Bootprints and bullet holes

Every once in a while the stars align and the world makes perfect sense. This could very well be THE most dangerous time of all for dedicated employees of the Evil Corporation because:

a) It happens so rarely, and
b) It means something has gone ... right.

I brought some of my wicked henchpeople over to our fearless new Unter-boss' assigned space in Cubicle Hell in order to perform an Act, albeit a small one, of Corporate Social Responsibility. After all, I have a reputation to maintain.


The assembly of hellishly blue cubicle walls and furniture isn't a very hard thing to oversee really. It has ends that fit neatly together using a simple screwdriver, profanity and a big assed hammer - our Corporate "Fix-It-All" tool.

About this time my perfectly-groomed, new Unter-boss stopped by to see the progress on his brand new office. Using that opportunity to show off a little of my own management skills, I issued a couple of deftly worded exhortations to the hourly employees, reminding them of our loftly purpose here, how much all the work that WE were doing meant to Corporate success, and that bleeding on the job from an accidental screwdriver injury should NOT be seen as an opportunity to file claim for Workman's Comp against US, but rather an opporutnity for US in management to sue THEM for, you know, practicing medicine without a license during regular duty hours.

Pleased as he was with my witty repartee, and dare I say it aloud, social prowess, the new Unter-boss told me of how he had just reprimanded a couple of finance sluggards on the Staff for sending out unauthorized emails to the Senior Leadership (Dream) Team in the Sky. Naturally, messages like these were unauthorized ... because he hadn't read them first ... and sent the information up ... from his own account. So, he had carefully drafted an edict and sent it out on a one-over-the-world basis.

(His very first one. The power. Can you feel it? Woo hoo! I can feel it.)

His memo said that absolutely no one was to talk, utter a word, not even a slippery, wet fraction of syllable to management without his express written approval.

When managers clamp their hands onto such fearsome power, I've found its best to perform a little ego stroking and then slowly back away from the scene (of the impending accident) before Circumstance claims YOU as "a victim" too. I spoke. He laughed ... and then pointed at the door segment and said, "Bootprints and Bullet holes. I like that." He pointed his finger like a cowboy six shooter and blew the gunsmoke off his stubby, yet immaculately manicured gun barrel. I backed away slowly never taking my eyes off him. Oh yeah, jump back Loretta. There's a new Sheriff in town.





Before we got to hang that very door segment, the Mighty One (the ONE guy who runs the whole damn business) came stomping by. He was mad as Hell. It turns out that his boss had just called him asking for some ultra-important financial information. The Mighty One (for lack of a better name) thought he would just buzz over to the lowly financial staffers who knew that stuff right off the top of their heads, and ask them one simple question ... The staffers told Him, Who's Wrath Now Knows No Bounds that they were sorry, but they couldn't even speak to him any more without first securing the Unter-boss' express written permission.

The Mighty One reminded me (and everyone else who was not hearing, sorry, screaming impaired) at that very moment, that everyone on the Staff, worked for HIM. That's when I realized that all those bootprints and bullet holes on the door we were just then hanging, were from hapless managers shooting themselves in the foot.