Couch Doog: A Theory of Strategic Inaction
I have recently discovered an advanced management technique.
It requires no Six Sigma certification.
No leadership seminar.
No laminated flowchart.
No motivational poster featuring a mountain climber who has clearly never worked second shift.
It is called:
Couch Doog.
The procedure is simple.
If couch is there,
Doog lay on couch.
If Doog lay on couch long enough,
Doog become couch.
Once Doog become couch,
Doog do nothing.
This sounds like laziness.
It is not.
It is the final evolutionary stage of an employee who has finally learned what happens when he takes the phrase “take initiative” too seriously.
The Ancient Ways
Young employees believe workplaces reward initiative.
See problem.
Fix problem.
See something strange.
Investigate strange thing.
Someone needs help?
Help them.
Something isn't your responsibility but you could probably handle it?
Congratulations.
You have just accepted a side quest.
There will be no XP.
There will be no loot.
There may, however, be paperwork.
Enter Doog
Couch Doog understands something I did not.
Before doing anything, Doog asks several important questions:
Was I told to do this?
No.
Is this my assigned responsibility?
No.
Has the person whose responsibility it actually is already been notified?
Yes.
Doog examines the available evidence.
Doog considers the potential consequences.
Doog performs a sophisticated risk analysis.
Then:
Doog lay the fuck back down.
Doog Does Not Investigate
Something weird happened down the hallway?
Fascinating.
Doog has a couch.
Somebody may have violated a rule?
Interesting.
Doog has informed the appropriate person.
Management hasn't answered the email yet?
Extraordinarily compelling.
Doog checks phone.
No notification.
Doog returns phone to table.
Doog become couch.
This is not apathy.
This is scope control.
Corporate America pays consultants thousands of dollars to teach concepts like this.
Doog learned it because somebody left a comfortable piece of furniture unattended.
The Side Quest Economy
Every workplace contains optional content.
Some of it looks important.
Some of it looks urgent.
Some of it begins with:
“Hey, can you just—”
NO.
Jerry has played this expansion pack before.
The quest marker appears harmless.
You walk fifteen feet down the hallway.
Four hours later you're explaining your decision-making process to someone holding a clipboard.
Meanwhile Couch Doog remains exactly where you left him.
No incident report.
No investigation.
No meeting.
No email titled FOLLOW-UP REGARDING INCIDENT.
Doog's personnel file remains immaculate.
The Doog Decision Tree
The official decision tree contains exactly three branches.
Problem belongs to Doog?
Doog handle problem.
Problem belongs to somebody else?
Doog tell somebody else.
Somebody else now knows?
COUCH.
That's it.
There is no fourth branch labeled:
“Perhaps Jerry should become personally invested in this situation.”
That branch has been permanently removed from production.
Become Couch
It took me an embarrassing amount of employment history to understand this.
Not every problem needs my fingerprints on it.
Not every silence needs filling.
Not every unanswered email needs another email.
Not every workplace mystery requires Detective Germin.
Sometimes you've reported the problem.
Sometimes you've answered the question.
Sometimes you've submitted the paperwork.
Sometimes you've made the phone call.
At that point, there is no further move.
The board belongs to somebody else.
Your turn is over.
And somewhere in the distance, atop a battered sofa covered in animal-cracker crumbs, a very wise dog opens one eye.
He has seen this before.
He knows exactly what must be done.
Nothing.
Absolutely fucking nothing.
Doog do no wrong.
Best Doog.
— Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand