You'll Retire When You're Dead TG

“Can these French fuckers not protest for once fucking day? We’re getting killed on our EUR/USD spreads” 

Catherine Banks could hardly hide her contempt as she watched scores of protestors on the TV. She had worked her ass off her entire life, even at the ripe old age of 69 was still going strong, leading the FX branch of TG Bank. Now her position was threatened thanks to these lazy Europeans who had probably never worked a day in their life, complaining about only getting to suck off the government teat at 64. 

Her revulsion only grew when some young layabout was getting interviewed, the title proclaiming this Jean-Luc Dupont as an organizer of the French Communist Party. “I can’t believe it. It’s lazy, indoctrinated kids like this that are ruining the world; someone needs to teach this spoiled European brat some proper American values and eliminate all that commie brainwashing.

« c'est pourquoi le cochon Macron doit… doo-iit… uhh”  Jean-Luc felt strange, his fiery speech cut short by a sudden bout of brain fog. “Well like je… was diting… macaroni… we should work… more” Jean-Luc was getting worried; the language of Molière was slipping between his fingers. But he had to make his point that… the president of France, whoever that was needed to make sure everyone worked more, or else everyone would become welfare queens! Yeah, that’s it. They needed to get on that grind and become sigma males and girl bosses! “Soooo like I was saying, people in France need to stop being so lazy and sucking off the hard work of American business, they can retire when they’re dead” Before the stunned interviewer could answer, Jean-Luc passed out.

Suddenly he was staring at an excel sheet filled with countless financial models that made his head spin. Wasn’t he protesting? But that’s ridiculous; why would he be out wasting his time protesting after he spent his entire university career preparing to get this finance gig. There’d be no lobster salad in his future if he wasted time crying with SJW’s. He was wasting time; if he didn’t get this next model out in 30 minutes, Mrs. Banks would be on his ass. 

“Jane, I need those reports now! Those French protests are throwing everything out of the loop” 

Jane-Luc was confused, was Mrs. Banks talking to him? He turned to greet her, noticing the strange sensation of his ponytail swishing past his neck. “Yes, Mrs. Banks, I’ve already got them done and just printed them out for you,” She said in a sweet soprano. 

“If only those French were more like you, Jane, the world would be much better. Now get back to the yearly financial review” Mrs. Banks went to retrieve the printed report, leaving Jane to stew in the strange thoughts bouncing around her head.

Jane looked down, seeing her pert breasts, pencil skirt, and thin pantyhose. The feeling of her undeniably feminine body was at once alien and totally natural. More worryingly, she had thought she was a guy for some reason and, even worst, some French communist. Shaking those strange thoughts out of her head, Jane went back to work, grinding out report after report until well after dark, determined to be a future girl boss on the cover of Forbes.