Stupid Is The New Smart

A crowd of people shift about the conference hall having dull conversations with one another.  All this activity creates a low drone inside the dimly lighted space that is in dire need of remodeling.  The room is decked out in decor from the early nineteen-eighties and smells like feet.  The carpet is blood red with a gold diamond design overlay dark stains of coffee creating a polka-dot effect.  A worn out podium and two light blue folding chairs sit at the head of the room, with another forty or so chairs laid out in a symmetrical pattern facing the podium.  In the corner is a small dark brown fold-out table with a half empty coffee machine and stacks of Styrofoam cups on it. 

A group of people, mostly middle aged professionals, mill about discussing their latest job interview or family vacation.  As the conversations begin to tail off, an uber-nerd in a plaid sports coat and thick rimmed glasses walks to the podium and taps on the microphone to signal the start of the meeting.  The lusterless crowd of twenty-five souls slowly find their chairs and the meeting begins.

“I want to thank you all for coming tonight to our seventh installment of our career counseling sessions here at the Looseville County learning annex,” the uber-nerd begins.  “My name is Parker Smithee and I’ll be leading our discussion this evening. 

Parker shuffles his notes, adjusts his glasses, and continues.  “Just one housekeeping item before we dive into tonight’s topic.  Last week someone left a day planner in their chair near the back of the room.  It is black and has a photo of Princess Leah on it firing a photon gun.  We’re not sure who’s this is because all the planner’s day pages are blank and under the name and address section are only the words Sex Droid.  Please find me after tonight’s session to retrieve your belongings.” 

Parker smirks with some annoyance and shuffles his notes again.  “That aside, I’d like to get right to it and introduce to you tonight’s guest.  He is a longtime corporate executive and currently holds the position of Vice President of Strategic Wandering for a Fortune 100 company.  Please give a nice round of applause for Drake Squarejaw.”

The crowd claps weakly as Drake enters.  He’s is a well formed man, tall, althlectic, and tan.  His dark gray suit is impeccable and glimmers brilliantly along with his perfect smile as he makes his way to the podium to shake hands with Parker.  Their hands embracing, Parker falls to his knees in pain as Drake’s powerful grip crushes the other man’s hand.  Drake takes no notice of this as he immediately turns, gives the crowd a little salute, and takes a seat in one of the blue folding chairs next to the podium.  Parker stumbles to follow Drake’s lead, his crushed hand held gingerly at his waist.

“Mr. Squarejaw,” Parker begins half out of breath from the pain, “first I just want to thank you so much for sharing your knowledge with us here tonight.”

Drake shrugs his wide shoulders and flashes his winning smile, “no problem at all Pecker.  I hope to learn as much from you people as you do from me.”

“Great,” Parker gleams.  “Let’s get started, shall we.  Per our usual way of doing things, we’ll take questions directly from our students and let Mr. Squarejaw respond in kind.  Who’d like to begin?”

A fat man eating cheese whiz from a can in the front row raises his hand.

“Yes, Mr. Chunkle,” Parker says pointing to the man, “go right ahead.”

“Can you tell us how you got your first executive job,” Chunkle says in between mouthfuls of cheese whiz.

“Good question Mr. Chunky,” Drake says with a razor sharp smile.  “At the time I was playing a lot of golf with the CEO of the company I was working for.”

Drake leans back, satisfied.

“And then what Mr. Squarejaw,” Parker says carefully.

“Oh,” Drake says a bit surprised.  “That’s pretty much it I guess.  We hit it off and he made me the new Vice President of Service that following year.”

Mr. Chunkle sits down slowly with a confused look on his face.  In the back row, another hand shoots up.  Parker nods for him to proceed.

“Hi Mr. Squarejaw.  My name is Sam Buck.  I used to work for you at Mahpeter and Sons.  Not sure if you remember me?”

“Not a clue Scum Bag,” Drake says confidently.

“Uh,” Sam hesitates, “it’s Sam Buck sir.”

“I know,” Drake says, “you just look kind of like a scumbag that’s all.”

“Oh,” Sam says dejected and sinks back down into his chair.

A few more questions come from the crowd, most of which Drake either answers with golf stories or brushes off altogether.  Finally, a young man in the front row raises his hand and speaks.

“I have a question,” says the young man.  “Mr. Squarejaw,” he continues, “I was just wondering why you are here tonight.  I mean, this doesn’t seem like the sort of conference you would normally speak at.”

Drake gives a slight chuckle and nods his head.  “Actually, that’s a very astute observation my friend.  You see, I’m down here at the Loserville County learning annex tonight because Judge Reilly, an old family friend by the way, sentenced me to one hundred hours of community service for a little mishap I had a few months ago.”

Drake stops and looks at his watch.  “Look Porker, that’s really all I have time for tonight.  Got a midnight rendevous with some very important people down at the Silver Slipper.”

Drake rises from his chair and gently brushes off his suit.  As he turns to leave, the young man in the front row speaks up again.

“Mr. Squarejaw,” he says, “before you leave would you mind telling us what your little mishap was that caused you to be with us - check that - sentenced to us tonight.”

Checking his pockets for his car keys Drake starts for the door and idly mumbles, “oh yeah, well they found a dead hooker in my office.  See you guys.” 

He disappears out the door and, after about thirty seconds of frozen silence, the crowd begins to disperse.  Parker is still sitting in his chair at the front of the room massaging his battered hand and staring blankly at the floor.  The fat man, Mr. Chunkle, saunters up to Parker and clears his throat.  Parker snaps out of his trance and looks up at the man’s bulbous face.

“Yes Mr. Chunkle, what can I do for you,” he says with a sigh.

Chunkle shuffles his feet and replies, “I believe you have my day planner.”

Imagine a lowly junior analyst working your way up the corporate food chain.  This analyst, let’s call her Trudy, does all she can to get promotions to higher job grades.  She works late.  She works smart.  She impresses the appropriate individuals.

One day Trudy is promoted to manager.  Since this is such a big leap in job grade, she gets a massive raise.  Like a thirty or forty percent lift to put her in the salary band of her new manager grade level. 

Trudy is obviously very happy by this financial windfall.  It truly does change the quality of her life.

About six months later, Trudy’s group goes through a huge reorganization.  Her responsibilities shift.  She’s now reporting to a new boss who doesn’t seem to like her much.  Trudy is distraught by this new development.  Being a manager is no longer fun and rewarding like it was at first.

Then, out of the blue, Trudy has an idea.

Trudy applies for a junior analyst role in another group.  She gets offered the job and accepts.  The best part is that Trudy’s compensation does not change.  Trudy retains her thirty to forty percent bump in pay and now no longer has a manager’s responsibilities nor has to work for the boss she hates.

Problem solved.

———————————————————————–

Now you might find Trudy’s story funny or sad or a bit of both.  It actually happens at “the company.”  Maybe some folks get a salary adjustment when they downgrade like this.  But most don’t. 

So you can call Trudy unambitious or a schemer and swindler.  But she is playing by the rules.  Screwy rules, but rules nonetheless.

Last week I was digging through all the junk in my cube, organizing it into “take with” and “leave behind” piles in preparation for the impending layoff.  In the interest of brevity, I’ve included an abridged list of items that found themselves in each pile.

Leave Behind Pile

• Hard copies of my performance reviews from past years.  Looking through these was really fun.  In 2004, I was branded “an effective change agent for procedures and processes.”  I love that!  A change agent is just like a secret agent, only not as glamorous or important.  I could be double-oh-zero.  “The name is Shop, Tire Shop.  License to be inefficient.”
• A broken calculator that says “EBITDA Positive” on it.  If I remember correctly, this was a gift from “the company” to all finance employee’s at the time.  I should probably return since we’re about to head back the other way.
• A dusty Al Jarreau CD (damn I’ve been at “the company” a long time).
• Three copies of an old strategy deck called Second To None.  We later revised the strategy several times.  It became Second From The Top for a spell and then moved from Third From The Bottom to Everybody Loves An Underdog.  I believe the last iteration was something like From The Cellar I Can See Uranus.
• One pair of Red Chuck Taylor Converse (don’t ask).
• Five computer mice, over three hundred feet of Cat-5 cable, two keyboards, four AC power adapters for long retired laptops, three surge protectors, four ancient mobile phones, and a small porcelain kitchen sink.
• A whole stack of old boarding passes from when I was traveling a lot.  Weird looking through them because I have no recollection of ever traveling to Hartford, Connecticut.  I always knew I had a doppleganger.  Now I have the proof!
• A few really good books from my MBA days that proved absolutely useless during my years at “the company.”  One you’re likely familiar with, The Goal by E.M. Goldratt, is a very good parable about quality management and process improvement.  Over the years, whenever I wanted to get an executive out of my cubical, I would whip this book out and brandish it in front of their face.  Seriously, it’s like showing a vampire a Holy Bible that the Pope first blessed and then smeared with garlic sauce.
• The original offer letter for my first job at “the company.”  Feeling somewhat nostalgic, I might have put this in the “take with” pile but it burst into flames when I picked it up.
• My Hogan Personality Profile results.  Looking through it, I noticed that my Interpersonal Sensitivity score is 11 out of a possible 100 (no joke).  This is the quote under that dimension’s findings, “Tire Shop’s score on the Interpersonal Sensitivity scale suggests that he tends to be independent and self-contained.  Others may find him unresponsive.  He might tend to be rigid and unconcerned for the welfare of people around him, particularly in the event of a fire.  If you’ve ever spent time conversing with a cement statue or fence post, you have some idea of what it is going to be like dealing with this bastard.”  Yeah, so I made those last two sentences up.  But the first two are quoted exactly as written in the report.  Apparently I’m a stone-faced son of a bitch.  Well thanks Mr. Hogan and fuck you to!

Take With Pile

• Car keys.
• Half a pack of chewing gum.
• Forty-two cents in pennies.

After over eight years, I’m taking almost nothing with me.  A testament to my efficiency in avoiding any binding materials over the years.  No family photos.  No knicknacks.  No small plants, cacti or otherwise.  No fans, heaters, coffee machines, or other assorted fire hazards. 

Just me, most of my dignity, and a lot of good experiences and great friends.  How f-ing sappy is that?  Very sappy!  Sappy but true.

This week at “the company” has been just absolute chaos.  The tail end of a reorg is always such a fun time.  Half the people have been named in jobs, the other half are waiting in hopeful anxiety to be offered the same crap job they’ve been doing for the last three years.  You can imagine the conversations that will be taking place over the next few days:

“Hello Jerry.  Look we’ve got the organization built up and are prepared to offer you a position.”

“Oh, that’s great news Victor.  What am I going to be doing?”

“Well we looked long and hard at your particular skill set and have decided to offer you the job of Manager of Strategic Analytical Planning Strategies & Functional Hispanic Process Perspectives.  You’ll also be heading up both the FAST team and the STOP THE PRESSES team.”

“So the position is a manager role?  I’m being promoted?”

“Nope.  We’re demoting you to double junior analyst.  It’s nothing personal or anything.  We just don’t like the look of you.  But HR is requiring us to call everyone by the Manager title now.  Even in everyday conversation.”

“Oh.  But Victor, those responsibilities are exactly what I’m doing today.  Nothing new at all.”

“Right Manager Jerry.  We looked at your resume and thought that we could really utilize your spelling ability in this role.  Not a word misspelled in the whole two pages.  Also, we believe your fluency in early Mesopotamian dialect will help tremendously.”

“But I don’t speak Mesopotamian.”

“Sure you do.  And may I be the first to say, Oshkoshbgosh.  As you know, that’s Mesopotamian for may you live well good sir.”

“I really don’t speak Mesopotamian Victor.  But I’m pretty sure that word you just used is not Mesopotamian.  It’s a Wisconsin based clothing company.”

“You’re the expert Manager Jerry.  Now go forth and conquer like the much revered Mesopotamian general Alexander The Great.”

“He was Macedonian.”

“Whatever Manager Jerry.  Just get to it and stop showing off.”

“Okay.”

“Do you have a box,” they ask? 

Meaning a job. 

Meaning sustenance for your long suffering family, four people living in a paltry home with only four bedrooms and a two car garage.  Talkin’ bout the ghetto.

A box is a colloquialism for the rectangular end point jutting from a tree branch on an organizational chart.  This rectangular end point may or may not have your name in it.

“So,” they ask, “do you have a box?”

“Why yes,” you answer.  “I’ve got this cardboard box to pack up all my personal items.  Like my Sears family photo album, my excellence award that I received for creating a process no one ever used, my trapper keeper with a picture of a kitten on it, my Precious Moment figurine of a little blond girl cleaning a toilet, my flattened stress ball, my astronaut’s application form, and of course my massive collection of Nazi memorabilia.  Oh, and my seventeen bottles of white-out.  I’ve worked here so long that I actually made use of white-out at one point in my career, before these fancy computers turned me into a relic of the old world.”

“Yes,” they say, “but do you have a box?”

“Why yes,” you answer.  “I’ve got a huge box of wine and I’m currently drinking straight from the tap.  I’ve also got a big wooden box, some call it a liquor cabinet, that I intend to empty out tonight.  I think I’ll start with highballs of Cutty Sark and Seagrams and make my way to the back of the cabinet where there is some sort of banana flavored liquor left over from New Year’s Eve 1999.  God I was hoping Y2K was going to end the world.  Not to be though.”

“Oh,” they say, “but you do have a box, don’t you?”

“Why yes,” you answer.  “I’ve got a very nice newspaper lined box that sits right underneath old Lexington Bridge.  I also brought along my family photo album, trapper keeper, Precious Moments, etc., to decorate my new place.  I must say, I never really like the taste of rubbing alcohol, but damned if it doesn’t go really well with nail polish.  You also get a hint of tropical flavor since I mix this cunning brew in the bottle that once held that banana flavored liquor I talked about earlier.  I tip my head back, taking a huge swig of my banana rubbing polish cocktail, and look longingly at the stars.  Once in a while, I see a UFO pass overhead.  But I always think of those heady days at the company.  Heady days indeed.”

Be aware that I’m just getting home from having about six black and tans at a nice Irish top deck bar.  I wonder if they have top deck bars in Dublin.  You could sit out all night and watch the clouds go by whilst drinking your lukewarm Guinness.

Anyway, financial advice is just awful these days don’t you think?  Oil will be at two hundred dollars a barrel by winter they say.  Oil will be at sixty dollars a barrel by next year they say.  Short on commodities.  Long on international. 

Invest in China they say, so I bought some firecrackers.  You know, bottle rockets, whistlers, M-80’s, and snakes.  Shit like that.  What the hell are snakes anyway?  Like some kind of compressed wombat poop that expands when you light it?  Sick. 

I always liked the sparklers.  Nothing like a small stick of magnesium that burns at over one thousand degrees less then six inches from your child’s retina.  Smart.

I was watching Jim Cramer Mad Money yesterday.  He’s got to be on crack.  I’m fairly confident that I could have a TV show where I scream the names of seventy-five different securities you should invest in and hit on at least a few.  That way four weeks later I can say “see folks, you should have purchased the drug development company Anusfudge like I said.  The stock has tripled in the last two weeks due to recent FDA approval of their newest drug, Torquemadal.  If you have nothing but sissy in your pants, take one pill a day and you will be extremely inquisitive and hard to deal with.  Incredible!”

I think most of the execs at “the company” are taking Torquemadal.  They seem to be extremely agitated these days.  I think it’s the stress.  People without brains don’t like stress.  Makes them realize they don’t have brains.

During my freshmen year in college, I distinctly remember running into fellow classmates who were absolutely positive that they were going to grow up to be doctors.  When I would ask “so, what’s your major,” they would reply “get the hell away from me you weirdo.”

Seriously though, they were pre-med and very confident that the medical field was their destiny.  I was disconcerted by this because I had absolutely no idea what I was going to be when I grew up.   I often wonder how many of them actually ended up becoming doctors and how many are now selling insurance or working in a guitar store.

If you ever ask around at your place of business, you’ll find some real surprises when people’s college majors are revealed.  There are journalism majors working in finance, accounting majors in marketing, political science majors in IT.  Hell, I even know someone with a degree in human ecology who works for an insurance company.  What is human ecology you ask?  That’s probably what prospective employers want to know as well.

My point is that most of us had no idea what we were good when we were nineteen years old.  At that age, all I knew I was good at was drinking and falling down manholes.  Maybe some of us who work at “the company” would have made excellent doctors.  I doubt it, but it is possible. 

I personally believe that some of our executives would make excellent village idiots.  I’ll be the town drunk, you can be the village idiot.  Or, if the town is really small, I can double as both.

———————————————————————-

After yesterday’s post on the subject, I thought of five more of the worst songs to be stuck in your head.

1. The Stroke- Billy Squier (With vaguely obscene lyrics, this one will vilify you immediately if sung in public.  This one will also date you severely as a relic of the early eighties.  You might as well just slip on your leg warmers and head to the roller rink). 
2. Maneater - Hall & Oates (Daryl Hall and John Oates.  Musical geniuses?  Or porn star look-a-likes?  You decide).
3. I Want Candy - Bow Wow Wow (Problem with this one is you don’t know any lyrics other than the song’s title.  So you end up wandering around singing the chorus I Want Candy over and over again until you nose dive off a bridge).
4. Blinded By The Light- Manfred Mann (Blinded by the light.  Wrapped up like a…doosh?  What the hell is a doosh?  Hopefully not what I think it is.  Maybe he said deuce?  Sounds a lot like doosh though).
5. Dust In The Wind - Kansas (Tied with Against All Odds by Phil Collins and All By Myself by Eric Carmen as the most depressing song ever.  If you get this one stuck in your head, you’ll probably sink into a deep depression and be writing the words ”Brooks Was Here” on the ceiling before you topple that chair over and get to swinging). 

Project Managers. 

If you’ve ever dealt with one or you yourself worked in such a role, you realize the true nature of this beast. 

Call them what you will.  Glorified babysitters.  Pains in the ass.  But you must admit that the operations of large corporations everywhere would go stupid without them.

Isn’t it amazing that we at “the company” require a unique position just to make sure we are doing our jobs and talking to each other?  You’ve seen the projects they manage.  The size and complexity of these things is just unreal.  The below average intellects of thirty-five people in seven different divisions all converging to screw the pooch in one valiant thrust.  And only one PM to sort out all the cowshit, set it out to dry in the hot sun, and then pick out the peanuts one by one to make sure they don’t get made into manure.

Sorry, that was kind of a gross metaphor.  But you get the point.

Have you ever been on a PM call?  It’s like being put on a medieval torture rack.

Hey everybody this is George opening the bridge?  Instead of going through fifteen minutes of introductions let’s just get started shall we.  Tom you’re up first.  Can you give us an update on the Version 6 testing that occurred over the weekend.

(pause)

Tom?  Are you there?

(pause)

Is Tom on the call?  Is anyone sitting in for Tom today?

(pause)

Hey, this is Tom.  Sorry I was talking on mute like a turd-happy fruitcake for the last five minutes.  What was the question George?

The Version 6 testing?  How did it go this weekend?

Well, we got ninety-eight percent done with the testing and then the servers crashed.  Apparently someone was hosting a porn site on one of the servers and it royally screwed us.  No pun intended.

Thanks Tom.  That’s going to put us a week behind schedule and we’re going to have to go to a seven day work week from this point forward.

(groans)

Let’s move on to the compliance testing on load number 768.24.  Charlie do you have an update…

What a nightmare!  I feel for you PM’s, I really do.  Keep up the good work.  We need you.

——————————————————————————

On a side note, I was thinking about something today.  What are the absolute all time worst songs to have stuck in your head for weeks on end?  Right now, I’ve got Mandolin Rain by Bruce Hornsby and the Range rolling around my cranium.  I’ll take a shot at this.  Let me know what you think.

The Top Ten All Time Worst Songs To Have Stuck In Your Head

1. Making Love Out Of Nothing At All -Air Supply (Thinking about it, any song by Air Supply probably makes this list.  Even The Nights Are Better, All Out Of Love, Every Woman In The World.  I could make the whole list just based on their discogaphy).
2. Superstar - The Carpenters (Don’t you remember you told me you loved me baby?  Yep, I also remember how drunk I was when I said it).
3. If You Want My Body - Rod Stewart (Pure cheese.  Plus you don’t want to be caught dead singing this in the office bathroom while you’re washing your hands and swaying to the beat.  Weird.)
4. Fernando - ABBA (It was between this and Dancing Queen.  Fernando won because it is more confusing and strange.  Is it about revolution?  What the hell?)
5. Night Fever - Bee Gees (As if we haven’t heard this disco crap enough in our lives - at weddings, reunions, over fifty singles night at the VFW.  Now you’re humming the tune in my elevator.  Only ten floors to go before I reach insanity).
6. I Want To Know What Love Is - Foreigner (From eighties high school prom theme, to annoying song by a band who once was cool until they released this.)
7. You Don’t Bring Me Flowers - Neil Diamond & Barbara Streisand (Pretty self explanatory why this is on the list.  Neil and Barbara at their finest).
8. Copacabana- Barry Manilow (I almost went with Mandy for the Manilow song on the list.  But this one is just so corny and dated.  Kind of like most execs at “the company”).
9. Lola - The Kinks (I actually like this song, but it is one of those that just won’t quit tooling around my head no matter what I do.  It was during one of my Lola stuck in the head moments that I finally worked out that the Lola in the song is a transvestite.  I was stunned by this for weeks).
10. Candy Man- Sammy Davis Jr.  (Who can make the sun shine?  Oh please, don’t get this one stuck in your head.  It is the stickiest damn song ever.  Like Bubble Yum lodged in your frontal lobe.  Be afraid.  Be very afraid). 

Yea, as we the faithful townies who’ve stuck with ”the company” through thin and thinner walk through the valley of the shadow of a massive layoff, we shall fear no evil.

But what have we learned on this fateful voyage?  This sojourn in the town without pity.  This stroll down the boulevard of broken dreams.

What then have we learned?  Well I thought of a few things at the very least.

I think we all now have extremely well developed bullshit meters, with an eye towards the continued development of our horseshit meters.  You see, horseshit is a step above bullshit.  Bullshit is more subtle and contained and really only meant to bolster one’s own identity.  Horseshit, on the other hand, is usually spiteful and meant to do harm to others.  It was Romeo who said “oh mischief, thou are swift to enter the hearts of desperate men.”  It is from this state of mind that horseshit is born.  Be mindful of it or you, like Romeo, will end up fortune’s fool.

I think we’ve all become more cynical about our work lives.  I know it’s hard to believe, but I myself can be somewhat cynical now and then.  That said, I think we’re now less cynical about our lives at home.  More appreciative of the muted levels of bullshit and horseshit in our home lives vs. the heightened levels that exist in our work lives.

I think we all collectively probably drink more that we used to.  I know I sure as hell do.  But no worries.  Recent evidence suggests that consuming a couple of bottles of wine a night is good for your heart.

I think we more easily develop kinship with our coworkers.  We are more apt to develop long lasting friendships in these times of trouble, where we are bound by common struggle.  You can probably envision yourself five years from now out to lunch with your old work friends, laughing about the ridiculous things you saw during your time at “the company.”

We’ve learned how organizations and systems can go awry and fall apart, and what the view is like from the cogs in that broken machine. 

We’ve learned how people succeed in business without common sense, depth of knowledge, or a fully functional brain.

Maybe more than anything, we’ve learned that it’s just a job.  It’ll go away someday.  And what a day that will be.

I’ll just bet you haven’t the slightest idea of how important a window seat is to a would-be manager at “the company.”  Or maybe you do know how important a window seat is.  Maybe you’ve seen the tantrums thrown and relationships severed over the trivial nature of whether one’s seat affords them a view. 

But a view of what?  Street?  Parking facility?  The small forms of Nicaraguans busily trimming the hedges?

There really is no practical reason to desire a window seat at “the company” (unless you suffer from seasonal affective disorder)

——————————————————————

Side Note:  If you suffer from seasonal affective disorder - otherwise known as the Winter Downies - why can’t you simply move to San Diego or something.  Seriously, this can’t be a real disorder, can it? 

“What’s wrong Melvin?”

“Well, I guess I just don’t like the clouds?”

“The clouds?  What is wrong with the clouds?

“They’re so gray.  So lifeless.  They make me feel like a dumbass loser when I look at them.”

“Gee Melvin, do rainy days and Mondays always get you down too?  Maybe you and the Carpenters can get together for a hearty lunch and talk about how pathetic you are.”

“Don’t make fun of me assface!  I have Seasonal Affective Disorder!  I’m on medication because the clouds took away my joy!”

“Oh yeah, did the clouds run off with your dignity too there cake boy?”

—————————————————————————-

Anyway, like I was saying, a window seat is a dangerous thing.  Causes rifts among coworkers.  Imagine fights breaking out in every cubical.  Fire set to office chairs.  Anarchy!

Avoiding these bad tidings is tricky.  Every manager requires a window seat.  Problem is, there are more managers at “the company” than there are windows. 

Now isn’t that amazing?  More managers than windows!  What are these people managing?  I’ll tell you what.  They’re managing to steal all of the company’s money by drawing a salary to do nothing but stare out of their window all damn day. 

Sinners.