We open with a brief bit of pony dialogue, for the simple reason that it (almost) fits the subject of this post:
“I could arrange for you to meet with the Crusaders,” Twilight teased. “They’re bound to come up with something someday.”
Brush snorted. “I thought you said they weren’t obsessed with getting their cutie marks.”
“Well, they’re not, really, but they wonder, and I don’t blame them, how some filly like Diamond Tiara already has hers and the only talent she seems to have is annoying everypony.”
“We have individuals like that too. They’re called middle management.”
In response to this post, which endorsed Fillyjonk’s plea to be left alone to do her job, we have this report from the front lines by Francis W. Porretto:
Whenever I’ve been in a hiring position, which is most of my forty-five years in my trade, I’ve looked for two things: raw intelligence and a kind of joyful aggression. You can’t manufacture the former, but you can elicit the latter and embed it in conditions that will bring it to fullest flower. Those conditions require mainly that management at all levels stay the hell out of the employee’s way.
Management, as you may expect, doesn’t respond well to this sort of thing:
In consequence, most middle managers purely hate me and wish I were dead. I’m okay with that, as I have no desire to enter middle management. (Frankly, I’d rather drive needles into my eyes than spend my time doing what they seem to do all day, every day. Meetings. Conference trips. Reports. PowerPoint presentations. Ick!)
I thrive in my current position, partly because of raw intelligence, maybe a little of that joyful-aggression thing, but also because 42nd and Treadmill is small enough not to have meddlers of this sort: I may be on the lowest level of the org chart, but there are only two people between me and the CEO. That doesn’t leave a whole lot of room for middle-management malfeasance.