Rapha Uribe is his name, and he has no game. I was scolding him in my executive bathroom yet again this week. “Slap ’em while they’re young and slap ’em good” — David Solomon, Chairman and CEO of Goldman Sachs.
The problem with Rapha is his sex drive. Instead of working on deals as I instruct him, he simply swipes the day away on Tinder — the poor man’s Raya.
And poor he is: At the office, we proudly call him “Rear Beta Simp Analyst.”
Instead of actually working, he likes to sext under his desk. He keeps a pillow and a sandpaper-rough blanky there, as I instructed him because most of my sorry analysts have to sleep on my floor to rise for the 4am meeting.
I often catch him taking pictures of his little caterpillar under that desk. Me? Personally? Imagine a baby’s arm.
None of this strict discipline is helping my cause, though. There are still no private equity roles on my horizon. My next move? Probably eating a healthy bag of nails and Socrates-ing myself with a cup o’ hemlock like in an older time, a better time.
