On the one hand, the current Col. Tigh from Battlestar Galactica is just a bitter, washed-up, one-eyed drunk of a bastard who's of no real use to anyone but the person who manages to grow grains on spaceships and ferment them into sweet, sweet brown liquor. On the other hand, Tigh's a useful reality check to anyone who's feeling too good or too damned sentimental. I wish I had a Tigh at work, sometimes. I'm too much of an Adama. I could really use a good Tigh...

Subordinate: "Hey, my daughter's sick and my wife's out of town.  Can I go and take her to the hospital?"
Me: "Well, I supp-"
Tigh steps in the doorway: "Sick? What the frak do you know about sick? Do you know what they did to my eye?!"

I could see the advantages a one-eyed drunk would have.  Hubris would be a thing of the past.

Section wins prestigious quarterly award. We're happy.

Subordinate: "See? I told you we're the fucking hotness! Eat it, fuckles! Fucking eat it!"
Me: "Fuck yeah!"
Tigh, from out of nowhere: "Ohhh, so you're the best, eh? What the frak do you know about being the best? I spent four months on that gods-forsaken planet with those cylon bastards. We were blowing ourselves up, for frak's sake! Do you know what they did to my eye?!"

Having stamped out goldbricking and arrogance, Tigh would quickly move on to useless bitching.

Student: "I don't see why we have to wear these gay-ass safety glasses. They're so scratched up I can't see shit. They're fucking useless."
Me: "Why? Because the fucking T.O.-"
Tigh rises from behind an aircraft tire, servicing kit in hand: "Why? I'll tell you why, you frakking ungrateful little bastards! We're evil men in the gardens of paradise, sent by the forces of death to spread devastation and destruction wherever we go. I'm surprised you didn't know that."
Me: "I couldn't have said it much better my-"
Tigh rises from the tire again, ">And do you know what they did to my eye?!"
Me: "That's why you always wear safety glasses, kids."

Hell, screw real life. Tigh makes almost anything better.  He's like the Rooster Sauce of Sci-Fi.

The Architect: "Ergo, vis-a-vis, anomaly, construct, ergo."
Tigh: "What the frak are you going on about, Mister?"
The Architect: "Anomaly, chaos, butterfly, wings, tornado, Guatemala."
Tigh: "You call yourself a frakking architect?" Tigh bitch-slaps The Architect out of his seat.  As the bearded man cowers on the floor, Tigh towers over him. "You are not an Architect, Mister! You're not fit to wear that suit!"
The Architect, spitting blood: "Status quo, equation, critical flaw."
Tigh: "My flaws are personal. Yours are professional. Now shut the frak up before I put a bullet between your eyes, you miserable bastard."

Beat.

"And speaking of eyes, do you know what they did to my eye?!"

Paul slowly getting more in touch with his "Tigh" side.

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