If there’s one tradition that holds the holidays together better than duct tape, denial, and the vague hope that your in-laws will cancel, it’s the annual viewing of Christmas movies. We all have our favorites. Some of you are It’s a Wonderful Life purists. Some of you prefer the chaotic energy of National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. And some of you, presumably those who enjoy emotional devastation and awkward family dynamics, watch The Family Stone. (You people scare me.)

But across almost all these films, there’s a common thread: The Villain. The greedy, heartless, money-grubbing boss who hates Christmas, hates joy, and apparently hates the concept of thermostats set above 62 degrees.

We have Ebenezer Scrooge, the gold standard of miserliness and questionable nightgown choices. We have Mr. Potter, the wheelchair-bound banker who wants to turn Bedford Falls into a neon-lit gambling den. And we have Mr. Frank Shirley, the executive who swapped Clark Griswold’s Christmas bonus for a subscription to the Jelly of the Month Club—which, let’s be honest, is the kind of passive-aggressive corporate gift-giving that should be illegal under the Geneva Convention.

Every year, I watch these movies. And every year I have the same question: What do actual rich people think when they watch them?

Do they know they’re the bad guys? When a CEO sits down in his home theater—the one with the heated floors and the popcorn machine that cost more than my car—does he root for Scrooge to foreclose on the Cratchit house? Does he fist-pump when Mr. Potter calls the townspeople “rabble”? Does he take notes?

I suspect they don’t see themselves in these characters at all. And that’s probably because, if we’re being honest, Scrooge and Potter are amateurs compared to the modern corporate executive. They’re the JV team of villainy.

In fact, looking back at it, the villains of yesteryear seem almost quaint. Adorable, even. Scrooge was definitely unpleasant. He needed a breath mint, a hug, and possibly an exorcism. But he was just a greedy miser who underpaid his one employee and didn’t give to charity. That’s bad, sure. But it’s not modern working America bad.

Today’s bosses? They’d have laid Bob Cratchit off three days before Thanksgiving to “streamline operations” and boost Q4 numbers for the shareholders. They would have outsourced Tiny Tim’s healthcare to a provider that denies coverage for crutches because they’re considered “elective mobility devices.”

They’d have replaced the Cratchit family Christmas goose with a company-wide email about “belt-tightening” and a motivational quote from someone who’s never missed a meal.

The saddest part isn’t even the greed, though. It’s that we, the modern American workforce, have become so accustomed to it that we don’t even realize we’re living in a horror movie. We’ve been told so many times that we’re “lucky to have a job” that we’ve forgotten a job is supposed to actually pay for a life. You know, food, shelter, the occasional frivolous purchase like “medicine” or “heat.”

I’ve spent enough time in the workforce to witness behavior that would make Frank Shirley blush and Mr. Potter say, “Whoa, that’s a bit much.” I’ve sat in corporate luncheons eating a company-sponsored hot dog while a CEO tells us, “We’re all a family here.”

And then I watched that same “father figure” lay off three cousins and a weird uncle before dessert was served. Businesses must be the only “family” in history where the patriarch kicks the kids out of the house because the stock price dipped a quarter of a point and the shareholders got nervous.

I’ve heard tales of office Christmas parties where the “gifts” handed out to loyal employees were clearly sourced from a Goodwill bin on the way to work that morning. Nothing says “we value your contribution to this organization” quite like a scratched DVD of Shrek 2 and a mug that says “World’s Okayest Golfer” given to a woman who has never held a club in her life and is allergic to grass.

One year, I heard about a company that gave everyone a single company-branded pen as a Christmas gift. A pen. One pen. Not even a nice pen. The kind that stops working after three signatures and leaves ink stains on your pocket. Merry Christmas, Linda. Try not to spend it all in one place.

And let’s talk about the bonuses. Clark Griswold was ready to commit a felony over the Jelly of the Month Club. In today’s economy, a subscription to jelly would actually be a step up. At least jelly is tangible. You can spread it on toast. You can eat your feelings with it.

Today’s “bonus” is usually an email with the subject line “Important Update” (which is corporate speak for “bad news incoming”) explaining that due to “market headwinds”—a phrase invented by someone who’s never felt wind because they’re always in a climate-controlled office—there’s no money for you. But there was enough money for the executive team to take a “strategic planning retreat” to a resort in Cabo that doesn’t have headwinds, but does have cabana boys named Raul and an infinity pool.

Scrooge limited the amount of coal Bob Cratchit could use during the workday. That’s villainous, sure. But I once heard of a boss who refused to replace a blown heater during Q1 because it “wasn’t in the budget.” Instead, he gave employees a space heater for their desks and the option to work from home “if it got too miserable.” Which, of course, they couldn’t actually do because this was pre-pandemic and working from home was considered “not being a team player.”

Scrooge wanted to save a penny. Modern bosses want to save a penny, cut your health insurance, switch you to a high-deductible plan that covers nothing until you’ve spent your entire life savings, enroll you in a 401(k) that will never add up to anything, and then ask you to “dig deep” and “give 110%” because “we’re a family around here” and you’ll get those trickle-down benefits if you just work a little harder.

Spoiler alert: The money you make for the company flows up to shareholders faster than water through a sieve. It will never trickle back down.

We accept this because we’re held hostage. In Bedford Falls, the people had the Building and Loan. In modern America, we have health insurance tied to our employment like a ball and chain. We tolerate the intolerable because if we leave, we lose the ability to see a doctor. And our tax system taxes you at a higher rate if your income doesn’t come from a W-2, so it’s really difficult to go out on your own and escape the shackles of corporate America. It’s almost like the system was designed by people who benefit from the system. Weird.

The villains in our movies usually have a moment of redemption. Scrooge wakes up on Christmas morning, buys the biggest turkey in the shop, and gives Bob Cratchit a raise. Mr. Shirley, after being kidnapped by Cousin Eddie—a valid HR strategy, if you ask me, and honestly more effective than most employee feedback systems—reinstates the bonuses and probably invests in better home security.

But in the real world? The ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future don’t visit hedge fund managers. If they did, security would escort them out before they got past the lobby. “Sorry, Mr. Ghost, you’re not on the list. Also, your chains are a safety hazard.”

The modern boss hides behind “fiduciary responsibility” and “shareholder value.” They claim their hands are tied by the board, but they’ll be “happy to circle back” with you about that raise next quarter. (Translation: Never. The answer is never.)

Scrooge had to see Bob Cratchit every day. He knew Cratchit’s name, his family situation, his crippled son’s name. Today’s bosses see you as Employee #4738 on a spreadsheet. You’re a line item. A cost to be minimized. Scrooge was inhumane. Today’s bosses are inhuman. They’re algorithms in expensive suits.

In A Christmas Carol, Jacob Marley visits Scrooge dragging a long, heavy chain made of “cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel.” He tells Scrooge, “I wear the chain I forged in life.”

He then tells Scrooge that his own chain was “as long as this, seven Christmas Eves ago” and has been growing ever since.

If that’s true, I shudder to think what the chains look like for the captains of modern industry. They aren’t just forging chains of steel; they’re forging chains of denied insulin claims, of foreclosed homes, of parents who can’t afford Christmas presents, of college graduates drowning in debt, of “family members” laid off via Zoom while the CEO was on a yacht. (True story. Google it. I’ll wait.)

These chains must be so long they’d stretch from Wall Street to the moon and back. They’d need their own ZIP code. They’d show up on Google Maps.

So, to the bosses out there reading this—and I know you’re not, because you’re busy at a “working lunch” that costs more than my mortgage—go ahead and watch your movies. Laugh at Clark Griswold’s misfortune. Shake your head at Mr. Potter’s cartoonish villainy. Enjoy your eggnog in your heated home theater.

But maybe, just maybe, take a good, hard look in the mirror. A mirror that probably cost more than Bob Cratchit’s annual salary, but still.

Scrooge eventually learned that “mankind was his business.” If you can’t learn that same lesson without three ghosts breaking into your house—and honestly, that’s a pretty low bar—you might find that the chains you’re forging are too heavy to carry, even with a golden parachute, a severance package that could feed a small nation, and a retirement plan that makes Scrooge’s fortune look like pocket change.

Merry Christmas, you filthy animals. And to the rest of us? May your bosses be generous, your bonuses be real, and your office holiday party feature more than one pen and a speech about “doing more with less.”