Getting the Most Out of Your Summer Internship

Or how to steal office supplies...

Over the next few weeks, thousands of naïve college kids will descend upon the city to work as unpaid bitches for giant corporate behemoths in the hope that they will one day be able to find a job despite having useless liberal arts degrees. While experience and contacts are valuable, there are so many other things to take advantage of during your three-month vacation to the real world.

Going Places You Don't Belong

Your boss will be invited to clubs, parties and premieres. You won't. You will, however, probably be opening his mail. Just sayin'.

Also, if your office is on the lot, take every opportunity to steal a golf cart and sneak onto all the various movie/tv shows that are shooting. If your office is on the Universal lot, sneak through the service entrance next to the Jurassic Park ride so you can do T2:3D on your lunch break for free. To get past security without being hassled, always make sure to be talking on your cell phone. No matter how sketchy you may appear, no one fucks with the guy on the phone.

Pretending Your Boss' Stuff is Yours

At some point your boss is probably going to ask you to take his Porsche to the shop. In all likelihood, you will never own a Porsche or any car even remotely that awesome. Drive it fast. Drive it really fucking fast. Try to pick up chicks. You won't succeed, but you will feel really good about yourself in the three seconds before the girl gets a good look at you and realizes you're a nerdy twenty-year-old wearing a hand-me-down suit.

Dating Other Interns

Normally, the rule of thumb for inter-office dating is don't shit where you eat. But since you won't be around for that long, have at it while you can. Just know that if you're going after a female intern who is even slightly attractive, she'll already be getting hit on by every other guy in the building and even the dudes in the mail room make more money than you.

Stealing Office Supplies

Generally, if it requires a hand-cart to get to your car, you probably shouldn't take it. Pretty much anything else is fair game.

I'd Rather Be a Poor Assistant Than Elbow Deep in Mangled Pussy.

My mom still wants me to become a doctor.

After the family next door recently moved away to a brand new McMansion, she couldn't help but reiterate what a great profession the medical field is. Our former neighbor happens to be a gynecologist who specializes in going back and fixing botched vagina surgeries. It's unsettling enough to think about what your average ObGyn experiences on a daily basis, but I honestly don't think I could do what this guy does and remain heterosexual. As much as I love money, I'll take being an underpaid bitch over touching random women's messed up insides any day of the week.

That's the thing my mom doesn't understand, though. Throughout my youth, she'd tell me about how great it would be to work as a doctor. I'd be a pillar of the community, live in a huge house, drive a fancy car, date women way hotter than me...the works. Don't get me wrong, it sounds awesome and all...but it also means I'd first have to spend ten years of the best years of my existence busting my ass in school and in residency. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in education down the tubes. Thirty-six hour hospital internship marathons. Studying endlessly for tests and poking at cadavers. I have to say I'd honestly rather be fetching coffee and answering phones for a relatively light 60 hour workweek.

But back to my mom's phone conversation....

After explaining to her that a high six figure income still wasn't enticing enough to make me want to follow my former neighbor into the field of putting back together mishandled ladyparts, she simply replied, “Hey, I'd do it if I could!” And since this was by far the most frank sexual discussion I'd ever had with her, I hung up the phone and threw up in my mouth.

Hollywood Home and Garden: Drug Parties

Drinking Patron Silver and snorting coke out of hundred dollar bills every night can get depressing, especially when your friends start hinting that you might have a problem. When that happens, a serious drug party is called for.

Everyone knows that the best way to look and feel normal is by making everyone else around you super fucked up. For that not so every day fête that doesn’t just condone the use of illegal substances, but actually forces it on guests, try these Hollywood Home and Garden party ideas that are sure to launch some mini-habits, not to mention major-fun.

Hitler’s Pot Party

April 20th is Hitler’s Birthday; it’s also a big day for potheads. In celebration of both, host a ‘Heil Hitler Hash Bash’. Buy Hitler mustaches and hand them out to guests as they arrive. Once all of your Hitlers are present, have everyone sit in a circle and pass around a bong with a Star of David on it. Tell the Hitlers they must smoke the Jew weed until it is completely gone. Once all your Hitlers are sufficiently stoned, watch Schindler’s List and serve munchies. Ten days later commit suicide!

Martin Luther King’s Crack Mixer

Martin Luther King had a dream, then came crack cocaine. Invite your single friends to celebrate the glass ceilings that hold all of us back by sucking on the glass dick. To set the mood, make an iPod playlist of Negro spirituals, then buy each guest one of those fake roses in four-inch glass tubes they sell at gas stations; the glass tube can be used as a crack pipe (just add a piece of Brillo pad for a filter,) and the rose adds a touch of romance. Love and crack smoke will be in the air at this singles party that gives a whole new meaning to speed dating!

Santa’s Black Tar Bloc Party

Avoid noise ordinance laws and annoying neighbors who call the cops by hosting a ‘Surprise Neighborhood H-mas Party’. Dress up like Santa Clause and go door-to-door unannounced. When your neighbors answer the door, say “ho ho ho” and stab them with a needle full of heroin. Once your neighbors are all on the nod, invite over 200 of your rowdiest friends, turn-up your sound system full blast and party uninterrupted (or at least until the H wears off and your neighbors knock on your door dope sick and cranky.)

America’s Meth Makeover Party

What better way to celebrate America’s independence than by freeing yourself of unwanted hair at a ‘Crystal Meth Eyebrow Plucking and Face Picking Party’? Buy each guest his or her own mirror and a pair of tweezers. Decorate by covering all the windows of your house in tin foil. Serve red and blue Kool-Aid in plastic cups along with bumps of methamphetamine. Once all your guests are good and tweaking, let the plucking and picking begin! (For added DYI fun, have each of your guests bring a box of Sudafed and make your own meth!)

Hipters + France = Natural Disaster

While working with a bunch French nationals, I've learned many things. But most shocking of all is how badly French hipsters put their American counterparts to shame.

Witness the Tektonik movement. It's taking over France faster than Hitler and the Bubonic Plague combined. These guys are straight but try to appear as gay as possible. Their uniform consists of old school Nikes [Apparently, they're Reeboks] with the tongues out, tight jeans and goofy sweaters. They abstain from drugs and alcohol. Mullethawks are their haircut of choice. And, most notably, they dance in a way that is indescribably hilarious.

Sit back, relax and get ready to live. This shit is bananas...

Google Dumps

I’ve got a history of using technology for the basest of purposes.

At age 12, I can remember carrying a small tape recorder to document my own farts, as well as the farts of those around me. Call it degenerate multi-tasking, but I get a certain satisfaction imagining the many advancements technology has afforded mankind, and then using those same advancements to more efficiently dick around. That’s how technology aids civilization. It saves us time and energy, so that we can dedicate more of our lives to beating off and playing Xbox.

From watching a pirated copy of Step Up 2: The Streets on my iPod, to locating my pot dealer with a GPS system, I am one of many members of the tech age who has besmirched the honor of innovation. The latest practice I’ve found in debasing technology is using my laptop on the toilet. It warms my bare thighs, and I can easily watch Youtube footage of volcanoes erupting while undergoing a little “eruption” of my own. Thanks to Gchat, I’ve conversed with nearly all my friends on the shitter. I have produced emoticons and dumps at the same rate. For my salt, an appliance is only as good as the crap taken while using it.

Since the introduction of household portability, inventors must now face the fact that at some point or another, their contribution to the modern world will be used by a body that is concurrently producing dumps. In a brilliant dove-tail of interests, I’ve used Google Maps’ User-Created Maps feature, to catalogue the various places around this fair city that I have taken dumps. I have aptly titled the map “Places in Los Angeles that I have Crapped.” Take a look:

Now That’s What I Call Music to Die To!

Death Row inmates get one last listen.

In an effort to make capitol punishment more “humane,” federal penitentiaries have adopted a progressive addition to the “last meal” and “last words” tradition. Leading up to one’s final living moments, a death row inmate may now arrange a “last playlist” using a special prison issue iPod, and the NOW That’s What I Call Music song catalogue.

Based on the most popular prisoner playlists, compilation music giant NOW!, brings you the next hit mix: “Now That’s What I Call Execution Music!” made up of the most popular songs played by death row inmates at various stages of execution, from a prisoner’s alone time all the way into one’s last living moments. Now you can get jiggy with the same hot tracks as the soon to be executed! Check it out:

NOW That’s What I Call Songs To Listen To Alone in Your Cell, Contemplating Death:

1-“Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” Green Day

2-“Closing Time” Semisonic

3-“Graduation (Friends Forever)” Vitamin C

4-“Family Matters Theme Song”

5-“Freshman” The Verve Pipe

NOW That’s What I Call Tunes To Jam To, While Being Led Down a Dank, Lonely Hallway

1-“Fuck the Police” N.W.A.

2-“Cop Killer” Ice T

3-“Sounds of Halloween, volume 5”

4-“Livin’ Thing” Electric Light Orchestra

5-“I Can’t Dance” Genesis

NOW That’s What I Call Music to Die To!:

(Top ten songs listened to during execution)

1-“Tubthumping” Chumbawumba

2-“I Will Survive,” by Gloria Gaynor

3-“I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight,” Cutting Crew

4-“I Will Survive,” Cake cover

5-“I Wanna Be Sedated” Ramones

6-“Waterfalls” TLC

7-“Where in the World Is Carmen San Diego?” Rockapella

8-“Alive” Pearl Jam

9-“Auld Lang Syne” Robert Burns

10-“Umbrella” Rihanna

Coming soon: Ads beamed right into your mind.

Giant monsters. Super villains. Hipsters. Everything bad happens to New York first. So, it should be no surprise that New York is the birthplace of a disturbing new form of advertising.

Imagine a beam of sound that is beamed directly into your skull. This beam can make you hear voices. Voices no one around you can hear.

It’s called hypersonic sound technology. Sound waves are shot out at a pitch undetectable to the human ear. These audio advertisements travel along harmlessly until they find something to smash into like your face. The waves then slow down to a pitch that you can hear. Since the thing slowing the waves down is your head, that’s where the voices sound like there are coming from.

It’s a powerful new technology, with a host of potentially useful applications. So of course it was first used to push a crappy basic-cable show.

The show was “Paranormal State”, and people walking by a billboard for the PS (that’s what the fans call it) in Manhattan would hear a voice saying “Who’s there? Who’s there?”

It is weird enough hearing ghostly voices, but did they have to push a show on the “Arts & Entertainment” network?

A&E shows don’t qualify as art, and barely, barely qualify as entertainment. I don’t even think A&E is serious about the ampersand anymore.

Anyway, I know that unlike their distinct seasons and their pizza, New York City won’t keep this advertising ray to themselves.

Soon there will be no way to tell if the hobo screaming about voices in his brain is a paranoid schizophrenic, or simply responding enthusiastically to an ad for “Chris Angel Mindfreak.”

In fact, I don’t see how non-hobos hit with this ray are supposed to know that they are not schizophrenic themselves. How does a normal person react when a voice inside their head commands them to watch A&E?

It’s an unnatural thought, somewhere on par with hearing your Chihuahua demand the hammer-murder of your parents.

Our only hope is that Los Angeles bans this invasive technology before it becomes commonplace. But in a city where the idea of an attractive public space is one dominated with building-sized posters for failed movies, I don’t think there’s much room for optimism.

Sexxx Shoppe Sabrina

I'm sorry, father.

Dear Dad,

I know you have a countless amount of money, like Scrooge McDuck, and even if you don’t exactly have a vault filled with magical golden coins waiting for someone to swim through them, I know you have enough to give me what I want. Dad, you know I am not exactly good with direction. I am not dedicated and a terrible employee. You know this firsthand from when I worked for you right out of college. Dad, how many countless amounts of time did I show up late, wearing the same thing I was wearing the night before, smelling of sex and booze? More than either one of us could count, and you, unlike me, remember most of those mornings.

Dad, I know my true calling and with the help of whore logic I know there’s still a possibility for me to become all that I can be. Before you have a stroke, I do not want to be in the sex industry, at least not exactly. My body might say SLUT, WHORE, BIMBO with its giant tits and swiveling hips, but my mind says ENTREPRENEUR. Dad, what if I took my super licentious body and whored it up in order to run a soon to be world famous sexxx shoppe. Dad, think about it, people are always going to pay for dildos because you cannot make them at home.

There could even be a gimmick to put us on the map. You have four daughters, and although legally one of them is too young to work in such an environment, three of them could dress up in latex, and spend the day spanking one another and selling perverts anal beads. Dad, before you say anything, you wouldn’t be a pimp. No way, you’d be chief investor and mogul of a sex industry empire.

Please give me what I want. I am spoiled and not suited for a desk job, and my only other alternative is to pull an Anna Nicole Smith and marry someone 97-years-old and pray they die while I am on top.

Love,

Your Daughter

Judging A Book By Its Cover: The Secret by Rhonda Byrne

I’d drink their kool-aid.

When someone asks me what they need to do if they’re considering a move to LA, I say two things: get a Westside Rentals membership and join a good, strong cult.

I recommend The Secret mainly because it has a cover that looks like a treasure map. It shows that the book is one step above a metal detector. It will show you a path that will lead you to treasure. Spiritually, emotionally, monetarily.

Perhaps more importantly, the treasure map cover tells me the The Secret is also about pirates. L. Ron Hubbard may have been clever enough to include some aliens in his cult. And The Artists Workshop has, well, artists, I guess. But if I’m moving into a commune, I’d rather brush my teeth next to a pirate rather than some incense burning, patchouli wearing, Venice beach Artist or baby Suri.

Also, the title and author’s name is written in a way that makes it look like it glows. Just like Jesus, or E.T. I don’t know. I’m just saying that if someone glows, then I’m more inclined to listen to His or Her worldviews.

And let’s not overlook the fact that there is a big, fake wax seal on the cover. This strongly suggests that The Secret contains the answer to, um, well, something very, very important.

My only suggestion? Maybe include a ring with each book purchase, sort of like the CTR (“Choose the Right”) rings the Mormons wear. Or one of those rubber bracelets like the Lance Armstrong followers sport. I became obsessed with having both of those when they came out, and I suppose it is similar to how I wanted a retainer when I was ten. I’m not saying it’s essential, but it does sweeten the pot.

Wii Pole Dancing

Unfortunately it isn’t Princess Peach, Chun-Li, or Dixie Kong riding that pole. It’s you.

There’s a company called Peekaboo that is famous for bringing pole dancing “fun” into homes across America with their “Peekaboo Pole Dancing Kit” and the Carmen Electra endorsed “Electra Pole.” Now, they are shopping around for someone to help them develop a pole dancing game for the Wii.

Think it’s a stupid idea that will never get picked up? Well, Peekaboo already has a game out. It’s a cross between Dance Dance Revolution, Twister, and dry humping they call the “Bedroom Boogie Game”



I hope that thing is dishwasher safe.

The good people at Peekaboo claim that they want to want to “do for Pole dancing what Guitar Hero did for Rock and Roll.” That begs the question: What exactly did Guitar Hero do for Rock and Roll?

Guitar Hero makes people feel like they are part of a rock band. For a fleeting moment, you feel what it’s like to be a rock star- only without the money, hepatitis or meth cravings.

However, the only people who are stars on the stripper pole, are, well, strippers. Is there a demand for a video game that makes you feel like a single mother with daddy issues and broken dreams?

Someone at Peekaboo PR is reading this and saying “Pole Dancing isn’t about Stripping! It’s about fun aerobic exercise!”

Really?

The “pole” part of pole dancing is short for “stripper pole.” It’s not that pole the firemen use because they are too lazy for stairs.

And how exactly is the game supposed to work? Are they including a pole? Are you supposed to hold the Wiimote and the pole same time? Do we strap the wiimote on? What kind of precedent are we setting with a strap-on Wiimote?

Peekaboo also claims the game is for “men and women.” How could I explain to a woman that I got my taut physique from a video game about pole dancing? I’d rather tell her I got buff lifting my collection of Bratz dolls or playing Wii Cheerleading.

I hope no developers take Peekaboo up on their offer. People who want the aerobic benefits of pole dancing should have to get it the old fashioned way: while exposing their tits to strangers.

Sean Young's Bloody Yarn

A few years ago I was waiting to go up at the Hollywood Improv when the host came on stage and announced “we have a special treat, Sean Young is in the audience and she’s going to do stand-up for the first time.”

Sean Young is an actress semi-famous for making an ass out of herself. Most recently at the DGA awards for heckling Julian Schnabel, but also for dressing up in a homemade Catwoman suit and storming the Warner Brothers lot in an attempt to win the role in Batman Returns.

Sean took the stage and lit a cigarette “I really just wanted to come up here so that I could smoke,” she said. The audience laughed. With one simple line and a dash of D-list celebrity magic, she had won them over.

Then Sean went on to talk about how when she gave birth to her first child she was really into mother earth, so she kept the placenta and buried it in her back yard. Needless to say, this anecdote did not go over so well. As much as the audience liked her for killing them with second hand smoke, they didn’t want to know the intimate details of her hippie childbirth.

Unfortunately, it only got worse, as Sean described how her dog dug up the placenta and ate it, at which point the audience collectively threw up in its mouth.

At this point one would have hoped that Sean would graciously exit with a “thank you for enduring my bloody yarn, and good night,” but she didn’t. The room was tense in the way that only a celebrity publicly humiliating herself can make it, and the red light in the back of the room that is used to tell comedians that their time is up was flashing like crazy. But Sean is not a comedian, so she didn’t understand the light system and barreled on.

Digging herself deeper into a whole, she recounted the birth of her second child and how once again she kept the placenta and buried it in the back yard, and once again her dog dug it up and ate it.

Then, in a moment of ultimate mercy, the host of the show approached the stage and lured Sean Young off with a glass of wine; at which point I turned to my friend Jason and said “that’s funny, that’s exactly how we get my grandfather to take a shower after he’s pissed himself.”

I can’t say I did any better that night then Sean. She pretty much killed the room. But at least I kept my dignity and left my placenta where it belongs, in the freezer next to the icy pops.

The Seven Wonders of a Hollywood Studio Apartment

There’s a studio apartment for rent in my historic Hollywood apartment building. If you’re dying to live in the heart of Hollywood, where dreams are killed and midwestern tourists walk by stores selling bongs and stripper shoes, this is the place for you.

Here are seven things you should know before you sign the lease.

1. The Price

$925 a month buys you your very own studio apartment in the middle of movieland complete with a homeless guy for a doorman. Can’t afford $925? Get a roommate or, if you’re Mexican, a wife and three kids. In Los Angeles a studio apartment can house two besties from Peoria or an entire family from Guadalajara!

2. The Address

Tell your friends back home in Illinois that you live in Hollywood and they will think it is so glamorous. Tell your friends in Echo Park and they’ll tell you to move east.

3. The Neighbors

Whenever you’re feeling down on yourself, take a quick trip over to the Grumman’s Chinese Theater where grown men who couldn’t make it as background extras get dressed up like Spider Man and Jack Sparrow to hustle tourists out of $5 for a photo. There’s nothing like observing someone else’s pathetic life to make you feel better about not booking that SAG experimental from Backstage West.

4. The Parking

There is none. Nor is there pubic transportation. And don’t even think about walking more than two or three blocks unless you want to be mistaken for a homeless person or a tranny. You’re screwed with a car or without one. Get used to never leaving your apartment or get a second job just to pay your parking tickets.

5. The Odor

There’s nothing better than coming home after a long day of PA work to an apartment that smells like someone else’s dinner. Well, except maybe inviting your date up for some post-car-make out, pre-sex “tea” only to find that your apartment smells like a fish market in Chinatown. To combat, keep a stash of incense and take your revenge by making loud gratuitous noises during sex.

6. The Sounds

If there isn’t a mariachi band playing in the restaurant downstairs, there’s a ghetto bird in the sky or your loud obese neighbor yelling at his girlfriend. Invest in some earplugs or a prescription for Ambien.

7. The Other Odor

Since the shower is 30 feet from the kitchen, and the kitchen shares a vent with the apartment below, you can look forward to smelling your neighbors breakfast while you try to wash off last night’s sexual encounter with Jack Sparrow. This means that when your neighbor decides to cook broccoli at 10am, so will your shower and you will never really feel clean. Welcome to Hollywood!

Peer Pressure Does Not Wane in Adulthood

I always assumed the peer pressure to have the coolest toys on the block was a phenomenon confined to the ages between 4 and 16.

But I'm finding now more than ever that not having a next generation gaming console is excluding me from real-life social events. Quite often I'll hear two of my friends recounting a Halo game they had last night, or how they can't believe they beat those German teenagers 5 to 2 in Super Smash Brothers Melee. Not only can I not participate in their digital games... I don't even know what the fuck they're talking about.

And I don't make a lot of money, so buying one of these fancy "fun machines" isn't really an option for me. Plus I feel like I shouldn't have to miss out on in-person social interaction because my gaming system doesn't output to an HD TV. But the negative effects of my last-gen gaming situation are really starting to build up.

Last week a friend of mine lugged all of his Rock Band instruments over to my apartment and we had a very awkward moment when I told him I don't have an XBox 360. It honestly kind of ruined the night. His tone with me implied he was not only disappointed in the situation, but disappointed in me as a person. I am a GROWN ADULT and not having wireless controllers has stopped people from coming over to my place to hang out.

I want to say this is happening because I have nerdy friends, but the sad part is that deep down I honestly feel uncool. I've never really gotten into playing video games, but to be honest with you I've seriously been considering buying a PS3 with my $600 Government Rebate check.

No, no, you know what? Forget those guys. I'm going to play Crash Bandicoot on PS1, masturbate, and fall asleep in a puddle of my own tears.

I Hate Baby Boomers

I think that's because they are the prototype for the contemporary hipster. But there's more to it than that.

You can spot them a mile off. Just as people with Down Syndrome all look alike, so, too, do Boomers – middle age bellies, sour fashion and wrinkles so deep you can wedge several half dollars in them.

I became aware of how annoying Boomers are when Dennis Hopper started appearing in commercials urging retirees to park their cash at Ameriprise Financial. This from the ambassador of a generation that still considers itself brilliant because they flirt with Marxism and think Al Gore is a fucking genius. Far out, Mr. Easy Rider.

I can't wait until Vincent Gallo starts appearing in commercials for tax shelters.

But Boomers are an unhinged lot; they are dangerous because they still consider themselves cool, relevant – or worse – both. This 40+ years after telling dad to fuck off as they brooded on the living room couch reading Ginsburg.

Their heads are a mess. Cognitively, they're at that place where senility and too much acid converge. This greatly hampers their ability to contribute to society in meaningful ways (so do the hot flashes). A Boomer's attempt at creativity proves that they are to be avoided, as evidenced Isabella Rossellini's "Green Porno."

Despair not: there is a solution to the problem. Of Timothy Leary's famous dictum, "Turn on, tune in, drop out," Boomers ought to heed the latter. Hopefully they'll listen.

Hollywood After-hours

Impractical advice on what to do for fun in L.A. after last call…

One-thirty is a sad time for the party animals located in the beauteous L.A. area. It’s last call, and as a woman you can chance a good old fashioned gang bang at an after party or look for something a little more interesting to do. Too bad almost none of the typical late-night plans I end up getting into go along with anything considered regular late night activities because the proverbial game of chance I play is unparalleled.

After a night of extraordinary amounts of alcohol consumption myself, my sister and our other female friend decided to stop at Benito’s Tacos on Highland and Santa Monica before heading to, whichever useless after party we’d decided to attend. Besides being the location for Benito’s this corner is also the local hangout for really disgusting prostitutes.

One of these lovelies pranced in front of my car strutting her stuff. Before my very eyes shone the most striking thing I had ever seen, this black beauty was 300 pounds and wearing cut off shorts that had been fashioned in a way that wedged between her ass cheeks like a thong. I was amazed, I was delighted and I definitely needed a picture. In my daze I realized that I needed to capture this Hallmark moment on film so that I could brag about it FOREVER. Too bad Angela Asscheeks was not having any of it and the second she saw a camera she stormed towards my car like a rhino.

For reasons that were unclear, she had a never-ending supply of bottles, which she angrily hurled towards my car. Awesomely, she managed to get three bottles through the sunroof of my car while my sister drove in circles around the parking lot while we screamed and laughed at her. In the midst of the chaos, I happened to get a half-assed photo of her makeshift assless chaps; my sister ended up with a concussion and my friend in the backseat doesn’t remember it ever happening. I guess if you’re ever in the mood for a little late night mischief, go ahead and hassle your local hookers, cause what the hell else is there to do?