"Modern 'Management' is the art or skill of conniving to extract a very large salary while either avoiding work, or by doing work that no one in his right mind would want nor needs done..." -- The Overlord.
You know you're dealing with idiots when you're on a conference call which essentially revolves around discovering why someone with a meaningless title didn't get an e-mail.
Sparing you the micromanagement specifics, suffice to say that a certain gentleman called an "all-hands" meeting to complain that, in the aftermath of a relatively minor computing error (which held the previous evening's production run back by about 40 minutes) about why he wasn't notified about said error, what the resolution to said error was, and what the ultimate cause of same turned out to be.
The response "what, exactly, were you going to do if you were notified?" -- because said ignoramus has no actual responsibility or duties regarding any of the particulars of this circumstance -- was met with a fury that I have not personally witnessed since AOC ran out of industrial-strength Midol that one time.
It didn't matter what, if anything, this man was going to do, you see, what mattered was that he "is on the contact list" and he didn't get his e-mail informing him of a minor problem that he has no clue about and wasn't going to do anything about, because, duh...not his job, anyway.
If we're going to go through all the trouble -- and expense! Dammit -- of compiling a contact list, then we'd better make sure that when said list is activated that everyone on it gets their little e-mail at 3:28 a.m., so they can be informed about something they otherwise don't know about, never interact with, and have no responsibility for.
The point being that if Vice-President in Charge of Potted Plants and Vending Machines didn't get his notice about the thing, didn't get a mail about anything, in fact, someone might notice that he's not actually necessary to the smooth and efficient operation of our little sweatshop.
They might start to ask questions. Like "who is this guy?", "why is he on any list that doesn't have anything to do with a mop or overflowing toilet?", "why are we wasting time, and money, notifying people of problems that they have nothing to do with?", and finally, maybe, "what the fuck are we paying this imbecile for?"
That would be a fucking tragedy...for the Imbecile.
It would appear that there are lot more just like him stashed pretty much everywhere, and because they're all "important" (at least by title) then they all feel entitled to be on an e-mail that was sent out to a support group to inform them that their little ad-hoc, quickly-designed-on-the-fly-in-order-to-prevent- a-larger-problem-batch-macro upchucked.
And was fixed within minutes.
Vice President of Scraping Chewing Gum off the Undersides of Cafeteria Tables could have gone on sleeping and never been the wiser for it.
But, no, that's not how we do things.
Because, some time in the ancient past, some other douchebag with a title and no fucking brains decided that in the event of a "system failure" (this could hardly be considered more than a burp) everyone with a title should be informed about it by e-mail.
So that they could all feel important.
And this is when you realize that there's a lot of people taking up valuable space (and air) who literally do nothing productive or useful, who get paid an awful lot for it, and the desire, the absolute NEED, to be included on an 'emergency" circulation list is not so much because this loudmouth's help or input is actually required, but because without the electronic communication, without the piece of paper that comes with it, he might as well not even exist.
The fact that he's "on the list" classifies him as "essential", although the actual function he serves could be compared to that served by an anal wart.
On the inside of your sphincter.
It turns out he WAS on the list. He just never turned his damn phone on.
That's why he's in charge of Water Fountains and Toilet Paper Replacement.
An Update on Life in Dante's Third Circle:
It has come to my attention through reports in newspapers and on the Idiot Box that North Carolina's population is one of the fattest in recorded human history.
Just in case you've missed those bulletins through the usual media channels, a quick look around this place will easily confirm it for you.
This is why WalMart has those "scooters", or as I like to call them, "Fatfuck Assistance Vehicles".
They exist so that bloated North Carolinians don't suffer from heat exhaustion or a stroke meandering up and down the candy isle, I reckon.
The...ahem...enormity...of the problem is manifest, and no wonder. With the rich variety of deep-fried foods, restaurants that specialize in lard, the barbeque (I swear, they'd BBQ a dust mop here, and probably make it taste good, too), fast food joints every 15 feet offering free refills, and the fact that absolutely NOTHING is within walking distance -- certainly not within the endurance of double-diabetic with critical edema sporting an extra 150 pounds of blubber -- it all almost makes it mandatory.
But enough about extremely large women in bars unabashedly sporting bare midrifts that look like something from a Salvador Dali painting...
Speaking of bars, I went to some this past weekend. Figured it was about time to go out and see what passes for night life around here.
I had a good time -- met some really nice people -- but it wasn't really worth it. Everything here is relatively inexpensive (compared to New York) except liquor (that has NY prices on it, for sure! Unless you drink beer..and bad beer, at that), and you can't always get the good stuff, or at least what you want, in a place like this podunk little backwater.
(I am currently residing in a moderately-sized town about 20 miles southwest of Raleigh and 40 miles southeast from Durham. Like I've said, Hell).
Not only that, but every place closes pretty much at 12 on a weekend (because church on Sunday) and the one place in town that did stay open until 2 was nothing much to get excited about --and by that I mean they don't carry any GOOD vodkas. If your vodka (or any alcohol that isn't wine) has to be pre-flavored, it means it's substandard.
That's how you can tell poor-quality coffee, too. The bad beans become Caramel Mocha or whatever.
Or, it could be a sign that you're a pretentious pussy who wants juicebox-style alcohol pre-mixed with vanilla and passion fruit in it because it signals all the other homosexuals in the bar that you're a bottom and available without having to tell anyone and, thus, give the game away.
The Overlord, did, however, get a bit tipsy, having found himself in the company of a small knot of Filipinos (Wait? What? In rural NC? How'd that happen?) who took him in as one of their own when they were told that Mrs. Overlord was half Filipina, herself.
The Patron flowed freely after that.
I'm told that most other social gathering/events in this pissant little burg revolve around church and shooting things that you'll later BBQ, but I figure both are part of the reason the girl with the 100 pounds of chewed bubblegum flowing out from beneath her shirt got to be that way.
And something sweaty in a John Deere hat and flannel shirt probably fucked it, already.
No matter how many times you offer.
One final complaint and then I'm off:
I'm beginning to feel like George Carlin, because I hear this all the time.