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Top 10 Gift Ideas for Boss's Day

In honor of the most important holiday of the year for our loyal readers this Friday, we proudly present our selection of the the Top 10 Gift Ideas for Boss's Day:


Boss's Day Gift Idea #10: Hannibal Lecter "Silence of the Lambs" restraint mask/muzzle for especially vicious, demeaning bosses.


Boss's Day Gift Idea #9: The Potty Putter Golf Game allows the golf fanatic boss in your life to practice while taking care of business in in the corporate restroom stall.


Boss's Day Gift Idea #8: The Brilliant Boss Gift Key Chain manages not to walk the line between kitsch and outright obsequiousness.


Boss's Day Gift Idea #7: The Virtual Yesman puts a brown-nosing cartoon figure right on your boss's computer display who "pours on the praise and funny flattery with 150 comments."


Boss's Day Gift Idea #6: Bring in a 24-box of Dunkin Donuts to help honor the boss on behalf of the whole team.


Boss's Day Gift Idea #5: An expensive sports fan shop item depicting, say, your boss's favorite team, like this Notre Dame Fighting Irish Commemorative Wool and Leather Varsity Jacket.


Boss's Day Gift Idea #4: The Authentic James T. Kirk Captain's Chair -- a meticulously detailed, full-scale replica of James Tiberius Kirk's captain's chair from the original Star Trek television series.


Boss's Day Gift Idea #3: Johnnie Walker Blue Label King George V Edition 750ML. What else needs to be said?


Boss's Day Gift Idea #2: Buy an iPod Touch for your boss's wife (or husband or partner). Easier for your boss to accept, it will definitely make him/her luckier in the sack...they should call this thing the iTush.


Boss's Day Gift Idea #1: Tessla Motors Roadster electric sports car. Red. Sure, it's not the most subtle approach, but for the price of your next bonus at Chase or Goldman, you're virtually guaranteed a gift that won't be refused and will be remembered more than your rivals' "leveraging of their available bandwidth" or "drilling down into their data."

Chapter 10: Dealing With the Competition

Dawn Rosenberg McKay, About.com career guru, says "Your relationships with your colleagues are important."

She goes on to daringly opine that one of the best ways to "get along" is to "respect your colleagues."

But what does the journeyman kiss-ass do when he's surrounded by other eager young butt leaches? Worse yet, what if one if them is not just your average competitive kiss-up, but some scheming Machiavellian scumbag who thinks taking you out of the frame is fair game?

First off, don't panic or become shrill and defensive.

Rule #1 of corporate life is Don't Make Trouble, and a player who gets ahead by cutting others down will draw attention, not all of it favorable. Remember: the image you're cultivating is that of a respectful, responsive young toady, not a problem maker or whiner.

Now, some professions are just naturally competitive and sometimes nasty (advertising, organized crime, politics), but the Code of the Corporate Samurai still applies to aspiring asskissers there and, in my book, everywhere:

1) Don't make it personal, it's just business.

2) Be selective and minimize collateral damage.

3) Show good sportsmanship to other players.

Generally, the other players are like submarines in the sea; some are noisy French or Iranian clunkers, some are Los Angeles class intercontinental systems, and a few are quiet and fast hunter-killers. Watch out for the latter. Do not engage.

Find the biggest set of bureaucratic buttocks in the vicinity, burrow in, and wait out the battle like the yellow bellied sapsucker you are. Let others fight and revel in conflict. That makes waves, and waves that don't add to the bottom line aren't appreciated by the big boys upstairs.

If the conniving douche bag in question is at your level of management and saying naughty things, ignore the bait. If he/she is higher up the food chain and making a move to push you out, assess how serious the threat is and counter by covering your own backside if the allegations ring true, and redoubling your efforts to curry favor in the C-suite. Besides, your Godfather could always mention the situation in a friendly, jestful way to your enemy's boss at next weekend's golf outing, if absolutely necessary.

The way to get ahead in life for the true Corporate Samurai and brown-noser is by getting your boss to like you, steal your best work, and take longer vacations. Not get in flame wars. Let the other guy look like the problem, and he'll go away.

Now, carry on!

Chapter 9: Getting to Know You

Thomas J. Zuber and Erika H. James in their stellar article "Managing Your Boss" said "You can hate your boss, kiss up to your boss or learn to manage your boss. Only one of these options is worth it for everyone in the long run."

The authors then proceed to craft a well-reasoned rationale for "managing" one's boss. Suffice to say, this author would assert that kissing your superior's buttocks until they are soda cracker white is the best way to manage one's boss.

The twin misguided oracles go on to postulate that "managing up" is the way to go: it's the process of consciously working with your boss to obtain the best possible results for you, your boss and your organization.

You know, if I may pause a moment, it's this type of managerial drivel that really makes me want disgorge the sundry contents of my stomach into a huge steaming pile of caustic, semi-digested foodstuffs with de rigeur corn kernels.

Is that harsh? Maybe.

But as President Barak would say, let's press the resest button. We've already told you about the fundaments of bottom feeding, including flirting as an approach tactic. Now it's time to take it to the next level, as we say in the cube farms, those fluorescent lit gray mazes filled with endless conference calls and framed Vince Lombardi quotes.

You need to get into the boss's cube or office, and obtain information on how to more effectively show you care about them and want to make their lives easier. How to accomplish this mission?

First off, every framed photo, chatchka and pinup in their office represents a vital visual cue.

Look around you: a team logo on a coffee mug, an old photo of a two guys holding a huge fish, a golf ball, a picture of children -- the twins, Binky and Biffy, two names you will burn into the available memory between your ears -- and perhaps a painting of a Labrador with a dead bird its mouth, or a globe....

If you can do nothing more than get along well with your boss's administrative assistant, remember the names of their children, where they live, and their favorite sports team or college, you're going to be ahead of 90% of the pack. Remember, most other "players" are too busy bringing in donuts, organizing after work morale boosting bar events, or copying the boss's wardrobe, to think strategically.

But isn't "managing your boss" about a relationship that's "a mutually dependent existence between two fallible individuals"? (Gabarro JJ, Kotter JP, "Managing Your Boss", Harvard Business Review)

NO! NO! NO!

The boss is always right, you are wrong and unworthy and misguided. Who signs your vacation time requests? Who determines the target percentage for your yearly bonus?

So cut the "managing up" crap and get on with the business of being the butt kissing banshee you were born to be!

"Good morning, Mr. Feingold," you say. "How are Ari and Riva?"

"Fine," says he, barely looking up from his screen.

"Boy, those Nittany Lions had some fight in them yesterday, did they not?"

"Why, yes they did," brightens the boss's face, as he glances up and says, "You know, Fartcatcher, I have a project that you might take a look at," and hands you a stack of papers.

This is the stuff that future wealth and power are made of....

Chapter 8: Dress for Suckcess

I remember going out for drinks one night after work with another young rising star, a chap named Michael. He was of short, squarish stature, thin lipped, thick-glassed, brilliant, somewhat hirsute, funny and incredibly ballsy. He had finagled his way into the company by somehow arranging an intro to an EVP/CFO type, and then demanding to he be hired on the spot and be paid lavishly...and got away with it!

As we sat over drinks, he mentioned a trip earlier in the day to Brooks Brothers where they had his 5 suits, ten shirts and ten ties waiting to be picked up.

I blurted out something like "yes, oh dear, having all those pressing affairs..." But really I was in shock and awe. For, while as a bona fide brown-noser I've seen more ass than a toilet seat, I am equally unexcelled as a cheap bastard.

My first suit was bought for $199 at the Quakerbridge Mall on Route 1 in New Jersey, and included a second suit for free. The first suit was a brownish gray number with a faint (thank heaven) aqua pinstripe. The second was a gray plasticy nightmare with white thin pinstripes that appeared to be a Paul Reubens castoff.

A year later, I was searching for "luxury suitings by Caesar Chiano" at Mano a Mano in NYC, and then discovered Syms and wading through mountains of Italian football shouldered trench coats to find a Valentino or Armani blazer. Even then, the size would be an XL when I was an M, or it would have a thin line of lavender or turquoise stitching, or 5 pockets on one side.

But at that point in my career, drinking with Michael (currently staring at the nates of a presenting bar mandrill) I realized in an epiphany of sorts what a truly stingy bitch I was, and decided that I didn't need to look like one of the Cheap Suit Serenaders during the particular period of rapid advancement I'd been recently experiencing.

The next day I went to Brooks, and was amazed to discover that I was reading price tags on the sleeves of quite serviceable and attractive suit jackets for not much more than I'd been paying before. What a fool I'd been! I ordered two.

As the tailor in the back finished measuring me and chalked the alteration marks on the two sets of matching trousers, I realized they had their own price tags (in addition to the jacket prices), and my bowels loosened imperceptibly.

But I decided in that moment to leave my frugality behind, to enter a new era of my life, and not have to ask a tailor to unpin trousers and return them to shelves. I must have paid over a thousand dollars that afternoon, but it was worth it in the end, those suits were perfect for the financial side of corporate life and held up well for years.

Two lessons (and I admit, I don't know jack-squat about women's fashions): 1) Think Yiddish, dress British, and 2) buy a really good name (in the old days Hart Shaffner Marx, Burberry, etc.) when they're 30-50% off in July or January. Especially July. Nobody wants wool in July.

Bottom line is don't bother with Burlington Coat Factory, 40% polyester shirts from Arrow or Hathaway, or any suit color other than charcoal or navy, if you're trying to be the Numero Uno teacher's pet and not some tertiary nimrod.

And if you're lucky enough to have landed a gig at some tech company where anything goes, at least attempt to mimic those above you, e.g. do they wear dress pants, pressed blue shirts and blazers, or just bluejeans and fisherman's sweaters?

Good rules of thumb: dress like your boss, but not better, never wear searsucker unless you want to be asked for ice cream bars all day, cuff links are for dandies, and getting your nails done if you're a man is creepy, as is a mustache, eyebrow dandruff, ear or nose hair, pocket squares other than white, solid ties, collar bars or tabs, vests, tie tacks, double-pronged belts, and cheap black slip-on shoes adorned with Miles Standish buckles.

Chapter 7: Do What You Love, And the Money Will Follow (If You Choose a Lucrative Field and the Economy is Doing Well)

Every year, colleges, universities and other schools turn out millions of artists, musicians, philosophers, dancers, actors and writers, and maybe a couple of hundred of them will gain some notoriety, and another couple of dozen may even become famous.

But for everyone else, a career in restaurant work awaits you.

This is not to say one shouldn't pursue a love or passion in the arts, religion, social work or other low-paying fields. Just go forward into your calling with the knowledge that you had better learn how to bus tables or marry well.

I remember a friend of mine named Jeff. He had a master's degree in philosophy from a decent school, and was bright, attractive and personable. He was also starving. His answer? Go for a PhD in the same field. That way he could share with younger people his love for a low-paying, albeit worthwhile, profession.

Some facts: a top-selling first novel may yield the author $12-15,000 for their 2 + years of work and the expectation "so what next, are you just a one-hit wonder?"

Ditto for musicians. You may picture yourself on stage at televised rock charity events alongside Bono, but you better start learning how to play Hava Nagila and put up Sheetrock, or else you'll be living on ramen noodles for the rest of your life.

Same thing for craftspeople like potters, who inevitably wind up hunchbacked and destitute, or jewelry makers having to hand-manufacture silver cat broaches and hire professional photographers to hawk them on Etsy.

Up and coming painters can earn $500 on a sale, but it's hard to move more than a couple of paintings per month. In Denmark, the government will buy your paintings from you and store them in a warehouse to guarantee you can pay your bills. In America, if you're not a Trustafarian, you may have to donate blood or sperm and live in a dangerous neighborhood.

Unfortunately, the arts and letters, social work, and philosophy aren't the only tickets to perpetual poverty. Take architecture. Sounds great in novels; looks great in movies. Real life: dreariness, carpal tunnel and limited money.

It's true that pursuing a vocation that aligns with your personal values and makes the world a better place is the ideal way to go. There's just times when the world doesn't compensate well for your particular skill set, especially during economic downturns.

And in America, sports stars, stock salesmen and oil company executives are generally well compensated, while musical geniuses are payed $25 to play the piano at a moldy restaurant or conference center, and gifted teachers are perpetually underpaid and harassed.

So either you chose a lucrative path -- one that's relatively stress-free, high paying, undemanding, and filled with influential posteriors ripe for plunder...or get your money some other way, then play.

Tolerable, better-paying areas include Public Relations, Sports Rehabilitation, Life Coaching, Corporate Motivation, Human Resources, Stock Brokerage, Tenured Professorship, and many, more. You'll also make more money, more quickly if you're a plumber, contractor, electrical line layer, actuary, or expert welder....okay, forget I said 'actuary', they typically lack the charisma to be accountants.

Point is, throw your self into the fine arts and letters as a means of keeping body and soul together only if you must -- only if you feel compelled to move colored mud on canvas, write 500 words a day, or read tomes of Buber and Sartre, because if you don't, you'll go nuts.

This is also a more reliable way to tell if you're truly cut out to be an artist, writer, actor, poet, or inventor than external measures of "talent", like the praise of your teacher, guru or mentor du jour (at least according to William Somerset Maugham, and if you don't know who he is, learn to cut hair, quick).

Money can't buy love, but it can buy time. And time can be used to pursue the things we love most: arts, letters, dreams, sports, fine food, music, time with loved ones, drinking, sex and sleeping.

Always take care of business first, then play -- not the other way.

Chapter 6: Everyone Needs a Godfather

I knew a woman named Debra who was a lazy, uninspired director of internal communications at a large, financial holdings company. She was arguably one of the most irredeemably unattractive individuals I'd ever seen, not that looks really matter.

One might hope that this truly repellent individual possessed compensatory attributes like agreeableness, creativity, intelligence, humor, or even simple politeness. But no, not Deb. She had a cantankerous, arrogant and condescending disposition, undoubtedly exacerbated by having not been properly rogered in light years.

The amazing thing was that, year in and year out, no matter the departmental raiding party, management shakeup, or CEO succession, Debra would still have a job, even moving up slowly and quietly in rank and salary over time. Why?

Well, you've seen this chapter's title, so you know the answer is that she had a godfather, in this case a doddering Executive Vice-President that had even known her dad in the course of his fifty years with The Company. Deb was totally Teflon.

I guess I look at "godfathers" not necessarily as career boosters, but as protection. Obviously, they must be carefully cultivated over a prolonged period of sustained low-level toadyism, for godfathers usually aren't greedy, but do require at minimum some tithing and ring kissing.

I remember a butterfaced rotter named Paul who was an Assistant VP at the same company. One day at the elevator, a Senior VP said "good morning" and Paul ignored him because he'd managed to hide at the company for decades, and had forgotten his basic manners and outlived his powerful patron. By close of business, he was toast, with a courtesy box and cab ride home.

Over time, if you treat virtually all of your superiors to the ambrosia of admiration and subservience which we all seek to perfect, a few elders will emerge as potentially indulgent corporate sugar daddies and godfathers. Start at the SVP level, and ultimately work towards having one or two EVPs in your pocket or at least on your side.

How?

Stay tuned, oh aspiring chung bong, for in the weeks ahead we will continue to outline our foolproof, step by step, tongue in cheek approach to climbing the ladder of success...

Hussah!

Chapter 5: Be a Sport

I remember when I was a lowly manager at a big insurance company and a new Senior Vice President named Vince became my boss. Early on, we were at a meeting where he remarked with considerable derision, "...and the guy didn't even know who the Final Four were!"

"The deuce!" I said, or something like that. "What a buffoon!"

Of course, the fact that I didn't know whom the Final Four were either didn't stop this young toady of tomorrow. I wanted to be a sport; a person who rolls with the punches, accepts the rules and is fun to be around, including playing yesman with authenticity while some muckity-muck is blithering on about a given city's namesake team of acromegalic ex-hoodlums.

A few weeks later, Vince was describing a difficult situation on the "back nine," and I was following along nodding and laughing with a knowing smile, when he asked, "what would you have done?"

And I said, "I have no farging idea what you're talking about, I'm just nodding like an idiot," admitting I knew little or nothing about golf.

Now I am the last person to assert that honesty is always the best policy, but it sometimes is, especially if you're trying to appear candid and sincere after being exposed as a gutless minion. Luckily for me, Vince appreciated a good laugh (another chapter) as much as knowledge of popular sports and teams, and I was off the hook for the moment.

Fact is though, playing golf can be a big asset in climbing the corporate ladder. Many senior managers still regard the game as a fast, accurate litmus test of one's character, particularly how one handles obstacles and disappointments.

For an aspiring slacker, golf also provides a heinie-rich environment. Naturally, you'll also have to fake some degree of silent determination and courage when playing the godforsaken game, but it's a small price to pay for hanging about the ample haunches of multiple bigwigs.

Using the company gym, playing tennis, and many other physical activities can work for you, too.

So, being a sport is really about three things: 1) going with the flow, 2) partaking in a sport that your superiors admire, and 3) knowing at least the names of a few top baseball, basketball and football teams and their current standings.

The uppermost ranks of corporate America are still largely filled by beefy, middle-aged white men, and almost all of them like to jawbone endlessly about sports teams (along with money and sex). Fertile ground indeed for finding common areas of interest, making new connections, and becoming the overachieving groupie you've always dreamed of.

Tally ho!