If there’s any thing I hate more than having to go to another branch and doing other people’s work, it’s having to go another branch and doing other people’s work for people who a) have some stupid fucked up name their parents thought was creative and b) do jack shit because they  have very important personal lives and also figure they’re off the hook now that the cavalry is there.

Case in point, Kamily — yes Kamily – a woman of maybe 35 who looked like Henry Rollins’ homely younger sister and did nothing but twirl her tragic blonde poodle perm around her finger while staring at me all goddamn day.

“Whatcha working on over there, Kamily?” I asked after catching her staring at me for the third time in an hour.

“Nothing,” she rasped in her steroid enhanced man voice. “I’ve got cramps.”

Probably from her testicles trying to descend.

“Well what say you try checking these reports for errors?”

“I’m having a hard time focusing today.”

Probably preoccupied with the tracheal shave she had scheduled after work.

“How are you with at least looking busy?”

Kamily stared at me a few moments before tearing up. “I miss my babies,” she brayed in her husky man voice as huge watermelon sized tears fell from her HENRY, PORTRAIT OF A SERIAL KILLER eyes.

Her babies?

Oh lord — the “woman” couldn’t work because she missed her cats! Fan-fucking-tastic. Ugly and crazy.

At that moment, almost on cue, one of the most gorgeous men on God’s green earth — and we’re talking John Stamos gorgeous here, people — entered the office pushing a stroller with two adorable rosy cheeked twins .

“Oh, honey,” Kamily brayed as she rushed over and planted a big sloppy kiss on his handsome cheek. “How’d you know I was missing them?”

*record scratch*

Mary, clutch the pearls!

My senses were reeling as I realized that not only did Adonis knew the shambling man-beast but he wasn’t turning heel and running in the other direction, shrieking like a nine-year-old girl. I stopped working, trying to process the visual conundrum before me.

Could the poor bastard be insane?

Perhaps he was legally blind.

Or marginally retarded. You know, like most football players.

If he wasn’t borderline special needs, then the only other explanation was that Ugh-Ugh had been doing her kegels and knew some really good sex tricks. Either that or her vuh-geen was gold-plated and lined in mink.

“I’m going to take a break now that my babies are here,” she-hulk rasped as she and tall, dark, and dumb as a stump toddled off toward the break room for what turned out to be a 35 minute 15 minute break.

“What are your kids names? ” I asked when she finally returned.

“Jerry and Elaine.”

*record scratch – part deux*

“You named your kids after SEINFELD characters?”

“No. Everyone always asks that. They’re named after my husband’s father and my mother,” she huffed…and then proceeded to cry off and on the rest of the day (and the remainder of the week) as she whined about how much she missed her precious spawn.

Which suddenly told me a lot about why none of the work was done and also why I could never marry a woman.