Let's be frank, shall we? If you've picked up this literary endeavor expecting a tale of grit, determination, and the relentless pursuit of excellence, you've clearly misread the . I assure you, there will be no inspirational anecdotes about pulling oneself up by the bootstraps. Bootstraps, my dear reader, are for the peasantry. We, on the other hand, are more accustomed to having our shoes shined by someone else while we contemplate the finer points of a single malt scotch.
I am Reginald Bartholomew Finch III, and my journey to the upper echelons of the corporate world has been, shall we say, unconventional. Some might even call it accidental. But then again, isn’t most of life a series of fortunate accidents, skillfully disguised as strategic brilliance? I prefer to think so.
My ascent, if one can even dignify it with such a term, began, as many things do, with a monumental blunder. It was during a particularly tedious board meeting at Sterling-Prescott, the venerable (and might I add, increasingly obsolete) financial institution where I currently hold the rather nebulous of "Senior Vice President of Strategic Initiatives." The agenda, as always, was mind-numbingly dull: projections, KPIs, synergy, blah, blah, blah. My mind, quite frankly, was elsewhere. Specifically, it was envisioning the eighteenth hole at the Cypress Point Club and the rather impressive birdie I intended to sink later that week.