Conversations with my intern

The bullpen area outside of my office is home to a rotating band of production assistants (PAs) and interns. The PAs are paid staff members and are generally kickass individuals. One PA is a wannabe screenwriter who can't stop kissing my ass by writing unsolicited coverage for me on untold numbers of writing samples. The other is a long-haired Wisconsin pothead who is a veteran of 101 Phish shows. The interns, however, are an entirely different story, for they tend to be the wayward, spoiled sons and daughters of The Big Man's filthy rich friends. Remember my First Commandment-- Hollywood is NOT a meritocracy.

The current inhabitant of the intern desk is a brash, attention-starved, gaudily tatooed, drugged-out whiner of an 18-year old boy who happens to have a rich, powerful father. Instead of doing the grunt work that thousands of film students would give their left nut to perform without complaint in hope of earning their way up the food chain, this fool spends all day on MySpace trolling for goth chicks and playing a selection of death metal off his iTunes that he sings along with in a gratingly off-key voice. Evidently, his rich, powerful father contacted the rich, powerful president of our company and practically begged him to employ his son. Like, calling-in-all-favors begging. So punk-boy got a 2 month trial gig, which all of us in the surrounding offices are PRAYING does not turn into a permanent stay.

This morning at 9:30, the sleep barely out of my eyes, the coffee having not yet completed it's first lap through my circulatory system, I walked into work and this moron, by way of a morning greeting offers this:

"Hey guess what? I got my dick pierced last night."

I'm telling you, I'd rather have the retarded black guy who cleans the office kitchen sit outside my office door and talk to himself for hours on end. Oh wait, that happens too.