We Come to the River

This afternoon I listened to a bloated buffoon, obviously inebriated by the vast quantity of newspeak and jugs of jargon he had recently swallowed, pontificate floridly on the subject of "workflow"; as if work were some sort of mountainous river in the wilderness whose treacherous white water rapids can only be safely navigated by recourse to powerpoint presentations and computer databases provided by trained consultants from specialized departments.
Ah, but you see, I know my own river pretty well already: I've explored and discovered the source; I've already mapped all the tributaries; I've dredged the estuary.
And I tell you this: it's bloody polluted. Just like all the others.

Comments

[The Misspent Life]

Sounds like you could have been talking to one of my coworkers. I put together a slide on workflow today, in fact.

[Outer Life]

You were visited by a modern snake oil salesman, traveling from corporation to corporation, living out of his brief case, peddling wondrous elixirs and potions in colorful bottles (or in the form of Powerpoint slides) concocted to regulate the humors, cure what ails you, summon love from the coldest heart, alleviate the dropsy and control the work flow.