MY STORY

I got laid off last week, my title was "VP of Global Network Resilience."

Sounds important, right?

Turns out "resilience" just means "we'll apologize faster when the robots fuck up."

They replaced me with an AI that optimizes container stacking.

It's brilliant, it can calculate the exact nanosecond a pallet of artisanal kombucha will tip over in a typhoon.

What it can't do?

Explain to a Montessori school why their "sensory learning kits" arrived filled with industrial lubricant and a single, very confused live lobster.

Welcome to the last human job in logistics: Professional Apology Writer.

We're the poets of corporate shame, the Navy SEALs of "my bad."

While the AIs handle the what, i.e., "drone swarm diverted to Chernobyl exclusion zone".

We handle the why you should still love us.

"We understand this delivery of 500 lbs., of expired mayonnaise to your wedding venue falls outside expected parameters. Please accept our sincerest regrets and a lifetime supply of dry cleaning."

Last week I had to draft an apology because an autonomous truck decided the most efficient route from Memphis to Miami was through a retirement community's weekly bingo night.

Not around it, through it.

The AI calculated that weaving between Buicks at 3 mph saved 47 seconds versus the highway. The residents were fine. The dauber fluid on the windshield? Less fine.

My apology had to balance regulatory compliance with the fact that 87 seniors now think "Waymo" is a new brand of prune juice.

Or the time a warehouse bot misread "gluten-free communion wafers" as "gluten-free confetti" for a Vegas bachelorette party.

The church got 10,000 biodegradable glitter discs.

The bachelorette got wafers, neither was thrilled.

My apology to the diocese had to include the phrase "transubstantiation adjacent" without getting us excommunicated.

I got a thank-you note from the bishop.

He said my wording had "a certain sacramental humility." I'm basically a deacon now.

Our drone swarm mistook a yoga retreat for a "high-value meditation target" and air-dropped 200 lbs., of tactical MREs onto a silent sunrise savasana. Apology subject line: "Namaste Out of That One."

An AI procurement bot saw "emotional support peacock" on a vendor site and ordered 40 of them for our Chicago DC.

They're still there, the night shift calls them "the feathered auditors."

My apology to HR had to explain why peacocks don't qualify as "essential safety equipment" even when they do spot forklift violations better than humans.

Last month, a routing algorithm decided the Panama Canal was "emotionally unavailable" and rerouted 14 vessels through the Arctic Circle with zero cold-weather prep.

The crews survived on melted ice and sheer spite.

My apology to the captain began: "We acknowledge that 'scenic alternative' may not fully capture the existential dread of watching your vessel freeze solid while a polar bear critiques your life choices."

He replied: "Closer."

We spent twenty years automating the hands and brains of logistics. Turns out the one organ you can't code is the gut.

The thing that knows when to say "we're sorry" versus "here's $500 and please never speak of this again."

The AI that delivered 10,000 vibrators to a kindergarten?

It flagged the error as "SKU misallocation variance: 98.7%."

My apology began: "Dear Parents of Sunny Meadows Preschool: We see you've received our 'Advanced Tactile Learning Toolkit.' While we stand by its… vigor… we agree age 4 may be premature for supply chain enthusiasm."

McKinsey says "crisis empathy roles" will grow 400% by 2028. I believe it. Because robots will never understand that the perfect apology for accidentally shipping a CEO's divorce papers to the entire board isn't "system error", it's "we've already ordered the whiskey, the shredder is warm, and nobody here has ever seen a document in their life."

Your next hire shouldn't be a data scientist. It should be a poet who understands shame. And always carries antacids an Prozac.