Thursday, March 1, 2018

Resist the urge

Let's say you're at the Rose Bowl with a close friend, and you have something you have to talk about with them. Something personal, private. You figure with all the hootin' and hollerin' at the game, the two of you can have the conversation fairly discreetly.

I'm guessing what you don't do is run down to the center of the field with your friend, position yourself in front of the same microphone the sixth-place runner up on The Voice from season three used to sing the Star Spangled Banner, and have that private conversation loud and clear in front of 90,000 people.

Because if you did, it'd be that kind of squirmy uncomfortable and even irritating for the thousands who paid triple scalper prices to be there to watch the game, not listen to your sad life problems.

That's more or less what it feels like when people at work hit Reply All to work emails.

First of all, I love email as much as the next guy. Alright, not so much the ones trying to sell me Viagra or send me my hundred-million dollar inheritance from an Egyptian prince once they receive my bank account and social security numbers. Who falls for that stuff?

By the way, that check should be here any day now.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Emails that aren't strictly business matters at work are for the most part unnecessary. You know the ones I mean. The one or two word ones, that, for some reason, the people sending them feel need to go out to all 245 company employees in the email directory.

"Have a good weekend!"

"Great job!"

"Did the client see it?"

"Lunch?"

"Can you believe this weather?"

"Did you see La La Land?"

"Want to go for a walk?"

How about a long one off a short plank.

For whatever reason, people are too lazy to look at which button they're hitting when they reply. At least I hope they are. It's just too sad to think they want everyone in on their conversation.

And by the way, if the two people who are engaged in the conversation and are replying to all with their personal chit chat are actually friends, can't they just pry their fat derrieres out of their ergonomically enhanced Herman Miller Aeron chair and walk fifteen feet down the hall to the long, open office seating table and talk to their friend face to face?

Don't get me started.

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