Putting a Bob in his place.

During my stint at the Midwestern-based, family-owned video store we had a steady string of new management coming in, disappearing, and hastily being replaced. Far be it from me to judge their recruitment strategy, but they had an issue with turnover.

So before we had Ol' Jim B. we had Jeremy S., a small, lean, metro-looking guy as our District Manager. The girls called him "Ken," as in "Barbie &..." I didn't mind Jeremy because he hardly ever came to our store; I think we were pretty far from his home base. When he did come, he was pretty quiet and didn't bother me much. So really he was Aces as far as I was concerned.

One guy in our store didn't like Jeremy, though. Cliff was a big, tall loudmouth transplanted from Atlanta, GA to the Midwest. He was a 6'2 red-haired white guy who talked like Method Man and was always running his mouth about something. This guy had a story for every single minute of his life, and all of them were bullshit. Still, they were good stories and he was pretty fun to work with so Cliff and I were pals. He had blown up at his store manager two towns over and had been transferred to us.

For some reason though, Cliff didn't like Jeremy. And part of his dislike centered on Jeremy's alleged proficiency at karate or judo or something. It smelled of bullshit, but maybe that's because no one ever knew exactly what martial art he was supposed to be studying. But he would brag about "competitions" and "tournaments" and things.

- I'd like to stop right here and give you a word of advice. If you're going to start an ornate and intricate lie about some weird pass-time that you have, make it believable. Even Bruce Lee wins a karate fight with some bruises and scratches. You can't show up perfectly manicured and completely unscathed claiming to have just one some sort of fighting tournament. -

Cliff was ex-Army (well, he claimed to be, but his Army knowledge was more synonymous with "I read a lot of websites" than "I went through Basic Training") and I guess at some point Jeremy had made a joke about taking him down as some sort of test of might.

Cliff never let it go. Every time Jeremy was in our store he badgered him about wanting to spar or just straight up fight to prove his mettle. Jeremy was pretty good about laughing it off and deflecting, but one day I guess Cliff got under his skin.

"And what if we DO fight, Cliff?" Do you really think you'll beat me? I train every day."

"Jeremy. If we fight, I will kill you."

"What?"

"I. Will. Kill. You."

Jeremy didn't get it yet, and thought this was some macho hyperbole as to just how badly Cliff would beat him in a match. In actuality, Cliff was openly threatening to murder our District Manager. I was intrigued.

"There's no way, Cliff. You don't even know martial arts."

"I don't need to. Jeremy, if we're going to spar for points, you'll win. You know all that shit and I don't know any of it."

"Well then-"

"But when you say you could kick my ass in a fight I have to prove you wrong. And if I fight I'm not going to fight for points and I'm not going to use technique. I'm going to pick up that computer over there and smash it over your head. Then I'm going to choke you to death. Because that's what fighting is, Jeremy. Fighting is trying to disable or destroy your opponent before they can do the same to you. No points."

That last bit might've been from a movie, because it was way too eloquent for Cliff to have come up with on the spot like that.

Regardless, Jeremy was stunned. Completely speechless. He muttered a half-hearted "Yeah, whatever" mostly under his breath and went back to a very important clipboard he was holding. Cliff and I went back to restocking movies.

Later that day when Jeremy had left I bought Cliff dinner. I remember telling him he was my hero.

What's in a name?

"So, what's up with the name?"

If you work (or more appropriately, worked) at the same company as a lot of contributors to this blog, you know that Bob is synonymous with Beelzebub. A corporate streamliner type, his sole existence is predicated on measuring every facet of your life through a system of metrics, reducing your life to a small stain of data on a MS Excel spreadsheet.

But Bob doesn't just exist in our company. He's part of the corporate canon everywhere. He's the out of touch executive shaking your hand and calling you someone else's name. He's the bizarrely and frantically dedicated middle manager whose very life revolves around the company and his/her job. He's the explicitly evil soulless corporate shill whose idea of moving up the ladder is stepping on your face to get a leg up. In short, he (or she) is the person you look at each day in the office and think to yourself, "Jesus, what a fucking Bob."

Bob isn't everything we don't like about corporate culture. Annoying receptionists aren't Bobs, they're just people with severe personality defects clinging to the only job they can keep. That ridiculous co-worker who can't chew with her mouth closed and jumps into every conversation as if she's the foremost authority on whatever the subject may be isn't a Bob. She's just an ass. And the creepy guy who talks to no one and stalks through the office like a scared civet isn't a Bob. He's just creepy.

So we're not about picking on the zany characters in the office (although hearing great stories about their glaring faults is always welcome). Our main focus here is to tear down the Bobs. The corporate types. The shills. The "outside consultants." The people who take a perfectly good company and turn it into a joyless, metrics-driven hell hole.

That's what we're about here at TOTB. Fuck the Bobs. If you're interested in contributing, email us at thinkoutsidethebob@gmail.com.

It's time to think outside the Bob

Corporate America is sucking our souls right out of our bodies.

So why are so many of us sticking around? Why are we working jobs that we hate only to be devastated when we're laid off or fired?

Because we need health insurance. Or we like the people that we work WITH, just not the ones we work for. And of course, rent isn't gonna pay itself.

So you've got to whore yourself to the machine just a little bit. It's okay. There's no shame in it; we've all done it. This is a place of healing.

Thinking Outside the Bob (or TOTB) will be a place for you to vent, to read how bad others have it, and to just get away from the soul-crushing reality of corporate life.

You might not be able to escape it just yet, but you can bitch about it here.

More to come on the meaning behind the name, (hopefully) additional authors and updates, and articles/anecdotes/out and out lies about what makes office life so god awful.