I’ve been meaning to share a funny story with you.

Last week, Mark Ragan, Jim Ylisela and I finished up the “Advanced Writing and Editing” seminar with an encore presentation in Chicago. We drew about 65 people, and it was a fun two days.

One of the highlights, for me, was a conversation I had with two women during one of the breaks on day one. We had been covering jargon and buzzwords, and how to get rid of them in your communications, when these two ladies approached me on the break.

“We have to tell you this story,” they said, already starting to giggle.

Their story is one for the ages.

They work for a fairly large company . . . and like any large company, it has its fair share of useless jargon. And while these two women put up with it, like most communicators, they also get fed up with it, like most communicators.

One day, they got fed up and made the decision to fight back . . . at least a little.

“We decided to invent a jargon word and see if we could feed it into the corporate lexicon,” one of the women told me. “We were curious to see how far up the corporate food chain it could get.”

I fell in love with both of those women right there, on the spot.

The word they invented was:

Refarkel.

Of course, the definition of refarkel is a little vague—as any corporate buzzword definition should be. But a general meaning, from what they told me, is that it means to radically recreate something, or do totally something over, or take another, dramatically different approach to something, or something like that.

So you might say: “If we’re going to go to the market again with that product, we’re going to need to refarkel the marketing plan.”

In that case, refarkel would mean to “blow up and start over again.”

Well, these two anarchists and rabble rousers started inserting refarkel into meetings. They started using it in casual conversations. They basically peed into the corporate river and watched it spread.

And spread it did. Before long, they heard the word coming back to them. Which, of course, would have been satisfaction enough. But it got better.

The coup de grace, whatever that means: The second-most-senior-level executive in the entire organization actually used refarkel in an interview with a journalist.

“While it validated our experiment, it was also a little scary,” my new friend told me. “But thank God, the journalist didn’t use the word.”

Thank God? No!! The best thing ever would have been if the journalist used the word, and other organizations picked up on it, and it spread like wildfire . . . like empowerment, or world-class, or synergy, or any of the other useless corporate words and phrases.

But alas, we’ll have to be happy that refarkel is still making the rounds at that one particular organization.

Which of course gives me an idea. Why don’t we start coming up with some words out here on Corporate Hallucinations, and try to virally spread them through the corporate world.

Wouldn’t it be fun if we saw an interview with a CEO in the Wall Street Journal, and he used a word that we came up with out here?

I’ll start the inventing, with two brand-new words. Now, remember: They have to sound kind of business-like, or they won't fly. But they also have to be a little bit ridiculous, otherwise it won’t be as funny.

Here’s my two words. Feel free to start spreading these, or contribute your own out here.

Analocity. Pronounced anal-ah-city.

Meaning: The degree to which your product, brand, or service has a favorable reputation in the marketplace.

Sample usage:

Marketer: “The analocity of our foot cream product is at an all-time low. If we’re going to penetrate the vertical markets of our enterprise customers and nudge that anolocity number up, we’re going to have to refarkel the entire marketing campaign.”

Word number two:

Taint Spot. Pronounced: Taint Spot.

Meaning: The number you need to hit, in order to judge something a success.

So, for instance, you’ve all been in meetings when executive types are showing bar charts, and those charts with jagged lines that look like mountain ranges, right?

Well, if one executive had a chart like that up on the screen, here would be a sample usage:

Executive (pointing to one of the peaks on the chart): “As you can see, the closest we got to our overall sales Taint Spot was the first quarter of 06. And we still missed it by 21 percent. It doesn’t make sense, because focus-group research shows our analocity at an all-time high. And as you all know, if the analocity is there, but you’re not hitting the Taint Spot, something is wrong in the sales chain. Now, you tell me: What do we need to refarkel in order to hit the Taint?

Okay, now go out into your organizations, and start spreading the word. Let’s see how long it takes for these babies to make it.

Or . . . come out here and start up some words of your own!

I just returned from a two-day business trip down south. Tennessee, to be exact. I always like going to the south, because the people are nice, and it’s warm.

And the job itself was great. My client is a terrific, funny guy, and we had several good sessions in the hotel bar after we were done working, talking about everything from our favorite mystery writers to parenting.

And the work itself went great. I did some teaching, analyzed some online tools, and gave some good advice . . . all in all, it should have been a very successful trip.

But it wasn’t. In fact, I’m considering the trip to be a total failure because while I was down there, I learned two things about myself that I would rather have not known. Those two things are:

1. I’m a weak person with no strength of character;
2. I’m a rotten judge of people.

Here’s what happened.

The client arranged for a cab to pick me up at the tiny little airport I flew into. The driver seemed like a classic Southern Good Ole Boy. In fact, after the first 30 seconds, I had this guy pegged as a small-minded redneck.

We got to talkin’ (when you’re in the south, you use phrases like, “We got to talkin’), and I told him I was from Chicago.

“Chicago?” he said, looking at me. “Well then, you must be friends with Jesse.”

Now, as soon as he said that, I knew three things for sure:

1. He was talking about Jesse Jackson.
2. He didn’t like Jesse Jackson.
3. He didn’t like black people.

I could tell all of that just by the way he asked the question.

Now, at this point I had three conversational options:

1. Ignore the question completely and change the subject. Get him talking about the local fishing scene or something.

2. Acknowledge the question, but very curtly. Something like, “Oh, Jesse’s a trip, that’s for sure. So, have you lived here your whole life?”

3. Play along, and get him going.

I knew, in my heart of hearts, that the right choice was number two. Laugh off the reference to Jesse and get him talking about the local area.

But I went with number three. I don’t know why. Maybe I wanted him to like me. Maybe the writer in me wanted to explore this character further. Maybe I’m just stupid.

Whatever the reason, I chose door #3, despite knowing that it could only lead to trouble.

Here’s exactly what I said:

“Ain’t nobody friends with the Reverend Jesse.”

That’s right, I said “Ain’t nobody.” I think I might have even drawled a little bit. We were suddenly just a couple of Good Ole Boys, jawin’ about an uppity negro.

I was immediately filled with a complete and total self-loathing. But I couldn’t take it back.

And, of course, I got exactly the response I deserved.

“Reverend?” he exploded. “How in the name of our lord Jesus Christ is that man a Reverend? I know that we’re all sinners in the eyes of God, but that bloodsucker fathered a child out of wedlock and now he . . . .”.

And on and on.

Finally, he quieted down.

And again, I was faced with a choice. To this point, his diatribe had been pretty harmless. The criticism was directed at an individual, not a group of people. Everything was cool . . . if I could just shut up.

But I couldn’t do it. Maybe it’s because I can’t stand awkward silences. Again, maybe it’s because I have some deep, subconscious need to be liked by everyone. Whatever the reason, the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

“Yeah, pretty despicable,” I said.

“Darn right it is!” he began again. Only this time he immediately widened his line of fire. “And the blacks, they don’t seem to give a lick about any moral issues, and . . .”.

And he was off and running. And I sat there with my fists clenched, scared to death that he was going to say “nigger” eventually, and scared to death that if he did, I wouldn’t be man enough to tell him to shut up. That went on for about three straight minutes, him rambling about the problems with black people, me praying he wouldn’t say nigger.

Finally, he slowed down. He never said the dreaded word, and I was off the hook.

But this is where my true lack of character showed through. We were almost at the hotel, and I could have stalled him until we got there. I could have started the payment process. I could have changed the subject entirely. I could have asked him how far away the client site was.

But I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I trotted out the one and only Jesse Jackson story that I had, because I knew he would like it.

Way back in the 1970s, Chicago used to have a festival called ChicagoFest. Well, one year, for reasons I’ve long since forgotten, Jesse Jackson’s Rainbow Coalition boycotted the event, and Jackson called for all black people in Chicago to stay home. And most of them did.

I gave this background to the man, and then hit him with the punch line:

“And you know what?” I said to my new friend. “All the white people on the south side showed up at the festival wearing shirts that said, ‘Thank You Jesse!’”

Oh, how he howled!

“I just bet they did!!” he wailed. “I just bet they did! Thank you Jesse! Ain’t that right! Ain’t that just right?!?!”

He was still laughing when I got out of the car and slunk into the hotel.

After a drink in the hotel bar, I felt better. "If he would have said the N word, I'd have slapped him right in the face," I started telling myself. "I didn't actually join in the conversation," I told myself. "Jesse Jackson is kind of a jerk," I told myself. And on and on.

And, I told myself, if there was one positive to come out of the whole, sordid experience, it’s that at least I could say I was a good judge of people. I mean, I had this guy pegged for a racist redneck as soon as I got in the car.

Yes sir, no matter what else was wrong with me, I was a good judge of people.

I was able to keep that illusion about myself for about a day and a half.

Because that blew up on me on the way back to the airport.

My driver this time was the exact opposite of the first guy. He was quiet. He was extremely polite. God fearing, I could tell. “This guy,” I thought to myself, “represents everything good about the south. He is the quintessential Southern Gentleman. He probably wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouth full of it.”

Oh, I had him pegged right, that’s for sure. And I was pretty pleased with myself this time.

Then, as we were pulling into the airport, after 20 minutes of very polite, safe conversation, he decided to launch into a monologue. We were on the subject of waiting around in airports when he got going.

“I remember the last time I had to wait around in an airport,” he said. “I was in the Marines, and I had just gotten back from Vietnam. These four hippies—two guys and two gals—started telling me I was a baby killer and a civilian killer. Well, I hadn’t killed anyone in almost 80 hours, so I was getting a little pissed off.”

You could have knocked me over with a strong breath. Who was this guy? What happened to Colonel Sanders? What happened to my Southern Gentleman?

“What did you do?” I asked, because I could tell he wanted to tell me.

“Weeeelll,” he drawled. “I stood up and I said to those hippies: ‘I am a Marine, and I am a gentleman.’ And one of the hippies said to me: ‘You ain’t no gentleman.’ And I said: ‘Yes I am, sir. And to prove it to you . . .’—and at this point I started reaching into my bag like I had a gun in there, which of course I didn’t—‘I’m going to take out my sidearm and shoot you two assholes before I kill them two whores.’ Whoooee! You should have seen how fast them hippies ran out of there!”

So there you have it. A guy I had pegged as Andy Griffith turned out to be Christopher Walken. Some judge of people I am.

So the ride to the client showed me I have no strength of character whatsoever; and the ride back showed me that I have no ability to judge people.

What a hell of a trip.

Anyone who has ever read my columns or attended one of my seminars knows that I’m a big believer in the power of communication to motivate and engage employees, and change their behavior.

I’ve always said that if more organizations would treat employees like adults and enlist their help in solving problems, those problems would probably get solved.

It’s a simple theory, in my book: If employees understand that there’s a problem, and understand what they need to do in order to solve the problem, and see how it will benefit both them and the company, they’ll get on their horses and get it done.

The problem is that most organizations fail miserably in all phases of this:

First, they don’t tell employees about problems because they don’t feel the employees can handle the truth. Most companies don’t even say the word “problem.” Instead they sugarcoat everything and turn problems into “challenges” or “opportunities.”

And it’s really hard to get employees to help solve problems when you won’t admit you have the problem in the first place.

Second, even if they do acknowledge the problem, most organizations fail to show employees what they can do to help. They don’t give specific enough marching orders.

Instead, they rain platitudes down upon employees—employees are our greatest asset; there is no “I” in team; we need to be a world class organization; strive for quality in everything you do, focus on the core competencies, live the mission value guiding principles statement, blah blah blah, and blah blah blah.

Well, as I said, I’ve always been a big believer that if you treat employees like adults and a) acknowledge the problem; and b) show employees what they can do to help, then you can inspire, motivate, and engage an entire workforce to change their behavior and get things done.

But I may be wrong.

I’m being forced to rethink my thoughts on this, because of something that is happening at my own organization, Crescenzo Communications.

My wife Cindy, the Chief Operating Officer, Chief Financial Officer, and Chief Information Officer of Crescenzo Communications, has launched an official Corporate Initiative. Like any good corporate initiative, it is an acronym: WWHIP. Pronounced: WHIP.

It stands for Weight Watchers Health Initiative Program. Cindy has created posters, promising to “WWHIP the Company Into Shape.” She has buttons. She has hired a consultant to visualize the initiative, and conceptualize a learning map to help teach it to employees (me). The learning map looks like some kind of ancient Greek Temple, as far as I can tell, with each column representing one of the companies new core values—healthy eating, regular exercise, etc.

When I first saw it, it made me think of Greece, which made me think of gyros, so I went out and ate one, with fries and a milkshake.

Cindy decided to launch this initiative after we met with a life insurance company doctor recently. Everything was going fine in the interview. He asked me my weight, and I lied to him. He asked me my height, and I lied to him. He asked me if I ever drank and I lied to him. I mean, how the hell is he going to know, right?

But then he pulled a scale out of his bag. “Now we’ll do a reality check, okay?” he said.

I didn’t know the little dirt-eating weasel had brought his own scale. And when I got on it, I couldn’t believe the number. In fact, I got a tad bit belligerent.

“What is this, some kind of tricked-up bullshit insurance scale?” I asked him. He just shook his head. Then Cindy got on the scale. And her number wasn’t good, either. It wasn’t as bad as mine. But it was bad.

“That’s it,” she said, when the fake, bullshit insurance doctor had left. “It all ends today.”

And she immediately enrolled in Weight Watchers, and launched the WWHIP Initiative.

The WWHIP initiative should work. It has all the elements of a successful corporate initiative:

Both Cindy and I understand that there is a problem: We are fat.

We understand how we will benefit from solving the problem: We will be healthier and happier.

And finally, we have very clear marching orders on what we can do to change our behavior and solve the problem: We need to follow the WWHIP Initiative, which has a proven track record.

The plan is simple and clear: Weight Watchers works on points. Every type of food is assigned a certain number of points. You add points for what you eat, and you’re allowed to have a certain amount of points per day, depending on what you weigh. And you get extra points for working out. If you stick to your points, you will lose weight. Guaranteed.

It’s all very clear. And I know it works. And it’s not confusing at all.

And yet I still can’t do it. I can’t follow the WWHIP Initiative, despite all that.

Cindy can, because she is a good employee. I cannot, because I suck as an employee.

Like many employees, I took this initiative and perverted it for my own needs.

For instance, as soon as I learned that Cindy earned extra points for exercise, I immediately tried to get sex out of it. Conversations like this started happening in our house:

Me: Hey, how’d you like to earn a burrito? Sex is exercise you know. You want to earn some serious points? You work with the love burrito now, you get yourself enough points to eat a real burrito later.

Cindy: (Pretending to check her weight watchers book): It says here that 47 seconds of low-impact aerobics will give me one fourth of a point. That’s not even a bite of a burrito. Leave me now.

And so on. Cindy is working the initiative to a tee, and losing weight. I, on the other hand, have completely mangled the initiative to suit my own needs. In fact, I now have my own WWHIP points system.

For example:

Nothing liquid counts as a point, because it’s not food. So I don’t assign points to Martinis, wine, gin and tonics, or beer.

And I have my own system for food, too. I happen to think that points values for food shift and change, depending on circumstances.

For instance, If I know someone else is picking up the tab for a meal, all points are suspended, and I’m allowed to eat and drink as much as I want.

Another example: a piece of hot pizza eaten at night, when the cheese is still gooey and the sausage still hot is worth 7 points.

But that same piece of pizza, if eaten in the morning when it’s not as good, is only worth 1 point.

In fact, I’m considering adding what I call the Morning Amendment to my system. The Morning Amendment would mean that you don’t start counting points until noon.

So that no matter what you eat in the morning—pizza, leftover burritos, salami sandwiches, cold gyro meat, etc.—it doesn’t count because you have all day to work it off.

Yes, I like the Morning Amendment very much. Consider it done.

And I have my own way of giving myself extra points for exercise, too.

For example, 45 minutes on a treadmill is worth 10 points in my system. But 45 minutes on a treadmill if there is a beautiful, shapely woman doing the stairmaster in front of me is only worth 5 points, because I am distracted and the time goes by much faster.

And it goes the other way, too. 45 minutes of exercise on a normal afternoon is 10 points. But 45 minutes in the morning is 15 points, because I hate working out in the morning. And 45 minutes on a morning when I’m hung over is 50 points. And if I drag my dead, hung-over ass to the gym on a Saturday or Sunday and do 45 minutes, when I could be on my boat, I get to eat whatever I want for a month and a half.

That hasn’t happened yet.

And so on. So you see my point? Even though every element is in place for me to follow this initiative and change my behavior, I am bending and twisting it to my own needs, and not doing it.

And I’m wondering if employees, when faced with their own initiatives at work, don’t do the same thing.

This Social Media/Web 2.0/blogging thing has gotten out of hand.

There was a story yesterday in the Chicago Tribune about how people are now bringing their computers to bed with them so they can “stay connected.”

The story carried the clever headline, “Menage a Trio.” And it tells the story of a doctor and his wife who both carry their laptops to bed with them:

“Dr. Enoch Choi, 36, and his wife Tania, 33, who have been married 10 years, both take laptops to bed to write their blogs,” the story tells us. “I suppose I started the trend,” said Choi, a physician in Palo Alto, Calif. “But now my wife is just as much the nighty-night PowerBook key-banger, blogging away for her friends.”

Good lord. Nighty-night PowerBook key-banger, blogging away for her friends?

Doesn’t anyone talk anymore? Or have sex? If there is any banging going on in the bedroom, can we all agree that it should have nothing to do with computer keys?

Here’s another quote from the article:

“Tania Choi, a computer interface designer, said she used to be offended by gadgets in the bedroom. 'I don’t even have a TV in the room,' she said. But now, 'it’s one of those weird modalities of intimacy I’m just going to have to reconcile myself to.'”

It’s one of those weird modalities of intimacy that I’m just going to have to reconcile myself to?

Who the hell talks like that? I guess computer interface designers do. And people who blog in bed instead of having sex do.

Can you even imagine the conversations that take place in that household, as they both sit in bed with their laptops?

Enoch: Dear, there’s an interesting article on this blog I just found, about how anal sex is a viable alternative to the standard vaginal option.

Tania: Sigh. I knew this day would come, Enoch. I guess anal sex is one of those weird modalities of intimacy that I’m just going to have to reconcile myself to. Well, maybe I'll get a blog item out of it. To execute the procedure, will you be using an actual part of your anatomy, or a gadget of some sort? You know that I am somewhat offended by gadgets in the bedroom. Except for my PowerBook, of course.

Enoch: I realize that, dear. I will be using one of my own appendages for said procedure.

Tania: Fine. Let me finish this riveting blog item I’ve started about pruning the shrubbery and then we can begin. How would you like me positioned?

They begin the procedure, but Tania finds this particular modality a little too intimate.

Tania: Enough!

Enoch: Yes!

Tania: I said, Enough!

Enoch: Yes Yes!!

Tania: Stop the procedure immediately. Didn’t you hear me say enough?

Enoch: Oh. Sorry. I thought you were shouting my name.

I make a solemn vow to anyone who reads this blog: I will never write an item in bed. You shouldn’t be picturing me in my bed. Nobody should be subjected to that.