Agnar, a Varangian Marauder from the Isle of Faroe, is waiting anxiously in the lobby of GXT, a mid-volume corporation specializing in scalable operations and opportunity leveraging.   Agnar is excited to finally get an opportunity to interview, especially with a great company like GXT.  GXT’s HR Manager, Karen walks into the room to greet him.  

Karen: Hi there.  Agnar, is it?

Agnar: Yes hello.  You must be Kathy.

Karen:  It’s Karen actually.

Agnar: Oh boy!  What a way to start an interview!  I’m so sorry Karen.  Pleased to meet you.

Karen: Oh don’t worry about it at all.  I’m sure people pronounce your name incorrectly all the time.

Agnar: Yes that is true.  I am known in many lands by many names.  Some call me Agnar the Ironfist, Son of Co’ss, Lord of the Eastern Winds and righteous heir to the Marble Throne of Ganderton.  Most call me just Agnar though.

Karen: Great.  Agnar it is.

Agnar: I’m sorry to bother you Karen, but  before we get started, would you mind if I unslung my Valyarian war hammer, Deathstroke, from my shoulder?   It’s so formal.

Karen: Not at all!  I think you’ll find that GXT has a great company culture.  We’re formal when we need to be, but for the most part it’s pretty relaxed.  Now let’s move on to the questions.  You are applying to a Lead Project Analyst position.  Do you have any examples of past projects that you’ve been a part of?

Agnar: Certainly.  I’ve been part of several raiding parties during my tribe’s conquest of the Shilov men of the Flatlands.  I was typically in charge of logistics.  I would send our long archers to set fire to their straw temples, where the fools only worship one god instead of the Many Hosts.  I also ran accounting for our sacking and looting division. I would need to complete inventory on all the goods pillaged and appraise their value.  We collected more copper in those few weeks of raiding than we had the entire previous year.

Karen: Was that a goal of your organization?  To collect copper?

Agnar: Well, it was more of a secondary goal.  Our main goal was to spill enough Shilov blood as to please the Dragons who inhabit the Smoke Mountain.  However, the Flatlanders’ copper was a welcome addition.

Karen: The perfect candidate for this position will be able to balance the priorities of multiple projects.  Tell me about a time where you had lots of responsibility and not a lot of time.

Agnar: Surely.  I wasn’t sure if you were aware of this but I am actually a Varangian of the House Faroe.  Are you familiar?

Karen: I apologize but no.  To be honest, I just picked up your resume about 15 minutes ago so I wasn’t able to review it in-depth.

Agnar: No problem what so ever.  It has been told that we share the blood of the wolves of the North.  Long ago, my great-great grandfather, Torin the Dreadhand forged a pact with the Forrest Goblin, Erlking.

Karen: Erlking?

Agnar:  Yes Erlking and his demon nymphs had tormented our wood for many moons.  My great-great Grandfather cornered the Goblin and they both agreed that our tribe would live in peace as long as we harvested a pelt from our brother wolf on the first winter night when the moon runs red.  It’s been a ritual in my tribe for centuries.  Well, I was out marauding one night and as I was dragging a Shilov wench to the river, I realized that the moon had turned crimson, like the rust of an iron blade.

Karen: I’m sorry.  I think I lost you.  Why were you dragging this Shilovian woman to the river?

Agnar: To drown her of course.

Karen: Of course, I apologize.  Please continue.

Agnar: As the moon bled, I immediately ran to the woods to hunt down and skin the nearest wolf I could find, lest I break the bond Torin had made, thus unshackling the Forrest Goblin from his wooden dungeon.  I was able to find a large she-wolf and bring her down with a single stroke of my war hammer.

Karen (pointing to the war hammer in the corner): You mean Deathstroke?

Agnar: That’s the one.  It was a successful night where I feel I was able to organize my priorities.  I’ve also brought in my finest wolf pelts in case you wanted proof of my work.

Karen: Did you finish the drowning the Shilovian wench?

Agnar: She had fled the river.  But she was so afraid of my return that she threw herself off a cliff later that night.

Karen: Agnar the Ironfist, Son of Co’ss, Lord of the Eastern Winds, I truly appreciate the time you spent with me today.  Do you need your parking validated?

Agnar: No I don’t believe so.  I have my longboat tied to a tree and I believe it was free parking from what I remember.  I hope to hear from you soon!

Have you ever been swept up into a conversation that you had no business being a part of in the first place?  It’s an uncomfortable feeling.  You have nothing to say.  No opinion to chip in.  No two cents to deposit.  You’re out there on a cold, barren iceberg just searching for a little social warmth. 

Typically, when I feel threatened in this manner I will try to lob a half-baked piece of information into the pile, hoping that it will cover me until the conversation switches to something like the group’s opinion on mustard or their favorite Saturday Night Live Sketch. 

But sometimes, there are other people doing the same thing.  Winding up misinformation and letting it swirl into the discussion until it begins to build speed.  More people add to the vortex until it becomes a complete and total tornado of bull crap. 

Example:

Recently, I was over my parent’s house and some classical-sounding  Christmas music was on.  Seeing as how I can not simply enjoy the nice melodies alone and instead have to bring attention to myself by attempting to seem smarter than everyone else, I said, “You know, the Nutcracker Suite is probably Mozart’s best work.”*

My dad, overhearing the sentence, and being genetically unable to let a comment like that go added, “You know, he originally wrote the ballet without music.  Because he was deaf.  They only added that music to it recently.”*

My mom chimed in.  “Yes, lots of people in Russia were deaf back then.  It had something to do with a rat infestation.  Plus people didn’t really wash their hands at all.”*

I interjected.  “You’re thinking of Black Swan.    But Beethoven wrote that.  And he was Belgian, not Russian.”*

And so the Bull-crap tornado lifted off and whipped around the room.  If any one was party to that conversation who had heretofore not known anything about the subject about which we had just spoken, they would be irreparably damaged.  So next time you hear me speaking about something you don’t think I really know a whole lot about, get in the cellar. There’s a freight train coming.

* wrong
*wrong
*wrong
*like 4 things wrong