Welcome back to Intern Horrors, the weekly feature where interns sound off about horrible bosses and bosses sound off about horrible interns. Today: ice cream runs in Tinseltown, clogging toilets in Vegas, and more. Let's do it to it. Sic'd and sick.
This is not an intern horror story so much as it is a mailroom clerk at a talent agency horror story.
I'll allow it.
My first job out of college (turns out majoring in history is fucking useless) was as a mailroom clerk at the Beverly Hills talent agency, we'll call it Untied Talent Agency, as I began my half-hearted attempt to begin the next Ari gold Working in the mailroom seemed like a sad start to my working life until I found out one of my mailroom peers had recently graduated from THE Ohio State University with a JD/MBA...and was now making $8 hour in fucking Los Angeles. $8 barely gets you a hand job on Skid Row.
Anyways, my time in the mailroom was spent delivering mail throughout the office (shockingly), making copies, and running random errands for agents and their assistants. One such random errand went as follows:
The head of the mailroom, Chris, gets off the phone and quickly relays the message that two of us minions need to run to Mcdonalds immediately. A partner at the company was having a meeting in 15 minutes and had decided that attendees needed to be served delicious Flurries. One of my mailroom peers and I unwisely volunteer and head off in car towards McDonalds, needing to pick up 15 McFlurries.
We arrive at the McDonalds and place our order for a wide variety of McFlurries about T-5 minutes before the partner's meeting and praying McDonalds has mastered the art of quickly producing frozen goodness. However, our request for 15 McFlurries apparently causes some kind of logjam in the McFlurry making process and these fuckers are taking forever come out. Meanwhile, Chris, who was infamous for being spontaneously irrational, begins calling my cellphone wondering where the fuck the McFlurries are. The pit crew in the back of the McDonalds finally churns out our McFlurries after about 20 minutes, and we head back to the mailroom.
In effort to save time, I call the mailroom as we pull up to the office building and request backup to help me carry the McFlurries so my co-worker can park his car. Chris responds, "YOU CAN'T CARRY 15 FUCKING MCFLURRIES BY YOURSELF???" and hangs up the phone. We park and head upstairs, now a solid 30 minutes past our 15 minute timeline, our McFlurries rapidly melting, and expecting to encounter the wrath of an agent who wasnt able to satiate his client's desire for a McFlurry in a timely manner. However, we make it upstairs to find that the meeting is already over and the agent couldn't give two shits about the melted McFlurries. Chris forgave me for my weak Mcflurry transporting skills, and the mailroom got to enjoy some delicious, albeit melted, treats during an otherwise typically shitty day.
I was an intern at a small local tourist magazine in Las Vegas in an office that had one bathroom. It was my first internship and first job that didn't require a uniform. Needless to say I was really excited for it and didn't sleep much the night before. Apparently nervousness causes constipation and coffee makes you have to poop because 2 hours into day 1 of my journalism career I felt a massive prairie dog brewing. Now this was a really nice office and I was one of only two men working there. The bathroom had scented candles, matching hand towels and one of those sinks that looks like something out of ancient Rome. This beautifully appointed bathroom had everything you could possibly need to do your business except one thing; a plunger.
Once the water level reached the seat I knew I was in trouble. The poopy water spilled onto the travertine and before I could react I was standing in a growing puddle. I shook off the shock long enough to turn the water off with the valve behind the toilet bowl but I still had the stinky swamp to deal with. Before I could stop and think I grabbed the matching towels off the rack and stuffed them under the bathroom door seconds before my mess made out into the hallway. After sopping up the water and rinsing out the towels in the sink I had to fix the toilet. With no plunger I would have to call a plunger to come fix it. I would have just stayed there until the plumber got there but it was such a small office people started to wonder if I was dead, plus the sudden appearance of a plumber would have given me away anyway. I had to inform the publisher's super hot assistant/office manager that my huge poop had plugged the office toilet on my first day of work.
The plumber came and it turns out the toilet was so plugged he had to bring in a plumber's snake to fix it. After the incident I was so embarrassed but my boss told me not to worry about it, she said "Shit happens." I felt encouraged by her support until 2 weeks later when I plugged it again. I was so embarrassed I blamed it on the FedEx guy who used our bathroom earlier that day.
Blaming the delivery guy is weak but, if the super hot assistant/office manager really was super hot, then I look forward to you appearing in Drunken Hookup Fails: Super Hot Assistant/Office Manager Edition.
Matthew likes to taste his own blood or something:
I intern at a division of a power company that makes emergency power supplies for about every important business worldwide. I was having a meeting with my boss this morning about some slides I had been preparing for something like three weeks, that analyzed the failure of our various products.
Anyway, I'm in this meeting in my boss's office as he grunts over these slides, and I am on pins and needles hoping he'll like them. Suddenly, I notice what must have been a budding wart on the underside of my right forearm. Like any man worth his salt, I start to pick at this thing.
Eventually, I take the fatal swipe at it with my index nail, removing it from my body. My victory is short lived, as instantly I have about a Dip-n-Dot size bead of blood on my arm. At about this time my boss's boss walks in and greets us. They start examining my slides together, as this blood starts to pool and moves down my arm. If I have to participate in any handshakes, someone is going to be spattered.
So I start dabbing the blood with my left hand, and stealthily wiping it under my boss's desk. I do this 3 or 4 times. Fucking warts man.
Now, my left hand looks like I stopped and smashed some hymens before coming into work. I try and rub it onto my coffee cup, but its too dry, so when both bosses are focused on the slides, I stealthily slip my fingers into my mouth, in order to eat the dried up blood off. Every time they look away I take a slight lick at a dried blood spot on my hands. I tried to look as nonchalant as possible, but any onlooker may have described me as a vampire crack fiend.
Luckily, the meeting ended without incident, but my bosses left to "talk" immediately after. I'm pretty sure I'll be fired by the end of the day for some sort of biological hazard.
I haven't heard back from Matthew since he sent this so I can only assume he's been taken somewhere where he can get the rest and help that he needs.
Finally, Josh and his tale of selling furniture during the tech boom:
Back in 2000, I was an English major who desperately needed summer work. It was the height of the tech boom, so a small IT consulting company founded by alums of my school agreed to take me as an intern, despite the fact that my only computer skills at that point involved using Napster.
It was a small and colorful company. One of the consultants I was working for, Andres, was a dainty and flaming hispanic guy in his 20s who was usually sexually harrassing the other male employees. He would sometimes show everyone pictures on his digital camera of his "sister." But it was pretty clearly just him in drag.
Within a week or two of the start of my internship, the company got bought out by another tech company that delivered ebusiness solutions for your company's portal paradigm blahblah blah insert tech bubble jargon needs. Nobody could tell what the new company, insipidly named Optivelo, was supposed to do. My boss spent his time coming up with anagrams of Optivelo, which included I Love Pot and Evil Poot.
But for damned sure nobody knew what to do with an intern who wasn't even remotely a computer programmer. My task - my only task for the remaining 5 weeks of the internship - at the new company was to inventory all of the surplus post-merger office furniture, sell it, and use the proceeds to buy a foosball table for the break room. Somehow, I still managed to include a useful-sounding description internship on my resume for several years.
On my last day, my boss gave me a $100 bill as an unspoken sort of apology for a wasted summer. And I'm pretty certain that Optivelo is long since out of business.
So wait, the guy in drag was a whiz with anagrams, got you to sell furniture, and gave you money at the end of the summer? That sounds like a terrible movie I would like to see.
See you next week: same Intern Horror time, same Intern Horror channel. As always, if you've got an Intern Horror, I'd like to hear about it.