{Except from my new book- Lessons From Lousy Leaders- Follow me on X.com @consrvativevato}
Picture this: I’m sitting across from you at a bar, cold beer in hand, telling you about my first real run-in with a lousy leader. This guy was a piece of work, and I only had the “pleasure” of working with him for a short stint—thank goodness for that.
I’d just left my last gig because I was too sick to keep up with the 100% travel they demanded. So, I broke one of my own job-hunting rules and signed on with a small mom-and-pop shop. They had a niche market and big dreams of growth, and as a process improvement expert, I figured I’d help them level up. I interviewed with the team—nice folks, or so I thought—and took the job expecting to climb the ladder fast.
First week in, my boss rolls in waving a copy of The Five Dysfunctions of a Team by Patrick Lencioni. He’s preaching like a motivational guru: trust, conflict, commitment, accountability—all the stuff that makes a high-performing team. His favorite line? “We’ve gotta be all in on building a high-performing team.” I’m nodding along, thinking, “Alright, this guy’s got a plan.” Was this a masterful use of a expert project, a Mencioni Manuever?
A few weeks later, I’m working with the production crew, and we’re killing it. We whip up new dashboards to track their work, streamline manufacturing methods, and dig into the whole value chain—importing, exporting, receiving, processing, shipping, you name it. By week four, I’m traveling with my boss to our manufacturing sites, getting to know him better. That’s when things get… weird.
He starts cracking off-color jokes, the kind your uncle might tell after a few too many. I’d worked in the oil patch before, so crude humor wasn’t new to me—I’m no snowflake. But then he starts gossiping about coworkers, asking me sketchy questions about them, and bragging about “deals” that sound anything but legit. Red flags are popping up left and right, but I’m still focused on the wins. We’re finding huge savings in the value chain, and that feels good.
As the weeks roll on, the jokes get worse—way worse. Then I spot some serious risks in our processes, stuff that could get us in hot water with regulatory compliance. I bring it up to him, and he brushes me off: “Don’t worry, I’ve got it handled.” Yeah, right. By now, I’m losing trust fast. The guy’s shady, and I’m starting to see through his act.
Here’s the kicker: that Lencioni book he loved so much? Total smokescreen. That was the Mencioni Manuever. He was doing the opposite of every principle in it—embracing dysfunction like it was his job. Trust? Nonexistent. He’d give conflicting orders to different teams, sowing chaos like a pro. Commitment? Only to his own sketchy agenda. Accountability? Forget it.
By day 89, I’m done. I head to HR and ask, “How much notice do I need to give?” The HR rep—zero help—shrugs and says, “You can leave right now.” I try another leader for advice, but they just throw up their hands: “Nothing I can do.” Fine. I write my resignation, send it to my boss, and start packing my desk. He replies, all polite, “I understand, best of luck.” Seems too easy, right?
Cue the CEO ambushing me at my desk, screaming obscenities loud enough to wake the neighbors. Turns out, my boss flipped the script—told the CEO I was the rumor mill, spreading the gossip he’d been dishing. I just smile, finish packing, and walk out. Karma’s coming, I can feel it.
Two weeks later, COVID hits. I get a call from some buddies still at the company—they’re under investigation for the exact compliance issues I flagged. A couple of months later, the whole place shuts down. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer crew.
So, what’s the lesson from this lousy leader? When your boss uses teamwork as a mask for dysfunction, run for the hills—before the whole operation crashes and burns.
