There is a scene in one of Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey-Maturin novels where a supposedly erudite man picks up Maturin's narwhal horn and proclaims it to be the horn of a unicorn. Claims he's seen the same thing before in the Arabian desert, or some such.
Now, the scene is the captain's cabin of an 1815 Royal Navy privateer, with letter of marque, but the point obtains. How many times a day do you see people defend the indefensible, too fucking stubborn to admit they are wrong, or full of shit?
My corporate environment is a Petri dish teeming with these bacteria, these amoebic fucks. The bad thing is, if the buy-in is beneficial to enough swinging dicks it becomes ingrained, and immortalized and immemorialized as The Truth. And bad decisions result.
Every now and then I raise my hand, and cry foul. But don't tell the Emperor he not only has no clothes, but a button mushroom for a cock. That doesn't play in Peoria. And it makes Velociman an Enemy of the Organization.
Remember that bubble in the '60's television series The Prisoner, with Patrick McGoohan? You stray, that clear bubble tracked you down, swallowed you, and brought you back to the compound. I see several of those bubbles in the rearview mirror every day. And like McGoohan, I always think I can outrun them. But I'm just another Number Six.