One of my favourite shows while growing up was the X-Files. For a kid in the 90’s, this show was cutting edge stuff. Monsters, mysteries, alien conspiracies… and there was this smoking hot ginger chick who, as proven by a very recent Google check, is still very hot.
Since I think this deserves a quick segue, I’ll just come out and say it. Gillian Anderson looks much better as a 40-something than a 20-something. Is this true of all ginger chicks? I can’t tell. I’ve only ever met like a handful of ginger women in my life, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a leprechaun trying to know more about human society. Also, Gillian Anderson is sorta blonde now. Strawberry blonde? Regardless, I had such a massive boy-crush on her that people from lower batches would be giving me X-Files merchandise.
Remember, this was in high school. In the 90’s. In the 3rd world. To this day, I’m still not sure if they were surreptitiously mocking me or honestly trying to make my day.
Now, back to the topic at hand “Trust no one”. This was one of the best title cards that the X-Files would show at the start of each episode. Apparently, it applies to both secret international organizations, as well as people that you’ve known over 25 years.
As few of you know (or, as I don’t really advertise this blog, and not a single one of my friends or family know about it’s existence – nobody knows), I’ve been the unwitting and unwilling victim of a string of failed business endeavors. Each and every single one of them had one thing in common: I was working with a friend.
Seeing as each situation was a different sort of learning experience, I suppose each of these failed businesses necessitates that I write a separate blog entry. But again, the overarching theme was that I was working with someone I’d known for quite some time.
The 1st project was with a British dude. I’d only known him for about 2 years at that point, but we’d struck up what I thought was some pretty good rapport. We decided to start a online food delivery business. In the end, his way of doing things didn’t really jibe with the way I wanted to do things. Mostly because he didn’t really want to do anything. Well, nothing physical anyway. It was a online food delivery business, and I was tasked with doing the food delivery part of it: purchasing, cooking, packing, delivery, as well as marketing and sales.
To be fair, he did put in some effort – he did the online part. He built a website from scratch… which took 3 months… which we could have done in half an hour if we had just gone with off the shelf tools… probably cheaper too! But no, he wanted to do things his way. He couldn’t cook, said that he’d be a liability with purchasing, and didn’t have time to do packaging. He also refused to help with delivery – because he’s white, and since this is the Philippines, “It would be weird to see a white person do delivery”. WTF, right?
Anyway, he has cancer. Or had.
The 2nd project was with a guy that was a pretty good friend since before I even started sprouting hair out of my armpits. We played together on a couple of basketball teams; I was a groomsman at his wedding; his son is my godchild. Was my godchild? I’m not sure yet. Where does the responsibility end? I mean, it’s not like I can go all Azkaban and shit. Maybe I should try to morph into a rat.
The project was also in food. We started a crepe shop, that also sold coffee. We bought a really nice espresso machine, one of those fancy two-gang models. Made in Italy. It made brilliant shots. I was happy with it but I didn’t know just exactly how much money we made from coffee because the partner had the business skills of a retarded 3-year old orangutan (which are also ginger… but look nothing like Gillian Anderson). The guy took charge of everything, and things seemed impressive at the start. He was able to get the shop done from design to construction in under 5 weeks. He also somehow 3 employees, seemingly pulling them out from thin air. It was nothing short of a miracle.
If only the project management skills also translated to the rest of operations. When I said everything, I really did mean everything. The guy had zero excel skills – it’s ok, he still “took care” of finances. He had no real grasp of stock management – it’s ok he still “managed” stock and inventory. “Marketing”, in his definition, was “reach” – whatever the actual definition of “reach”, it was between him and the Fuckford Dictionary.
There were 4 of us in that business, all of us knew each other for at least 20 years. Now, 2 of those partners (me and another dude) no longer talk to the guy.
The other dude has unfriended him on Facebook.
Oh, and I think I might have failed to mention that we spent close to 1,000USD on government registrations that never actually went through. Yes, we were operating for a year without any licenses. WTF, right?
The 3rd project was a roofdeck restaurant, done in conjunction with an African American woman that I’d known for about 3 years at that point. She’d regularly eat at my place, I’d make food for her and her friends, she’d take my nephew out to the movies. Hell, at one point I even lent her 200,000PhP with no collateral.
Now, this was the most painful of these 3, if only because this last one brought me the most joy and satisfaction. At the very least, I think, I can now honestly say that I need to be in some sort of position where I can directly interact with customers, and have some sort of physical marker of their satisfaction. People genuinely smile when they pay. They come up to you and say “thank you” and that they had a really good meal. There was at least one guy who literally licked his plate just to get the last few drops of jus.
I can also honestly say that when it comes to my food and drinks at least, I don’t know what dissatisfaction looks like. On other people anyway. The look of dissatisfaction on my face has been all too familiar this last month. This is because, well that African American woman? She’s a fucking cunt. I’d otherwise say a few, choice racial epithets, but the additions probably wouldn’t have enough hate and contempt to appropriately describe that lying, cheating, tax-evading, cock socket piece of shit.
Also, it would be racist. So, let it be enough to say it again: she’s a fucking cunt.
My problem with her isn’t race at all. It’s the fact that she’s a selfish cunt who lies left, right, and center. What exactly went wrong? Well, for one thing she gave me a lease contract which turned out to be fake. Another thing is she broke that lease contract, right off the bat. Even before I found out that it was fake. Lastly, she flat out contradicted the statements made by the actual landlord, even after she was shown her own lease – which was itself already lapsed.
Would it be bad to say that I’d find real joy and satisfaction in leading a small mob to tar and feather her? Because I would, I really would. She even had the nerve the tell the actual landlord that he (the landlord) was the one who was lying. WTF, right?
So yeah, those are the 3 business ventures that collapsed, one after the other. Each one of them having fallen victim to other people’s incapacity to participate, manage, or be truthful. Yeah… trust no one.
But then, all of these 3 ventures also have something else in common: me. But that’s another blog post.