It's That Time of Year

This punk needs a wedgie or a lap-dance. Or both.

There's been an influx/overflow of hourly-paid, under-aged chilluns in the office: interns. How to spot an intern? They're eager, tireless, think it's really cool that they get their own extension, and don't have dark bags under their eyes.

They don't have names. They don't have lives. You know this because instead of stealing beers from their parent's fridge, they are copy/pasting every sticky noted packet of papers you personally send their way. Just because you cannnn. Suckers.

But they are the missing link in twenty-something step ladder. If you wanna hit a stride and not a gimp, you definitely want one of these coveted internships.

Internship is pretty dumb. Say good-bye to waking up at 2pm only to lay around in your bikini for a few hours. And say hello to losing your sense of worth. Play 'real life' for three months, do grunt work tasks like filing papers that will be shredded, and act like you're 100% enthralled at the honor to be in the presence of a pissant salesman who can't spell 'orange'.

Some interns (ahem, like moi), were lucky enough to get paid for their troubles. Of course they loved me. The Office invited me back for the two following summers because I basically bent over to their every wish and command, thinking "Gee whiz, I'm really making a difference!" In retrospect. It's a waste of motivation. But at least I got to by-pass the interview come college graduation. Fast forward one year and here's Shattuck, making her twenty-something debut. With a bang.

And btw...thanks Hanks for this incredible site suggestion. Total cube veteran representing. Write this down interns. Write this down.