Welcome back to Intern Horrors, a weekly feature in which interns (and the people who hire them) get to complain. Today, there's a Cincinnati Red showing his true colors (it's envy!), a desk befouled, the depths of desperation, and our first badtern.
The summer before my senior year as a Mass Com major, I landed an internship with Fox Sports Net Ohio for their Cincinnati Reds coverage. Not a bad gig for a Reds' fan as my limited duties allowed me to sit in the TV booth and watch the game while gambling with the other interns on things like whether the ball rolled to the mound at the end of the inning would come to a stop on the dirt or not. (Did you know that betting on the result of every pitch of an MLB game gives you an average of 275 gambling opportunities per night?)
Anyway, it's Eric Davis bobblehead night and #44 himself stops in the booth to be interviewed during an inning. Eric was kind of enough to sign a bunch of the miniature statues for everybody in the booth. Well…somehow at the end of the game (probably because the producer snagged about 10 to sell on e-bay), Reds' mustachioed announcer Chris Welsh was left without an autographed bobblehead, which prompted an angry tirade about how the "fucking interns" better make sure he has one or he would get us fired. Dropping F bombs in front of fellow announcer George Grande, who wouldn't even say "Damn" in reading nightly promos for "The Best Sports Show Period," was certainly frowned upon, by the way. Not wanting to lose my 6 credit hours, and not really giving a shit about a bobblehead, I went down to my car to get mine so high-maintenance-announcer-boy could have one to add to his collection. It took a big man to not add bodily fluids to Chris' Mountain Dew (Mountain Dew retrieval being one of my primary duties) the rest of the season.
So aspiring interns…play your cards right and you may be lucky enough to have former major leaguer (Career 22-31 record, 4.45 ERA) force you to relinquish your sports memorabilia.
Reader "Gravy" sends along this sloppy tale:
When I was an undergraduate psychology student I spent the summer interning for a professor who's research interests revolved around feeding hard drugs to lab rats. My graduate student mentor, Nina, was a Canadian feminist; she hated men, Americans, undergraduates, and anything else that got between her and her dissertation. The lab underwent remodeling and a new office was created in a previously closed space with the intent of housing graduate students and giving them a place to do whatever it is that adds to their sense of self-importance. There was plenty of space, and as I was going to continue there the following academic year to work on my own paper and research, felt entitled to a desk and some shelf space. Nina, that doozy cunt, objected vehemently to the professor, other grad students, and even the janitor that, on the grounds I was merely pursuing a BA, I was disqualified me from sharing the room with the grad school contingent. Rather than slap her and leave a giant steamer on her desk as I wanted to, I took my exclusion like the man that I am, put my head, down and planned to continue my internship while plotting to kill her rats and therefore erase two months of her research. Before I had my opportunity to do just that, I walked into the lab one day and overheard her loudly disparaging my character and intelligence with a host of profanities and lies. She had no idea I was in the room until, I said "Really, Nina?" "Oh, hi [Gravy], I guess I'm not over our little dissagreement about the office."
At this point, if something suspicious happened to her animals I would be implicated and certainly guilty. So I choose to respond the only way a college student knows how. Late Friday afternoon, after all the other students had left the office, I invited my girlfriend over to tour the lab. I then proceeded to nail the shit out of her on Nina's new desk. By the end it was covered with various bodily fluids. I allowed them to dry over the weekend. No one said boo about the stains on Monday and I got some credit for handling the office dissagreement with grace and patience.
Here we have Chris's tale of shame, shame, shame:
After my junior year in college I scored an internship in the Steel City... and by scored I mean my Dad's best friend volunteered to give me a baptism by fire into Corporate America. No pay, so I was waiting tables at night to make it. On Spring Break I purchased a bong that had a face on the base that looked like Osama bin Laden. I brought it with me and aptly named my new friend Osama bin Chronic.
The first few weeks were slow as no one trusted me to do anything. As that lack of trust grew, they brought in the intern from the previous year so that at least one of their interns was getting something done. As motivating as the mentality of "do this work and you'll be a better man" is, I focused more on my service job than the one dahntahn. I went out after my shifts were over almost every night with my new friends, which led to a lot of wake n baking before putting on my suit in the morning. I was in constant contact with a girl from school that I was sweating, who was a huge pothead, so I would regale her with emails of pulling off an internship higher than giraffe pussy with my buddy, bin Chronic.
I was being supervised by a divorcee, we'll call Bertha, that was roughly 5'8"... by 5'8". She had taken a liking to me and volunteered to keep me in line. One day about 3/4 through my time, we were all out at Primanti's (her favorite spot) for her birthday and the following conversation takes place:
Bossman: "I can't believe the Stillers are sticking with Tommy Gun. He'd turnover the keys to house if the Ravens showed up and asked for them."
Bertha: [Staring through the back of my head] "Yeah, he throws that deep ball with too much air under it. It's as high as you can get without Osama's help."
While everyone chalked this bad tasting comment up to her having too many IC Lights with her birthday lunch, I was scared shitless. I found out that afternoon that she was also the network admin, and had access to all emails sent from the company's server. So I awkwardly make myself scarce for the rest of the week, which goes by without incident. Come Friday, the younger people are going to Station Square to dance like drunken idiots for her birthday. I tried desperately to avoid the scene, but was pushed into it.
I'm drinking pretty heavily because I don't particularly like these people. I'm drinking so much that I convinced myself my co-workers weren't so bad, and hit the dance floor Starsky and Hutch style. Midnight strikes and she grooves on up to me, grabs my pants and says, "If you want me to keep your secret, you're gonna make me a happy woman tonight. My kids are with my mom, and I'll make you breakfast." As my stomach started to reject this idea, I was left with a choice: embarrass my family name by being fired from an unpaid internship, or do my best sea lion impression to have sex with Eleanor Skepple...
While delicious, the breakfast in bed wasn't worth it.
Finally, Sarah sends in this story of her new intern who might be a little flighty:
Ok, not necessarily an intern "horror" (on a scale of tragic vs not tragic) but a story, nonetheless. New intern started with me last week. Friday around 530, I gave her a powerpoint deck to reformat, proof etc to be done by Monday 10 AM. Her response? A super-perky "Great! Thanks!". That response, in and of itself, was annoying. There is nothing great about it. It was like she had never had such a challenge - sorry, "opportunity" - and she couldn't wait to get started on making her mark.
You can imagine how thrilled I am that today (Monday) she called in sick - her 4th day on the job. Thrilled. Nothing done on the presentation.
My previous intern lasted for one whole day. This intern thing is really working out for me.
She sent in her own update too:
intern has decided to take another day - she let me know via Facebook. Good times.
Are you or have you ever stuffed a few thousand envelopes for college credit? Have you ever hired a real knuckle-dragger to handle your filing? Email me your stories. Subject line: Intern Horrors.