"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.