One of my favorite elements of life at Cornell is the diversity of subjects one can pursue. I’ve learned about so many career options that I never even knew existed before enrolling–and the kinds of suckers who go into them. Even the most seemingly humdrum and soul-sucking professions—those jobs that I could never morally compromise myself enough to consider pursuing—have their advocates. You know, like consulting.
My dear friend Charlie Marshall II ‘23 is one of those perplexing individuals drawn to this most icky of professions. He seemed elated to accept a position at a company known to be the… bane of human rights advocates worldwide. I must admit I was somewhat off-put at first, but I soon realized that if he’s being hired to “synergistically advise on multidisciplinary solutions to actualize praxis,” perhaps he could provide some insight into an ongoing issue of mine.
You see, I’ve been in something of a dry spell with the ladyfolk of late. Ever since I almost got to third base with Angela Montoyo on prom night (seriously! She deleted the Instagram post but you can ask her), it’s been slow going on the dating front. I’ve had some pretty torrid relationships here and there over the last few years, but they all petered out after they refused to meet in person until I sent them my credit card number. And the stress from my credit card being randomly stolen right after didn’t help, either. I needed to change something in my approach with the fairer sex, but I just wasn’t sure what. That’s where Charlie came in.
I presented my quandary to my friend, certain that someone hired to advise some of the world’s largest corporations would be able to help with such a comparatively trivial matter. Upon hearing my predicament, he stared silently into the middle distance for a good couple of minutes, stroking his sparse stubble thoughtfully—surely a good sign. But to my surprise and disappointment, Charlie offered little by way of original solutions. I assured him that I had indeed already tried witty but effortless pickup lines, and that negging had also proved fruitless thus far. I had to acknowledge that his recommendations to dress nicer and comb my hair every once in a while did have potential, but his other ideas simply fell flat, and some of them were downright insulting. Sending photographs of my exposed penis to potential partners—really, Charlie? You think I haven’t already tried that? After I rejected the last of his paltry advice, he mumbled something about “insufficient buy-in to execute disruption” and sulked away.
The whole ordeal left me no closer to solving my feminine futility, but beyond that, I came away further soured on the field of consulting as a whole. What could Charlie know about maximizing corporate productivity if he couldn’t even help maximize my sex life? I’m beginning to think consultants are just a bunch of privileged rich kids with no real-world experience who are hired to shirk responsibility for morally abhorrent decisions away from executives and onto dewy-eyed Ivy Leaguers enchanted by a six-figure salary.