I’M JOHNNY REDSTONE, THE PROBABLE SON
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I want Sumner Redstone to adopt me.
Really, I promise to keep my room clean and take out the garbage, although I assume that “daddy” already has people to do that sort of stuff.
Career counselors will tell you that when you are applying for any job – especially an unusual one like this with the odd-togenarian head of Viacom – you always need to show willingness to accept responsibility.
So, yeah, I’ll do the garbage and even cut the lawn at the estate whenever Sumner’s regular landscapers are unavailable (which I hope will never, ever happen.)
Hedges? No problem for this 54-year old.
Probably more important is that I promise to never defy daddy on the board of any of his companies.
I presume I’ll be given a seat on one or more boards of directors once the adoption is complete.
From that moment on I will be the lackey director that every chairman/father of a Fortune 500 company longs for.
I’ll be known as Mr. Bobblehead – “Yes, dad!” “You’re right dad!” “Perfect, dad!”
In case you don’t know what the heck I’m talking about (or think I’ve finally flipped my flapjacks) there have been loads of stories in the business papers last week about how Sumner, (a wonderful man, I must add) and his ungrateful 53-year old daughter Shari have become estranged.
(See, I’m already sucking up.)
The story was broken on the Fortune magazine Web site by my friend and former colleague, Tim Arango, but was pilfered and published as its own by that temple of journalism, Dow Jones.
But that’s a whole different story and right now I’m just trying to find myself a good home.
The 84-year old Sumner was already on the outs with his son Brent, who owns 17 percent of National Amusements, a company our daddy controls.
OK, I’m being presumptuous here by already calling Sumner “daddy.” But I learned a long time ago that one person’s (or in this case, two people’s) misfortune is another guy’s opportunity.
So, Sumner, do you want me to call you “daddy” or “pops?”
Maybe “sir” in the boardroom or when I leave my Jag (which I think you’d want me to drive) in your parking space at the Country Club.
Shari must either be deranged or very impractical to piss off a rich guy who’s already 84.
Look at an actuarial table. Look at all the airborne germs around. Look at all the speeding cars on the road that hit people.
But I’d like to thank Shari and Brent for this opportunity. If I try really hard I can be just as big a spoiled brat as every other rich kid.
And I come with qualifications. I’d prefer not to work for a living. And I’m nearly the same age as Shari but, unlike her, I’ll give up any thoughts of succeeding my dad as head of his company.
Give me control a few hundred million dollars worth of Viacom, CBS, and National Amusements stocks and you won’t ever hear me complaining to the newspapers.
And Sumner’s second wife, Paula, or any other handpicked executives can run the company.
Why would I need all that aggravation when Belmont Park is in season and I’ll have all that stock in my pocket?
As I like to say, I’m the sort of guy who knows how to get out of the way if you remember my address on dividend day.
Since my own father died a long time ago there won’t be any custody battles over me.
But there’s one thing I’d like to get straight before the adoption.
I like the name John. It’s easy to remember and with just four letters (three if you like to spell it the fancy way) I don’t spend a lot of extra time writing it.
But if you want to call me Sumner Jr., that’s OK too. All I want in return is, say, Katie Couric‘s job at CBS.