Each year the International College of Businessry and Managering holds a contest to see who can condense the combined wisdom of former GE CEO Jack Welch, turn-around magician “Chainsaw” Al Dunlap, and business scion Carly Fiorino. This year’s winning essay combined the heart and soul of true leadership and motivation into a light-hearted homily.
Once upon a time, in the vibrant heart of Costa Rica, I stumbled upon a sloth lying on the side of the road like a discarded children’s toy. Concerned for this seemingly forsaken creature, I took it upon myself to nurse the sloth back to health.
As we eventually became friendly, I decided to name him Gerry and let him live in my home.
As Gerry regained his strength, I noticed a peculiar trait—he was perpetually afraid. Paralyzed by fear would be more correct. Determined to quell his anxieties, I resorted to an unconventional remedy: a diet of street-grade Central American gack. To my astonishment, Gerry transformed from a lethargic sloth into a high-speed, adrenaline-fueled dynamo. And, the fear was completely gone.
With newfound vigor, Gerry embarked on a spree of eccentricities. One day, I found him perched upside-down on the ceiling, leaving behind a gravity-defying shat which clung to the ceiling like a vampire bat. The mystery of how he managed to defy gravity with such finesse and power remains one of life’s great enigmas.
In another escapade, Gerry developed a fascination for rock swallowing. Small rocks and even some medium-sized ones somehow squeezed their way down his gullet. All of this was part of Gerry’s master plan devised to weigh him down to the bottom of the pool where he would spring back to life from a state of hidden catatonia, a hairy claw-wielding beast managing to pull off my shorts every time as I tried to get in a few daily laps.
But the pinnacle of his audacious behavior was his newfound cinematic endeavors. Armed with a stolen GoPro, Gerry became a clandestine filmmaker, documenting his surreptitious excursions descending from the tops of the jungle canopy down into the bedrooms of unsuspecting neighbors. His “extreme personal pleasure” commentary became the talk of the town, creating a sloth-induced scandal.
Frustrated by Gerry’s increasingly audacious behavior, I attempted to cage the rambunctious sloth. However, his cleverness prevailed as he disassembled the hinges with ease, escaping my attempts at confinement. Suboxone also proved ineffective in curbing his wild behavior as the coke-fueled mania couldn’t be chemically stopped. Even the introduction of a female sloth as a companion ended in tragedy. The veterinarian would later opine that Gerry wore out her swampy old sloth lady parts like Yogi Berra’s catcher’s mitt.
Left with no other option, I excavated my basement to serve as Gerry’s personal rehabilitation space. The initial cries of withdrawal echoed through the walls, transitioning from terrifying screams to pitiful whimpers and, eventually, melodramatic sighs.
After weeks of perseverance, Gerry emerged from the basement, appearing like a more composed and ordinary sloth. However, the scars of our shared struggles lingered. Realizing that the tumultuous relationship between man and sloth was irreparable, I made the difficult decision to part ways.
In the end, as I laid Gerry down in the Costa Rican jungle, both of us had stories to tell—of fear, redemption, and the quirky escapades that can only happen in a world where sloths swallow rocks and defy the laws of physics on ceilings. And so, our tale concluded, leaving behind a legacy of laughter and the enigmatic allure of a sloth named Gerry.