Sometimes, work has poor form.
Imagine, if you will, an office. Any office will do. And, like most offices, it on occasion needs supplies, such that they might be acquired from a stockroom downstairs. Sometimes the stockroom can send up someone to bring stock to you; other times, it must be done from the office's end, which means sending someone downstairs with a cart, getting the supplies, and coming back upstairs.
Usually, this "someone" is me, because I am a stunning example of manliness and testosterone just waiting to be exploited. And if you're laughing at that, then you would be correct in doing so. See this picture? This picture is totally not me. Nonetheless, I usually have nothing better to do, and a little walking and exercise does me well, so I go. Borrow mail cart, go downstairs, get some boxes, come back up, and voila.
So what happens when I'm not there?
The answer, I've discovered, is not "someone else does it". The answer is "we'll wait as long as it takes for him to get back and then make him do it and tell him to rush it for good measure."
Ooooooookay then. Fine, fine. I'll play your game, because I am such a swirling hunk of machismo that this does not faze me. Until I realize that it's still early and there are no mail carts available yet. Hmmmm. Even my incredibly ripped physique is not capable of carrying several full boxes of supplies up to the office. So I ask for someone to help out.
Let's just say that was one of the least positively-received questions I have ever asked, ever. Ever ever. Let's also say that despite that, I did acquire all the necessary materials, because my biggest muscle is not my twenty-five-inch quads, but rather the gray mushy stuff in my skull. It's all in the engineering, baby.
My only justification is that I'll be gone for two weeks after this, and I have a big box of chocolates on my desk and
12 14 17
21 bottles of booze that I most certainly am not sharing with anyone here. Mine! My preciouses!( The Meme Of Fours. Yes, I Am A Tool. Shut Up. )