Author: R.

My father was a corporate lawyer in the restaurant industry for years.
He retired to run a glass business.
But he failed to send in the company’s share of income taxes.
The IRS was on his ass, and he reached a settlement with them.
So, I helped.
After that, he did his best to sink his fangs into me, trying to sucker me into power of attorney and responsibility.
I said no and cut him off.
I should have let the IRS deal throw him in prison.
It would have been cheaper than the old fraud running up Medicare expenses.

It used to be that to find out what your users wanted, you asked them.
You brought them in to a focus group or you sent out a survey.
Then, companies started to monitor sales figures and markets.
After that, they developed A/B testing, and moved on to behavior-tracking analytics.
In the end, the people projecting their wants and needs on to the data were no better than the Greek augurs who played around with bird guts, or the old women who chewed wacky weed and called themselves oracles.
That’s what the users tell me when I ask them.

The last job I had, it felt like I was drawing a line with one hand and erasing it with the other.
Every project I put any effort into got delayed or canceled.
And if a delayed project were put back in play, I’d put effort into it until it would be delayed again or canceled.
Endless meetings to discuss the next project to get canceled.
I felt like I wasn’t accomplishing anything.
“You’re doing great,” they said. “Keep up the good work.”
The only work I was doing was keeping from blowing up.
And cashing paychecks every two weeks.

Even though my cat can go out in the enclosed patio and enjoy lying in the sun and watching birds, she still howls at the front door to be allowed to go out and roll on the grass. Flipping and flopping, stretching her legs, peeking up her ears at all the sounds. When birds fly to the birdfeeder or squirrels chirp their displeasure, she runs at the tree, climbs up, and scares them off. Then she runs back down the tree to the grass, tuck up, close her eyes and enjoys her last few moments of freedom for the day.

Lexie was in her pajamas when she read the memo on her laptop.
“Return To Office” was the subject line.
The managers found managing remote employees too difficult.
Despite the improvements in productivity and employee retention.
So, instead of getting better managers, they wanted all the employees back in the office.
Lexie got dressed and returned the laptop to the office.
And she accepted an offer from another company.
Who didn’t have an obsessive return to office fetish.
She left a note on the laptop:
Thank you for stabbing me in the back.
No, you cannot have the knife back.

When I got drafted out of college, I was the new kid on the team.
Some of the returning players saw me as a threat to their jobs, and they hazed and pranked me, and they did nothing to help me.
But the veterans who were at the end of their careers saw an opportunity in me.
To teach me all they’d learned and how to make me a better player and person.
Not only did it help me, but it helped them when they retired and were looking for coaching jobs.
Which is why I’m helping you now, kid.

Some professor at some university discovered a new galaxy.
No other scientist had seen it before.
Until this guy did.
I think it was a guy. Could have been a chick.
The professor did research and published it, and got a lot of congratulations for it.
And named the galaxy something, I don’t remember what the name is.
You can tell I don’t really care about this shit.
What the fuck does a galaxy millions and billions of light years away matter?
I’m here. Right now. You are too.
Has anything changed now that we know that galaxy is there?

We like to disguise interrogators as Red Cross or lawyers or reporters, and they’d ask the prisoner if they wanted to send anything out to their family or the media.
More often then not, the prisoner would try to send out a message to their group.
Didn’t matter if it was encoded. We’d broken all their codes.
Then we’d shoot the prisoner, say they died trying to escape.
And round up the people they’d given up in their message.
So, you coming in here, ready to defend me against these war crimes charges…
I know your game. I ain’t playin’.

Every four years, the theme park’s engineers build robots for the exhibit with the robotic presidents.
They build the two partys’ candidates, vice presidents too.
So they’re ready for any circumstance in November.
The mechanisms are easy, they have dozens on the shelf that can be easily adjusted for height.
And the clothes can be padded to match their build.
It’s the faces that are the hardest… sculpting and molding and painting them.
Recording the voices is also easy. These people have been reading from a teleprompter for years.
And then, the reveal… and the park guests cheer and boo.