I am often very thankful that there is very little Dilbertness in my patch of the cube farm. My boss is most decidedly not of the pointy-haired variety. None of the people in my group show any signs of Wallyness, though we do have a resident Alice. Her Fist of Death is generally used on those who deserve it, but we all stay on her good side just to be sure.

The other day, though, I felt as though I’d been suddenly plunged into that nightmarish world of Scott Adams’ fevered imagination. I had a conversation that, even having had a few days to digest, still makes my head spin. It was easily the most maddening one I’ve had in months.

To be fair to my boss, this nonsense was decided elsewhere, somewhere higher up the food chain. A level, where, I am told, there are strange and terrible artifacts beyond our mortal comprehension like "offices with doors" and "windows"; these totems of power, it is said, are so potent as to render nigh infallible those who are entrusted with them. It’s like some sort of psychological version of Clarke’s Third Law: the thought processes of those with sufficiently advanced careers are indistinguishable from illogic. We of humbler station, who could not possibly hope to perceive the Greater Purpose, must simply hear and obey.