I’m a Crafty Steamroller
By Nedward Baldewoman | Monday, April 21, 2008
“So, what’s the deal?” people sometimes ask me. “What’s the deal Ned? Are you some sort of crazed control-seeking autocrat?” Seriously, I get this all the time, and you know what I do? I just laugh. Not some coquettish giggle and not like a crazy Tom Cruise laugh, it’s more of a laugh that tells the person asking the question that s/he is an idiot—but in a very subtle way because I’m crafty. And you know what? It’s good to be crafty.
So you’re probably wondering what they were asking about. You could be wondering if I force my dinner guests to listen to me perform my one act monologue about how life is like a stubbed-out cigarette in David Mamet’s living room ash tray (it’s deep, trust me) before we eat dinner. The answer is no. I wouldn’t do that to you. I know what’s right and what’s wrong. Making someone wait for dinner is wrong, always wrong. You know what I mean? That’s just one example of the clarity of my moral compass. I’m a straight arrow; I always point north. But you know what doesn’t always point north? Elections. Weird, right?
So I’m like this big honcho at a B-side school in New Hampshire. Believe me, it’s no Harvard. Basically, they begged me to be their fearless leader for a few years, and I was like sure, whatever. So I get apprenticed to this old coot who made his money working for Microsoft, and I’m finally given the reins last summer. What do I learn from this Micro-dweeb? Not much. I don’t think in terms of pie charts and bar graphs. I’m a Mac. I’m a movie starring myself. I get results, and look pretty suave in the process. Suave may not be the word.
I’ve always thought, what if, you know? What if someone said, ‘that Ned, he’s a steamroller.’ That would contain my essence, my essence in a metaphor. I know, I know, you probably think I’m like an MFA or something because I’m using writer jargon. Well, I didn’t take that path. Look, no one’s ever told me I’m the next Shakespeare. But then again, I’ve never published anything, so who’s to say, right?
Here’s a harsh secret: no one actually likes Shakespeare anyway. The only thing iambic pentablahblah is good for is putting people to sleep. But a steamroller is power. When someone is talking about a steamroller you don’t go to sleep. You don’t have a choice; it’s an evolutionary fact. When someone says steamroller you tune in because you have to make sure they’re not talking about steamrolling you. I know ‘cause I’ve done it. When I talk the SEC listens. You know why? Because they’ve been steamrolled by yours truly. That’s just who I am, I spread the truth, get things done, and am really artistic about how I do it. I’m a crafty OsteamrollerO. You see that? I put wheels on the steamroller. That’s just how crazy good my mind is.
Right, so the Micro-dweeb was facing all these-disgruntled types among the ranks. A quick run down of the facts: (1) we were right and they were wrong; (2) they’re really annoying; and (3) they got to elect half of the board I was going to be in charge of. So my Micro-dweeb pal tried to change the election rules to make it harder for the yahoos to elect their own. He got ‘neutral’ websites set up to spread the Truth. He even wore bow ties. I give him points for trying, but he only had half the skills required. He was crafty—hell, he’s probably even craftier than me—but he wasn’t no steamroller, and when you’re facing yahoos you need to break out the steamroller. Because lets face it, yahoos have an impish craftiness of their own, and there’s no way around impish craftiness. You have to go over the top of it. So I did.
It’s called leadership people. I got it. Sometimes a leader can sneak the solution past his subjects, but you know what? Sometimes a leader has to steamroll. There will be objections like ‘It’s not fair!’ But you know what a steamroller does, what I do? I just get this quizzical look on my face and pretend like I don’t understand them over the noise my pistons are making—because I’m steamrolling, see. And I’m steamrolling forward with this quizzical look (but inside I’m laughing my craftiest laugh), and I see these yahoos down below me getting all activist on me, and what do I do? I cup my hand to my ear and silently mouth the word ‘what?’, and they start yelling louder. And I just blithely steamroll their corpses into their own metaphorical graves. I’m not going to lie. It feels pretty good.
Some of the yahoos ask me how I know I’m right and they’re wrong. One word: intelligence. I’m smart and they’re not. Hell, I went to Harvard—twice. n
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