My Job Is Designed to Destroy Me

I think my job is secretly plotting to annihilate my mind. I spent the past two hours inserting the words "small," "large," "marginal" and "in range" into incredibly long, nearly meaningless text files. Next, I had an argument with an indian coworker over which directory I should place and update a computer program. I think we almost came to fists when we started arguing over the merits of /home/akbar/opt/lscsoft versus /home/akbar/opt/lscsoft/src.
In the meantime, the theme song to the fraggles was playing in the background. I think I would most like to have a doozer as a pet, if I had to choose a fraggles character as my pet. They are clean and industrious, and build everything out of futuristic, transparent linkin logs. Those are both attributes I would enjoy in a pet. I hypothesize that they eat plastic, probably unrecyclable plastic at that. The by-product would probably be the very same plastic beams they make everything out of. If I had a cat, I think the doozers might ride the cat like a small steed (assuming they would deign to step out of their tiny construction vehicles).

Clearly, my professor is away and has given me no work. That is why we speak of fraggles.