There comes a certain quality of life change when you realise that you do not, cannot, will not care anymore.
My employer, like many others, has a "zero tolerance" policy toward sexual harassment, discrimination, and unethical behaviour. Unfortunately for Corporate Office, the district manager here is running a Good Ole Boy Club. One of our assistant managers was caught, literally walked up on while he was in the store manager's office, surfing pornography on the internet. Earlier that week he had been caught printing out material gleaned from the internet, describing "How To Please Your Woman." He had forgotten it on the colour laser printer that we print store signs on.
I personally witnessed him harassing the other assistant manger, a woman, telling her she was too old to work in retail and that this was not a place for a woman. All this was reported to the district manager, from multiple sources, both in interviews and by written statements. The district manager did nothing. Wait, scratch that--he gave BOTH of them a write-up, because they fight all the time.
Today, quite by accident, I found out that the assistant manager in question has been personally altering his timecard 'punches' to make his late entries into work dissapear, and to make his shifts seem longer.
Did I tell anyone?
Do I think anything is going to be done about it?
Zero tolerance my ass. Corporate America needs to get off it's suited ass and take a look at what happens down around it's feet, or is it too tall to see that far anymore?
Oh, and I hear through the rumour mill that a certain reader of this blog (yes, YOU) likes it a lot when I talk about Pouch. I can't help it, that's how I've been conditioned to think of it. Pouch. Not "the pouch," not "catfood in a pouch," not even "that damnably wasteful seriously expensive pouch food that they don't need because that freaking dry food is plenty good and expensive enough." Just Pouch. Pouch: It's the real thing. Have Pouch and a smile. Pouch--can't stop the feeling.
Same as the cats, I've been conditioned (does the name "Pavlov" ring a bell?,) except that I don't eat it, I just ignore the fact that it transpires in my house every morning upon the wife's awakening. It's not my fault that the cats either don't bother to tell us apart or think that one day, One Magical Day, Daddy is going to reach up in the Magic Cupboard and produce (perhaps with a flourish) Pouch for all the good kitties.
Not gonna happen.
Nope, not gonna Pouch the cats. No Pouch for kitties from Daddy. Nopey no. Unh-uh. Nada. Zilch. Nil Pouch. Pouch over.