Sorry folks, I'm a little behind in getting this column started. I blame Baby Huey, whom I hate with a passion.

To be truthful, his name isn't Baby Huey, but that's what everyone at work calls him. He's the boss' son, and he gets paid to sit around and do nothing. It's not as if he won't do anything, it's just that daddy has spoiled him stupid- leaving this 19 year old unqualified to flip burgers at McDonald's. Ask him to do something, and he'll just screw it up. In fact, here he comes now, probably to deliver some message from daddy.

"Uhhhh....", he rumbles, his miniscule brain preparing itself for the arduous task of speaking. I sit at my desk at work, waiting impatiently for Baby Huey to form a cohesive sentence.

"Marty.... my dad knows you're homeless right now, but he doesn't want you to spend your off-hours sleeping here anymore."

"How is that any different from what I do during my on-hours?", I ask. Knowing that he'll be a while processing that bit of info, I leave my desk and attend to the task I've been given today- wiping down all the computer keyboards in the office. You see, my boss is a neat freak- he believes the presence of grime reduces his chances of immortality.
He wanders into my cubicle this morning and manages to knock over a stack of papers (he's as swift as his son) and mewls, "Marty... the keyboards in this office are FILTHY! Get some cleaner and attend to this matter promptly, without fail!"

When his back is turned, I give him the finger and wonder who is stupider, him or me for staying here. Deciding that I'd gotten enough sleep anyway, I grabbed the nearest bottle of 409 glass cleaner and set to work scrubbing every keyboard. At least I get the chance to ogle Daisy, the boss' secretary (and daughter)- Did I mention that nepotism runs rampant around here?

When I get to Daisy's desk, I notice that she's whimpering softly and tears are streaming down her cheeks. I pay no attention to this, as Daisy tends to cry whenever she realizes she has actual work to do. Nonchalantly, I grab the back of her chair and shove her out of my way as I attend to the keyboard.

"Marty," She sobs. "My husband left me!" Briefly, I stop scrubbing the backspace key to take that in. "Um, Daisy- You aren't married." By now, her mascara has smeared and she largely resembles a crazed raccoon. "I know- My boyfriend was someone else's husband! He left me to go back to his wife!", she wails. I realize this is a delicate situation that must be handled with tact, so I make sure she sees me shrug indifferently, and I reply to her in soft, condescending tones. "Don't worry, Daisy. There are plenty of other equally inappropriate men you can date."

She runs out the door in hysterics- this gives me the chance to give her behind a good look.

 Baby, I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave! At this point Baby Huey staggers up to me and grunts, "Uhhh... Marty... My dad wants to know what you used on the keyboards."

I hold up the bottle of 409 and speak slowly so that he'll understand.

 "Four...Oh...Nine...Glass... Clean...er." I feel like I'm on Sesame Street, except that four year olds are smarter than this lummox. "Uuhhh... he says everything has a "funky 409 feel" to it, so he wants you to clean all the keyboards again with Windex."

"Let me get this straight, you knuckle-dragging Cro-Magnon. Your poppa wants a NAUTICAL THEME to impress clients who PAVE THE HIGHWAYS?" I am turning beet red now, and as I look around I see heads peering over the tops of cubicles. I notice some of them are already wearing little sailor hats. Disgusting!

"Uuuhhh... he says it's cutting edge.", rumbles this pigmy-brained leviathan. God, I hate this job. Someday there will be retribution like this world's never seen...

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