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Being Greek Saved My Career

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After an alcohol-fueled misadventure that saw a leisurely afternoon round of golf with boss morph into a drunken locker room pass out, I awoke to find myself alone in the darkness of not just the abandoned country club, but the hopelessness of my once promising career. After reading his “what the fuck?” text from hours earlier, and the litany of worried family members asking where I was, I resigned myself to a fact I’ve resisted accepting for over two decades of my life: I am a fucking idiot. Or at least I can be.

Still drunk enough that I was death-gripping the wheel the entire way home, my hopes of summer homes and lifelong financial security flashed before my eyes as I replayed the befuddling decisions I’d made that afternoon. It was a big moment for me, the new guy out at the country club. I was used to laboring away in a single-windowed office, and suddenly, I found myself spending an afternoon on the links with a boss who was making close to 7 figures. And of course, after a phenomenal start, I went the way of Steph Curry and fucked it all up in the end.

Home without incident, I decided it best to avoid responding to my boss’s inquiry, contemplating self injury as an excuse for my absence, or pulling a George Costanza and simply arriving tomorrow as if nothing had happened at all. Naturally, under this level of stress and left to my own devices, I only intensified my drinking and gambling, taking momentary solace in the home run hitting ability of San Francisco Giants starting pitchers, and the illusion of monetary hope that overtakes all gamblers after a major win. Maybe I don’t need this job, anyway. I mean, I’ve got this temporary TFM gig and Bovada, right?

As you can see, things had gotten pretty fucking pathetic in a hurry.

As I continued my various vices and indulgences, nothing could get me to sleep, drowning in anxiety over what would undoubtedly be a fateful Friday. Next thing I knew, the sun mercifully began to rise, with my judgment day nearing on the horizon in both a literal and figurative sense. Assuming this may be my Lennie-put-me-out-of-my-misery-moment, I contemplated how the fuck I would explain my conduct to my sober living parents. This would be the Hindenburg of my existence, I thought.

I got ready in my usual fashion, skipped breakfast as my stomach had tied itself in knots (putting my sailing prowess to shame), and stared at my desk throughout the morning in a level of productivity that nearly had me petitioning Obama for a well deserved welfare check. Then it happened.

“Mr. Boss (I’m keeping his name anonymous, of course) would like to see you in his office when you have a moment,” the email read. I’m about to shit myself when I muster the strength in my trembling legs to go and take my verbal berating like a man. Can’t possibly be worse than hazing, I told myself.

As I walked through the office, I was convinced everyone was staring at me as if I was walking the plank into a pool of sharks. Don’t mind me, I thought, just a dead man walking into his own execution. I approached his secretary.

“Go right in, Siblings, he’s off the phone.”

I opened the door gingerly hoping some sort of natural disaster or accident had left him concussed and unable to remember the events of the day before. He nodded at me, motioning to one of the chairs in front of his desk. I sit down.

“So, yesterday was… well, why don’t you tell me about yesterday, Siblings,” he’s almost smirking which amazes me in his level of heartlessness.

“What specifically were you interested in hearing about, sir?” Even in times of peril, I am a fucking jackass.

“Oh, I don’t know Siblings, perhaps when you vanished mid-drink and missed the back nine?”

Apparently, he remembered. I’m rarely speechless, as you can see from these endless columns, but now I’m stammering without any reasonable cognitive thought.

“Really I just wanted to apologize, and, well, it’s just that. Ok, if we’re being honest…”

This is a fucking nightmare.

“I’m just more embarrassed than anything, I guess it’s sort of a funny story but in reality –”

He turns his phone towards me, smiling, then motions for me to come in closer. I finally shut the fuck up and approach his desk. The horror on the screen in front of me is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed. This makes two girls one cup look like a Disney feature.

Mark, the locker room attendant, he’s my “special” nephew.

“Kid’s had a hard time in school but can take a hell of a photo, don’t you think?”

There I was, completely incapacitated and unconscious on the locker room bench, drooling on myself like a fucking mongoloid. I’m actually holding back tears when he starts laughing hysterically.

“You should see the look on your face, kid. Relax.” He motions for me to sit down.

“So you can’t keep up with us old guys on the bottle, who cares? Just be honest next time you’ve had too much.”

Relief washes over me, somewhat relieving the burning humiliation.

“Thank you, I’m extremely sorry and embarrassed.” He’s laughing again.

“You went to [university redacted], so did I,” he says.

“Yes, I had read that sir.”

“Were you in a fraternity?” He asks.

“Yes, I was in [fraternity redacted].”

He reveals he was Greek too, but in our rival fraternity.

“You guys are a bunch of assholes, I would’ve woken you up if you weren’t in fucking [fraternity redacted].”

Image via Shutterstock

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Siblings of Mark Wahlberg

Sorry Mom & Dad. Follow me to prevent my suicide: @SiblingsOfTFM

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