The Ace PM's Hit the World! (C.1)

Here is my take on project management from a humoristic approach. This is written as a story and will develop chapter after chapter bringing to all PM's globally two new protagnist hero's of infallible incompetence.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1: The Pawfect Candidates

The conference room at Titan Defence Industries was a monument to seriousness. Polished oak table, neatly arranged documents, and an intimidating painting of a battleship on the wall. It screamed ‘competence’ and ‘strict adherence to protocol.’ Which made it all the more concerning when the two applicants for the prestigious role of Project Manager sauntered in, tails wagging, radiating an air of barely contained chaos.

Muffin, the tan Pomeranian, barely managed to reach the table as he vibrated with uncontrollable energy, his eyes darting around the room like a radar on overdrive. His tiny paws scratched at the polished wood as he fidgeted, desperately resisting the urge to chew on the edge of his own resume. Beside him, Frosty, a Japanese Spitz with a confident smirk, lounged in his chair as if he already owned the company. His crisp, white fur was immaculate, but there was something in his expression that suggested he had absolutely no intention of reading any fine print or following instructions.

Seated across from them were two very serious-looking defence executives, both of whom were already regretting their life choices. The older of the two, Mr. Hawthorne, peered over his glasses at the candidates, clearing his throat in a manner that demanded professionalism.

“So, you two believe you are qualified to manage the construction of a nuclear submarine?”

Muffin let out a sharp yip, his tail wagging at an alarming speed. “Qualified?! Sir, I was BORN to manage things! Efficiency is my middle name! I once organized a supply chain for a kibble shipment that reduced costs by—” He suddenly froze, staring at a floating speck of dust as if it were the key to the universe. Then, just as quickly, he snapped back. “By three percent!”

Frosty gave a slow, approving nod, folding his paws on the table. “And I am an expert at streamlining operations. Why build something with ten steps when you can do it in four? Or three? Sometimes two if you’re feeling particularly bold.”

Mr. Hawthorne’s mustache twitched. “That… sounds like cutting corners.”

Frosty gasped in mock offense. “How dare you! I prefer to call it ‘creative efficiency.’”

The second executive, Ms. Dunbar, frowned. “Building a nuclear submarine is a highly complex operation requiring meticulous planning, risk management, and stringent adherence to safety protocols. Do either of you have experience in such matters?”

Muffin opened his mouth, then hesitated, his tiny brain firing on overdrive. “Uh… well, I once led a high-stakes mission to retrieve a misplaced chew toy from under a couch. There were risks. There was planning. There was—” He trailed off, his tail slowing. “Okay, fine, no submarines yet. But how different can it be?”

Frosty nodded sagely. “Exactly. Metal tube. Water. Big boom. It’s just like playing fetch at the beach, but with more paperwork.”

Ms. Dunbar stared, unblinking, as if waiting for the punchline. It never came.

Mr. Hawthorne sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What would you say is your biggest strength as project managers?”

Muffin practically leapt onto the table. “Determination! I never give up. Ever. I will work tirelessly—literally until I pass out from exhaustion, then I wake up and keep going!”

Frosty leaned back, smirking. “For me, it’s my ability to improvise. Why spend hours planning when you can just wing it?”

Ms. Dunbar muttered under her breath, “Because it’s a nuclear submarine.”

Mr. Hawthorne exhaled slowly. “And your greatest weakness?”

Muffin stopped bouncing for a brief moment, his ears twitching as he considered. “Burnout? But only for like, an hour. Then I’m back, better than ever!”

Frosty shrugged. “If I had to name one… maybe a slight tendency to, uh, overlook small details. But in my defense, small details are exactly that—small.”

“Like safety protocols?” Ms. Dunbar asked flatly.

Frosty waved a paw dismissively. “Tomato, tomahto.”

There was a long, heavy silence. The kind that precedes the inevitable disaster that everyone can see coming, but no one can prevent.

Mr. Hawthorne closed the folder in front of him. “Well. Thank you for your time.”

Muffin’s tail thumped against the chair. “So, when do we start?”

Ms. Dunbar stood up, rubbing her temples. “Gentlemen, let’s just say… we’ll be in touch.”

As the two dogs pranced out of the room, bickering over who had the better interview technique, the executives sat in stunned silence. Finally, Mr. Hawthorne turned to Ms. Dunbar.

“Are we actually considering them?”

Ms. Dunbar sighed. “God help us… but we’re desperate.”

And thus, the fate of a multi-billion-dollar defence project teetered on the paws of Muffin and Frosty—arguably the worst project managers in history.