Many of us are north of 50 and have had enough time to determine. Who are the Oscars and who are the Felixes in your family? You might recall the hilarious series “The Odd Couple” , 2 divorced guys living together with Felix being the perfectionist and Oscar the slob and the non stop adventures with this type of relationship.
Here is an overview of the respective personalities:
Hotel
Felix
Checks in for one night.
Hangs up every shirt.
Folds socks and underwear into perfect little squares.
Makes the bed before leaving for breakfast.
Oscar
Staying one month.
Half the clothes are still in the suitcase.
The other half are decorating the floor.
Can’t find his toothbrush by Day Two.
Car
Felix
Washes it every Saturday.
Gas tank never below half.
Replaces floor mats and changes oil monthly.
Registration and proof of insurance documents – Laminated in a zippered pouch
Oscar
Running on fumes.
Three coffee cups of stains on the seats
#10 tattered envelope has 4 past years of registrations with the latest expired
Petrified McDonalds fries – 2019 under the seat
Refrigerator
Felix
Labels leftovers with description, date and time.
Everything organized by expiration date, carbs and calories
Ice maker produces perfectly square, clear ice
Oscar
Opens the refrigerator, sniffs, “ Still smells okay.”
Jar of jam with a thank you note from Jesus to the 3 wiseman
Fruit drawer is a penicillin factory
Ice maker is a glacier
Remote Control
Felix
Always puts it back.
Oscar
Where’s Waldo?
My wife is pure Felix and I am a pure card carrying Oscar.
She makes sure there are 2 softener sheets in the dryer,
I contribute a couple sharpies quarterly
The kitchen and dishes sparkle,
My empty, unwashed smoothie cup will need a sandblaster
Her clothes are perfectly separated and folded in a drawer
Mine looks like waste management trash day
Now it’s your turn.
Which one are you?
Better yet…
Who is the biggest Oscar or Felix in your family? An example?
After 50+ years in corporate America, small business, real estate, consulting and business brokerage, I’ve learned one thing:
Companies can survive almost anything—including their own management.
I’ve seen backstabbing politics, corporate theater, ridiculous “best practices” and management decisions that make you wonder how anybody stays in business.
So I’m starting a new CrazyFamily series:
Business Insanity — You Can’t Make This Stuff Up.
And where better to begin than one of corporate America’s greatest inventions:
The Meeting
Meetings may be the most expensive, least productive activity in business.
They never appear on the profit-and-loss statement, but think about it: put 15 well-paid people in a conference room for two hours and you’ve just spent a small fortune accomplishing something that probably could have been handled in a three-paragraph email.
Dave Barry once joked that if you had to identify the reason humanity will never achieve its full potential in one word, that word would be:
Meetings.
There Is No Random Seating
Watch people enter a conference room.
The boss takes the head of the table.
The loyal lieutenants take the seats closest to the boss, carefully positioned according to seniority and established brownie points.
These are sacred seats.
It’s easier to get Packers season tickets than to take a brown-noser’s chair at a staff meeting.
At the far end sit The Rebels.
They’re the ones asking:
“Why are we doing this?”
“This isn’t going to work.”
“Why don’t we hire more people?”
And somewhere in the middle are the new employees who haven’t yet figured out that they accidentally sat in someone’s chair.
They’ll only make that mistake once.
Let the Meeting Begin
Nobody arrives on time.
Therefore, the meeting doesn’t start on time.
There may or may not be an agenda.
Finally, the leader arrives 12 minutes late.
“Sorry. Important call.”
Of course.
Then comes the introduction of the new employee.
“Let’s go around the room. Everyone introduce yourself, tell us a little about your background and what you do here.”
And we’re off.
Meet Ralph
“Hi, I’m Ralph. I’ve been married to Jennifer for seven years. We have two kids, Ralphy, six, and Rachel, three. I’ve been with Acme for five years in customer service.
This is a great place to work.”
Translation:
I hate my job. My boss drives me nuts. I’ve been turned down for promotion four times. Rachel was an uh-oh. Money’s tight. My marriage is strained. I’ve used up my free employee counseling and I’m now watching therapy videos on YouTube.
“Thanks, Ralph.”
Next.
And Now, an Important Corporate Update
Sales are down.
Profits are down.
Therefore, everyone needs to tighten their belts.
Fortunately, management has developed a comprehensive recovery plan.
The thermostat can no longer go below 75° in the summer or above 65° in the winter.
If you’re uncomfortable, adjust your wardrobe.
But remember the dress code.
The Christmas party has also been streamlined.
Spouses can still attend—for $40 in advance or $48 at the door.
And we’ve made some exciting menu improvements:
Goodbye beef tenderloin and lobster.
Hello flank steak and tuna casserole.
Unfortunately, there will be no Christmas bonuses this year.
But don’t worry.
Every employee will receive an eight-pound margarine-ball turkey from Walmart.
Management Is Sacrificing Too
Employees may no longer park in the first two rows.
Those spaces are now reserved for management.
So while walking six blocks from the employee parking lot, please take a moment to admire the beautiful new stainless-steel enclosure protecting the CEO’s brand-new Mercedes convertible.
It arrives today.
“Any questions?”
Silence.
Nobody has questions.
Everybody just wants to go back to work.
But We’re Not Done Yet
The boss looks toward HR.
“I’ll now turn the meeting over to Human Resources for our mandatory quarterly Sexual Harassment PowerPoint presentation.”
Suddenly…
The projector doesn’t work.
A desperate call goes out for Hector, the AV guy.
But Hector is at the dentist for the rest of the afternoon.
The presentation has to be postponed.
For the first time all day, morale improves dramatically.
There is a God.
That evening, the guys take Hector out for a beer.
The Lesson
After more than 50 years in business, I’ve attended thousands of meetings.
I’ve forgotten most of what was discussed.
But I have learned one valuable management principle:
Sometimes the most productive person in the company is the guy who didn’t fix the projector.
With over 500 years of combined Catholic education, our family became familiar with hundreds of saints. But by far, St. Christopher — the patron saint of travelers — was our favorite.
His medal was firmly clipped to the visor in our 1963 Volkswagen bus, guarding our chaos-filled family road trips. We survived countless outings with no seat belts, no baby seats, and dashboard knobs that looked like medieval weapons.
Infants laid across seats, kids leaned out windows pumping their arms at semis, hoping for a honk. Our only real “safety system”? A parent’s right arm flinging across the front passenger seat during a sudden stop.
🚐 Divine Road Trips and VW Chaos
We thank St. Christopher for helping us make it to A&W Root Beer every Friday night. Dad would pile us in, along with a few neighbor kids, and off we’d go — standing on the seat, heads poking out of the fold-back canvas top, giggling like maniacs.
One sharp turn? One quick stop? Let’s just say, if Dad made those same trips today, he’d be facing 10 to 20 years… with no chance of parole.
🙏 Who Was St. Christopher?
If you’re not familiar with the man, Christopher was a tall, strong, good-hearted giant who famously carried travelers (including, allegedly, baby Jesus) across raging rivers.
For nearly 2,000 years, he was the go-to saint for anyone hitting the road, the sea, or the sky. Pilgrims, sailors, truckers, and your Aunt Marge heading to Atlantic City — all prayed to St. Chris.
But then came 1969.
🧾 The Holy HR Department Breaks the News
That’s when the Heavenly HR Department dropped a bombshell: St. Christopher was let go.
🗂️ The Exit Interview
The meeting was brief — just Jesus, St. Peter (VP of Operations), and Christopher.
Jesus: “Chris, buddy. You’ve done great work. Really. For 20 centuries you’ve had an impeccable record. Zero accidents during donkey rides in the Judean hills? Impressive.”
St. Peter: “But… with seat belts, airbags, and GPS, your division is, well… obsolete.”
Jesus: “Thanks for your loyal service, but we’re downsizing. No more feast days. No more dashboard gigs. And we need your desk cleared by Pentecost.”
Christopher: “Wait, what?! You’re firing me?”
Jesus: “Not firing. Just… reassigning you to Limbo. Think of it as a peaceful cul-de-sac in the afterlife. Great schools, low taxes.”
St. Peter: “And we’ll continue your pension — two oxen and a goat per month. But you’ll need to sign this NDA. We can’t have the other saints knowing. Morale’s already low since we made St. Valentine cover HR.”
📜 The Official Reason? “Lack of Evidence”
According to Vatican records, Christopher was removed due to “lack of historical evidence.” Seriously? After 20 centuries of divine service?
Turns out, he’d already been quietly phased out. His last known miracle? Helping a honeymoon couple in a ’68 Ford Pinto avoid a possum in rural West Virginia.
🛰️ Why Pray When You’ve Got Waze?
It’s tough to compete with modern tech. Today, we’ve got GPS, lane assist, emergency braking, and Siri — who’ll gladly reroute you away from rivers or possums.
Even your dashboard has better spiritual protection than poor St. Chris ever had.
🐿️ And What About St. Francis?
Christopher had one final question during the meeting:
Chris: “Why me? I’ve been around longer than Frank of Assisi! That guy just talks to squirrels.”
St. Peter: “Francis is booming. We’re onboarding millions of animals a day — rescues, pets, endangered species. Nobody else wants that department. It smells like wet fur and despair.”
Jesus: “Honestly, we’d love to fire him. But he keeps bringing stray cats to meetings.”
🏖️ Retirement in Limbo
So where is St. Christopher now?
He signed the NDA and moved quietly to Limbo. These days, he:
Plays celestial pickleball
Leads ghost tours of old highway rest stops
Occasionally haunts glove compartments in vintage Winnebagos
If you spot a St. Christopher medal on someone’s dashboard, now you know: It’s a relic from a time when divine roadside assistance meant more than flashing hazard lights and Bluetooth.
But hey — if your GPS ever leads you into a river, you might still want to whisper a little prayer to Chris. Just in case.
Every year, we get those cheery, glitter-dusted Christmas letters from friends whose kids all got into Ivy League schools, started tech companies from the garage, and won gold at the Junior Olympics. Meanwhile, over here…
We thought we’d balance things out.
📬 The 2024 Highlights from the House of Jinny and Bill:
We love Holiday Traditions but this year’s tree fell over three times. We just left it leaning.
The Family Minivan: Still running, even after catching fire briefly in July.
👣 Nancy
Our eldest got an ingrown toenail that turned into sepsis. Four ER trips later, she’s now banned from pedicures and we’re banned from that urgent care.
👓 Bill Jr.
Flunked his GED for the third time. Mystery solved: He couldn’t read the test. His Walmart glasses had been waiting for pickup since February.
📚 Mike
Got caught with a Playboy in his backpack. Earned a 5-day suspension. Two local priests kindly offered to “dispose” of the evidence. Suspiciously enthusiastic about it.
🎖 Sally
Made the world finals in baton twirling! Unfortunately, her final twirl knocked her out cold. Severe concussion. Now twirls from a seated position.
💍 Thomas/Thomasina
Our youngest transitioned this year — now known as Thomasina and married Melanie in June! We’re thrilled. Only odd part? 2024 DNA testing revealed… Thomasina is not biologically ours. So technically, we’re very accepting neighbors.
🐾 Bobo the Dog
For the 12th year in a row, got violently ill over the holidays. Possibly from eating 24 marshmallow Santas. No chocolate this year — just melted plastic.
And no, no one got into Harvard.
🎁 In Closing…
We may not have stock portfolios, gold medals, or viral cello prodigies, but we’ve got plenty of laughs (and ER co-pays). From our delightfully dysfunctional family to yours — have a warm, safe, and hopefully uneventful holiday.
We were embarrassed to drive to high school in our car.
Many had jacked up Nova’s, GTO’s, V8’s, Hurst Shifters, super sound systems.
We roll in driving a light blue 1963 Chevy Biscayne station wagon with absolutely no options. No power steering, brakes, air.
Not even a AM radio.
Performance? 0-60 in 20 minutes.
We offered anyone $50 if they could find an option.
The Blue Powder Puff
This was a hand me down from our family business. The bean counter bought the car as cheap as possible right before union negotiations as a symbol that times are tough and would be a challenge agreeing to the requested 10 cent raise.
We had no chance of street respect.
One time a guy in a high performance Camaro asked if we were delivering groceries.
Another elderly couple asked if we could give them a ride to their assisted living home.
Imagine a date asking to turn up the A/C on a hot day and all you could do was roll down the window.
We couldn’t go 4 years like this.
The prom is a month away and we can’t pick up our dates in this blue powder puff. We had to do something quick.
Where could we find a vehicle with character, excellent condition, loaded and cheap?
A Hearse??
We went to a funeral home and asked where they put their hearses to “rest”.
Got a 1957 Cadillac Hearse, 35,000 miles, loaded for $400.
We stole a no parking funeral sign and parked right front of the school.
It had to have a name “His and Hearse”.
We made the prom deadline and 4 couples made the procession.
Other adventures with “His and Hearse”
Got a black, cheap, corrugated casket. Put a girl in it, backed up to Burger King, took casket to the counter and asked for a burger and glass of water for our friend.
Got 5 cars and had a funeral procession. When we saw a hitchhiker, the procession pulled over with the guy to get into the hearse. “I thought this was a funeral” …”It is. Yours” He decided to run.
As more kids got their licenses, we needed more vehicles.
We added a grey hearse, “Just Buried” and the girls convinced dad to buy them a 1958 Red Cadillac ambulance. “ Bloody Mary” to drive to St Mary’s Academy.
They got stopped for speeding. Cop found a keg of Budweiser with red food coloring. Labeled “Bloodweiser”
Years later, people still talk about these rides. Some went to the prom, others were in caskets at fast food restaurants and 10 were caught drunk on Bloodweiser.
My sister Sally’s pride and joy was Cotton Tail, a white rabbit with deep red eyes.
Then Christmas came.
Brother Bill got a bow and arrow and immediately did what any responsible kid would do—shot an arrow straight into the sky.
It came down directly into Cotton Tail.
Christmas was pretty much over.
Sally was devastated, so Mom went looking for something to ease the pain. On a country drive, she spotted a sign:
BABY GOATS FOR SALE.
Problem solved.
That Easter, instead of another rabbit, Sally got a live baby goat nestled in green plastic grass.
She named him Sticks.
Cute little Sticks eventually became an 85-pound, four-foot-tall wrecking ball who ate Mom’s petunias and butted anyone foolish enough to bend over.
Then came the Corvette.
I had just bought a brand-new orange Corvette, and after a college football game, the family was celebrating.
One guest, Harry, had enjoyed several scotches. On his way to the bathroom, he looked out the window and froze.
“Martha… you’re not going to believe this, but there’s a goat standing on an orange Corvette.”
Martha came over.
Naturally, Sticks had already jumped down.
“I don’t see any goat. Harry, we’re going home.”
A few months later, sadly, a pack of dogs killed Sticks.
Dad found him in the yard.
“Michael, before school, bury that goat.”
Mike had other plans.
He tied a rope around Sticks, dragged him behind our old wood-paneled station wagon to the end of the driveway, and heaved him into the family dumpster.
Problem solved.
Or so he thought.
“Did you bury the goat?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Then the Waste Management guy arrived.
He opened the dumpster, looked inside—and froze.
Four goat hooves were sticking straight up.
He marched to the house and pounded on the door.
“Sir, I have picked up a lot of trash in 20 years. But never a dead goat.”
