My company held a birthday party for itself last Friday. For about an hour we were released from our toils to eat some very tasty barbecued meats, exchange awkward banter with our coworkers, and listen to our president congratulate us for not landing the outfit in bankruptcy court over the last year. His speech was pretty boring, but I kept my face pointed in his direction and nodded occasionally so as to avoid the fate of Smitty, a guy I worked with at a collection agency in San Francisco.

The collection agency was owned by The Boss, a small man who wore sharp suits and looked like he should be doing cartoon voice work as a hyena in a straight-to-video sequel of The Lion King. The Boss liked to drag us all into meetings and motivate us. "You gotta get fired up!" he would say, smacking his fist into his palm. "You gotta be fired up when you're on the phone! You gotta fire yourself up, and fire up everyone else on your team!"

One time, during one of these harangues, Smitty got so fired up that he yawned audibly. The Boss stopped and stared at Smitty like he was a fresh zebra carcass. "Excuse me?" he said.

"Huh?" said Smitty.

"Do you need to get more sleep?" asked The Boss, his face reddening.

"Uh... no," said Smitty, nervous now. He had a wife and a kid and probably did need more sleep.

"Well, it sounds to me like you need some more fucking sleep!" The Boss snapped, and went back to motivating us. When he was finished, he took Smitty into his office and fired him.

So I didn't yawn during the president's birthday speech. When he was finished, he told us we could pick up our presents. My company gives its employees presents on its birthday. Two years ago, we got digital watch/compass combos emblazoned with the company name. Last year, we got bright blue duffel bags emblazoned with the company name. This year, we got barbecue tool sets emblazoned with the company name.

The barbecue tool sets are quite cunning. They fold up into a neat rectangular case, so we all looked like extras from The Color of Money. The tools are impressive, shiny stainless steel with black accents. Their size indicates that my company thinks its employees like to grill ostriches in their spare time. The spatula measures 17½ inches long and has weird ridges and spines on its edges. What am I supposed to do with this -- play tennis? Torture an Iraqi?

I also got a barbecue fork that looks like one of Poseidon's more ostentatious tridents, a pair of tongs that I now keep in the trunk of my car in case I get into a car accident and need the Jaws of Life, and a basting brush that will come in handy if I ever need baste something in the kitchen without getting out of the shower. (Click on the links to see photos of the tools next to normal-sized implements I already own.)

The set also came with eight small objects I couldn't identify. "They're corn thingies," the accounts payable girl explained. "You stick them in the ends of corn cobs and turn them while you eat."

I grew up in Iowa and I've eaten plenty of sweet corn, so I should know corn thingies when I see them. But what's the point of using them? If the corn is too hot to pick up with your fingers, it's too hot to put in your mouth. And half the fun of eating corn on the cob is drenching each ear in butter and salt, devouring it, and licking the greasy, salty mess off your fingers. If you just scrubbed down to perform a kidney transplant and you want to eat some corn before entering the operating room, then go ahead and use the corn thingies. Otherwise, skip 'em.

I don't own a barbecue grill. I guess I'll toss this on the slag heap of small failures that compose my life. We own barbecue grills 'round here, my company's gift announces. We own big barbecue grills that call for big barbecue tools. This implies that we own homes with yards and patios and stained-wood decks, or that we at least rent apartments with balconies. On weekends, we have friends and neighbors over and grill hamburgers and cheese brats and T-bone steaks. We play croquet and avoid coveting one another's wives. We drink beers as the warm afternoon drifts into cool evening, and we talk about our John Deere lawn tractors and the Broncos' chances this year.

I put the barbecue tool set in the closet. It's too nice to throw away. Besides, maybe I'll own a barbecue grill someday.

+posted by Lawrence @ 8/30/2004 10:38:00 PM