I'm really fascinated by this joke spotted nowhere else but in the middle of an article in the professional magazine:
An investment banker is on holiday in a lazy Mexican town on the coast. From his balcony he observes a fisherman who appears, to the banker, to have a dream life. He goes out fishing when he needs some money. The rest of the time he mends his nets and sits happily in a bar with his mates.
The banker comes up with a business plan for the fisherman:
- If you were to work harder you could earn enough to run another boat, and before long you would have a fleet. Further growth would enable you to build a processing plant and then a fleet of refrigerated trucks to get the fish to the stores. You would be rich.
- And what would I do then? - asks the fisherman.
- Why,- says the banker - you would be free to go out in your own boat and hang out with your mates in the bar.
Source: Robert Bruce. The corporate paradox. Accounting & Business. Feb.2008, p.88.
How true indeed...
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1 comments:
The Bight
At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches,
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard.
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings,
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm.
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
the bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.
----- by cheap runescape gold
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