They file, they staple, they Post-it.
They answer emails with excited (and annoying) exclamation points. They live for meetings, and are generally the first one to pop out of their cubicle and bubble, "Hey, are we still having that meeting?!" Answer: Yes, but you're the only one that can't wait. I'll be there as soon as I'm done filling my Netflix queue.
They feverishly take notes (about what?) and then file their legal-sized sheets outlining hours of worthless meetings away (never to be seen or referenced again, but hey, they're office monkeys -- that's what they do).
They hover around, anxious to discuss the same thing they always discuss. The same drone office talk. They have fake laughs. They strain to keep obviously ended conversations going (leave already, I'm trying to check my Myspace).
The casual Friday uniform: Jeans (pressed), dress shoes (tassles likely) and the predictable college-I-graduated-from collared shirt.
And they're just not that smart. They have a routine (see above), and God forbid it changes, they can't handle. They can't help you with anything extra, but will be over-enthusiastic about offering to (which you will politely decline because you don't want to have to do it over).
Office monkeys get my panties in a bunch. But they have their OK days, because at least you know who to hand off the drudgingly boring tasks to (which they'll happily take on with an exclamation point)...