Hello 4-20! Do I have Balls or what?!

Here is the email I sent to my Direct Boss, as well as a Blind Carbon Copy (BCC:) to my VP, as he and I are tight:

Greetings, I have to have today and tomorrow off for an extremely necessary decompression. If I have to come in, it will be to no one's benefit, in fact quite the opposite. I feel as though, if I try to work through any problem we have, it either is ignored and subsequently blamed on me, becomes a giant political fiasco, involves a lengthy explanation that is without purpose (Brad, none of this is pointed at you. You either Mwokozi), or even worse, a report on, quite literally, nothing while I am still working on said problem. I just want to fix the problem. As Kieth is the project manager now for wireless now, and Mike is much more technically proficient, this should not be a problem, especially since the major software issues have been addressed. If this is a problem, I can turn in my equipment and final expense report the following week. I really do love everyone there, but we will miss the once in a lifetime 1-3 year window that will never return in this industry if we spend so much energy in a circular fashion. Life is a gamble.

Afterwards, I realize it was 4-20, and then smoked a bowl.

And, who knows, sometimes all you have to do in life is ask for what you want.

Love reeder

"The Leash"

These days, no matter WTF you do, your boss (or, possibly, 17 bosses with undetermined responsibilities) is always right there with you, like a boil on your taint that just keeps coming back, over and over again.

And really, we can all blame Alexander Graham Bell, or perhaps James Clerk Maxwell, for providing us with the capability to be hassled by the fucking man 24-7, and possibly get brain tumors. Neural Oncology, I predict, will be an ever growing field from here on in.

The Leash=The Cell Phone=centralized control

People crave power, sadly enough, and this desire has lead us to become a nation of yes men (and the new and modern "Yes Woman!" with her stylish business suit)), who either work ridiculously inefficient hours, or pretend to, due to the leash. Your boss (or bosses), who says he isn't a micro-manager but really is, likes to keep tabs on you as much as is humanly possible. Guess what, we decided the old test plan isn't good enough, so we want it changed, and you have to do it. Didn't fill out your service ticket? Where's the weekly report? Where's the individual problem report? Bug report? Monthly report? Expense report? Where's the equipment requisition form? How about the project report? Or the project scope? How about the Executive summary? How about the 90 page report for the board, due while you are out in the field working on the very project on which you have your 47 forms?

I finally know where all the trees go to die. Their deaths become ours, as we wipe away any hope or happiness you may have had left with the terrible monotony of repeated, and repetitive, paper work. In the end, I think they have won this war, just so the modes of control remain in place to keep the seating chart of those in power.

And I have had it.

No one likes to wake up with a strange cock in their mouth, but we all seem to just accept it. Your professionalism hides the reality of our frailty, as though the social power you have gained through work has somehow redefined your mortality. Guess what, mutha' fucker, somewhere there is either a bus or a cardiac bullet with your name on it.

But hey, we all like to grow that fucking pile of electrons. Once you understand that all we are is chaotic yet measured changes within the ether, you see the futility of the chase.

Drop the Leash.

Little Dog Syndrome

Reeder and myself have both noticed an increase in the amount of women that tote around medium to small size dogs. Sometimes these animals will be in a tee shirt or perhaps sport a ribbon in their hair. Rest assured that none of these dogs have testicles.

Reed an I differ in opinion about the usefulness of dogs. If a $1000 vet bill comes between me and my little friend, little friend will be wearing a new wooden coat. Mr. Becker tends love and care for these furry friends more than myself. It's not our opinion of dogs that upsets us, it's the unspoken trueism that LDS (Little Dog Syndrome) represents. The real corn in the turd is the underlying sickness that hides in the dark hearts of women everywhere.

Are we being a bit harsh here? I don't think so. Let's investigate what these little animals truly represent. Women do have a lot of love to give, but are to afraid now a days to give it out to the masculine sex. Afraid because it means to them a sense of old school Donna Reed type submission.

No woman in the history of history has ever experienced this type of freedom and independence. It's gotten to a point where even a matrimonious relationship or any type of relationship with a man is a compromise of this new found freedom. A relationship with a man not only means changing to live with another human being but bearing their children and being bound by them as well. Here's where the dog comes in.

The little dog doesn't really cramp your social life. For the most part you don't have to change for it. It makes a cute little attache. It's easy to love. It doesn't talk back. Just feed it and take it outside to poop, but for the love of Christ pick up the GD shit off the ground. Anyway, it doesn't matter if it gets fat because you don't have to fuck it all the time. In fact you can still fuck whatever the hell you want. By wearing the mutt on your arm it's like walking around with a little flag of independence and saying to those in view, 'Daddy didn't love me enough!'

Reed and myself are decidedly against LDS. Not only is a little dog annoying in of itself, but this independence which it represents is tearing people apart. It's represents a barrier separating women from REAL love. I say take the little fucker out back and put a 9mm in it's skull. Cat's are cool though.