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H. B. Junior

The elevator opens and the crowd of people step out.  Everyone scatters out like horses to the races.  One person is the the phone nodding, and is trying to expalain some technical matter to the other on the recieving end of the phone.  He walks down the hall, and by the time he gets to this desk he has taken four more calls.   Sitting down in a humph he counts to three before he tackels the seeming streemling line of emails of questons, checkins, and FYI meetings  request  (oh those dreaded meetings).  
This man strikes at the body of work that seems to regrow two heads as one is clearly lopped off.  And with each click of the mouse, each click of the hung up phone he dreams of his oasis of that is known as his couch.  Paradise to this mouse jockey is a peck on the cheek from his wife, and 80 miles between him and work.
Dreams wander to his list of primtime action shows ( oh leverage and USA shows thou art the guilty pleasure), the occasional vidoe game or MMO play ( frag or farm that is the question).  Or simply the one hour commute home filled with the wonders of the podcasts he downloaded the last night.
That guy is me!

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