange about all this. Look, I've always been a little flabby and out of shape. Why should that change now? On the other hand, I didn't want to be a slacker for the first time in my career, even if that career was now over. So I dropped down and gave him four.

"Now hop into your business casual wear!" Hobbes ordered. "We're going to go down to the senior center and socialize!" This flummoxed me. The idea of segregating people by age offends me. And I generally don't like old people, except when they're my friends. "Why in the world would I do that?" I inquired, making no move to comply. "I was just going to hunker down here in my Pendleton and work on my Facebook page."

"That's what happens to you guys!" Hobbes screamed, the veins in his 19-inch neck bulging like tiny ink bladders. "You lose touch with the world, you stop shaving and dressing for success, you get cut off, you get depressed, and your golden years turn to an arid tundra of loneliness and despair!"

"Hobbes," I said, "my job was for the most part an endless stream of meaningless, structured encounters with people I didn't want to see, didn't care about, and would probably never meet again. Why would I want to initiate a similar situation now?"

"After that we're going down to the Museum of Fine Arts," he growled, nudging me with a small truncheon he had produced from the pocket of his sweats. "You volunteer there as a docent, to give your life meaning and structure your time a little bit. After that, we'll have a healthy salad for lunch. Then it's time for your nap and an hour of computer play. Then you can take your walk and prepare for your evening activity."

"And what, may I ask, is that?"

"There's a hootenanny and hayride down at the community center," he said with some enthusiasm, adding, "followed by an evening seminar on how to invest your nest egg safely. It's a full day. You'll be all tuckered out by the time you can enjoy your glass of sherry and trundle off to bed."

"Hobbes," I said, drawing my bathrobe tighter and rising to my full, if somewhat diminished, height, "you're fired."

"Thank God," said Hobbes. "I'm tired. You have no idea what us retired HR people are forced to do to make ends meet."

Filed under: Stanley Bing

The Little Company That Fell Off the List: A Bingsop Fable

2012-01-26T19:13:04Z

When big meets little: A morality tale on corporate envy.

Once upon a time there was a little corporation that, due to circumstances mostly beyond its control, had fallen off the Fortune 500 list. Its revenue was a bit flat. Cost cutting during lean years had left the little corporation less able to compete in a robust operating environment. While it had for some years proudly claimed its status as one of the 500 premier corporations, now it could no longer do so.

Saddened by this twist of fate, the little corporation took itself down to a local watering hole in the middle of a weekday and claimed its customary seat at the bar. "Hey, Lefty," it said to the bartender, a grizzled fellow who used to be an in-house controller before his job was shipped off to a consultancy in Cincinnati. "Set me up. And keep 'em comin'." And there the little corporation sat, mulling the unfairness of Business and dreaming in a pre-strategic way of how it might return to a position of prominence.

After some time, another corporate entity slipped into the establishment and took its place at the bar. "Hey, Lefty," it said to the former financial executive, who was wiping the wooden expanse with a limp 401(k), "set me up. And keep 'em comin'."

The new patron was as different from our little corporation as Buffett is from Madoff. It was big, ample in its midsection, well nourished with executive compensation. Broad in the shoulder, wearing a bespoke suit, it had beady eyes beneath its tall hat. "I'll have another," it said to the bartender, motioning with a fist the size of an executive exit package. "And one for my little friend here."

"Thank you," said the little corporation, moving down to take the stool next to its new companion. "May I ask you what brings you to this sodden place in the middle of a workday?" The large and well-appointed corporation stared into the depths of its dark-brown drink. "My friend," it said at last, munching on the rind of a lemon, "you are looking at the corporation that was just named No. 1 on the Fortune 500." The little corporation expressed appropriate envy and congratulatory zeal. "Ah, well, you might think so!" said the big corporation. "But consider. My revenue is high this year, but only in comparison with others' that have been depressed, as yours has, by conditions that may change. Worse, my growth curve cannot be sustained without extraordinary and pyrrhic operating efficiencies and possibly even some dramatic M&A activity. You know what Wall Street thinks about that. Right now, every analyst on the Street is looking at me, hard. They think I'm as good as I can be right now and have only one direction to go -- down. Lefty! Another round for us both!"

The little corporation sat and thought, and began to feel a bit better. "I was dejected about my status," it said to itself. "But I've got nothing but upside compared with my established friend here. My best days are ahead. I can grow without a lot of fuss and muss. My '09 options are already in the black!"

And so they pondered together for a bit, the one increasingly cheerful with its snoutful of grog, the other sinking into the murk. "Hey, wait a minute!" said the big corporation after yet another bottoms-up. It had turned and was eyeing the little corporation with acute interest. "You're a good-looking fellow. You're fit. You're friendly. You're fun to be with. You're on the come. I could acquire you and solve a lot of my problems right here!"

"Well!" said the little corporation. "Just look at the time!" And it got out of that bar as fast as its lean little legs could carry it.

Moral: The big and powerful have the same problems we all do -- only theirs make them more dangerous.

Stanley Bing's new book, Bingsop's Fables: Little Morals for Big Business, is available at any bookstore that still exists and, of course, on a variety of digital platforms.

Filed under: Stanley Bing

Toyota, I Love You. Goodbye

2012-01-26T19:13:05Z

Buying a car from you was a thrill. But I'm just not ready for the kind of relationship you seem to have in mind.

Dearest,

I write this with a heavy heart, but in the knowledge that it must be done. It's become clear over the last months that I am simply more important to you than you are to me. This must end before one or both of us gets hurt. No, don't cry! It's for the best. Once free of this -- I must call it what it is! -- this obsession you have with me, you will grieve, to be sure, but then you will be free to love others.

I understand the way you feel. The intense moments of pleasure that we both experienced when I purchased my new RAV4 in March were feelings that I will remember for the rest of my life. I remember walking into that showroom and seeing the vehicle that was the object of my quest. So shiny! And the options -- incomparable. I recall the lovely smooth glide of her moon roof as it slid back to reveal the crisp sky of early spring, and the way her six cylinders moved me from 0 to 60 in just a hair over six seconds. Nothing can take that first test drive away from us.

And don't think I will ever forget the ease with which you got my paperwork finished and whisked me out the door. Buying a car is a pretty big deal. You made it look easy. Showed me everything I needed to know. Set up my schedule of maintenance visits. You made me feel like a king, dear. You made all others who came before seem cheap, tawdry, and shallow. So thanks. I mean that from the bottom of my crankshaft.

But after that things started to go wrong. Maybe we just have a different idea of what a relationship like ours should be. To me, the two of us had a beautiful, intense transaction that was good for us both. For you, it's obvious, what we did together was meant to be the beginning of something deep and profound that had to be renewed again and again. I have a life, dear. I travel a lot. I just don't have time for the kind of intense connection that it's clear you have in mind.

I have on my desk as I write this a stack of e-mail printouts half an inch high, and that's from less than six weeks! It's too much! My in-box is clogged with your importunings, offerings, and requests for validation. Stop! I beg you!

They began reasonably enough. Your General Manager congratulated me on my purchase. I was happy to hear from her, though her tone was a little ominous. "Our interest in your satisfaction is just the beginning," she wrote. "We look forward to a continuing relationship, and it is our sincere desire that you remain completely satisfied." This made me a tiny bit uneasy. Who can offer complete satisfaction to another in this life?

Next came the personal e-mail from Ned, my sales-person. "Since you've placed your confidence with us," he wrote, "everyone here at Toyota realizes that your satisfaction is the key to our future." Really? I don't want that kind of responsibility!

Then came the offers of toys, keepsakes, and inducements for me to return, to see you, to keep up the pace and tenor of our former association. I was informed that I had been registered to use your online service scheduling solution. You even issued me a user name and a password so secret it had to be hidden in a "safe place" lest someone purloin it. What was next? There was a safe-driving program for teens and parents. Several more notes of thanks. And then began the steady drip, drip, drip of requests for feedback on my experience with you. I did the first you asked for. Then there were more. When I failed to answer the second, then the third and fourth such request, couldn't you take a hint? It's not my role in life to deal with your insecurities, my love. I know you had a bad 2010. I can't solve that single-handedly. So thanks for the offer of 15% off on parts and accessories. But let it end, here and now.

It's over. Perhaps we'll see each other down the road, in about 60,000 miles. I'll be there if you will, my love. Until then, sayonara!

Filed under: Stanley Bing

A coming attraction for my new book -- Bingsop's Fables!

2012-01-26T19:13:05Z

My new book is out in a couple of days. It's called Bingsop's Fables, and it chronicles the work of Aesop's younger brother, a fellow storyteller who worked in a long-dead corporate culture. His "little morals for big business" still speak to the confused, wretched and terminally employed in all of us.

The book is most splendidly illustrated by New Yorker artist Steve Brodner, who brings the CEOs, HR managers and grouchy public relations people to life as the lions, steeds, weasels and toads they are.

Here's a little taste of Bingsop's Fables. The voice is mine. The gifted pen is that of Steve Brodner.

Filed under: Stanley Bing

My new home

2012-01-26T19:13:05Z

Greetings everybody.

This week I'm rolling out my new website, which, unsurprisingly, may be found at stanleybing.com. I've missed talking to you every day (well, almost every day) and look forward to continuing my dialogue with you over at Bing's new second home.

This week on stanleybing.com, I'm all in a swivet about the Royal Wedding. My invitation seems to have been lost in the mail, but I'm not going to let that stop me. There are all kinds or preparations for me to make and lots and lots of key decisions! What hat should I wear? Should I bring a little something for the bride and groom to the ceremony, or send it along later? Should I select the meat or the fish at the reception? The excitement is building, as you all know, about this unique merger, and The Bing Blog isn't going to be left behind!

Now, I hasten to add that I will also still be here, posting my Fortune column every couple of weeks and commenting back atcha about those, I hope -- but for my daily (or semi-daily) mutterings, shouts and exhortations, please do go to the new site and start yelling at each other over there as well. It's got books and toys and games and you could win a free pony. That's stanleybing.com. Be there AND be square, just like always.

Thanks!
Stanley (The Real) Bing

Filed under: Stanley Bing