Pop 12 Benadryl and STFU

Week two of playing “pass the intern” began with Twitchy showing me his wasp stings aka his excuse for the embarrassing red splotches covering his frumpy, pale, hairy not-yet-proved-to-be-human body. We are not, nor will ever be on a level where it is appropriate to pull up your pant leg displaying a repulsive skin disease you contracted while “mowing your lawn.” And apparently when this middle aged idiot was attacked by a hornet’s nest and swelled up like a balloon, his first instinct was to phone his mother for a remedy. Sir, you are about three decades beyond calling mommy for help—so just Google “wasp stings” before you stain your StarTrek shirt with muddy tears.

The day actually started out fine until the Pasty Exhibitionist felt compelled to display his insect bites an hour before my lunch break. Then instructs me to play around on one of those tablets and make a PowerPoint about how it works. What is it with these idiots and PowerPoint presentations? I could YouTube an effing demo video in 1/100^th the time it takes to make a PowerPoint presentation. But apparently Helen Keller and Associates need a slideshow in order to fully comprehend the inner workings of the technology world. Sometimes I pity the fact that your underdeveloped brain makes it difficult to understand simple ideas featured on PBS daily; the other 99.9% of the time, I dream of selling you to a visually impaired Iranian organ harvester and telling him to go wild. 

Not to mention I’m already rather cranky because my hair hasn’t been properly brushed in about a week now. Some little hairbrush gremlin came into my room and ate it, (I definitely did not misplace it somewhere in the dark abyss of the landfill I call a bedroom) so now I’ve developed dreadlocks and am too stubborn to purchase another. Which reminds me, I’ve seen like twelve girls with feathers implanted into their hair in the past month. I doubt Dog the Bounty Hunter realizes he is such a trendsetter in the fashion world. I could easily be an installer of hair feathers, there are like 3000 on the ground at Lake Ella from those nasty turkeyduck hybrids that mercilessly attack people on romantic picnics until they forfeit their sandwiches to the angry feathered bastards and sprint back to their Subaru station wagons. So if you want a turkeyduck feather in your hair, holla. Because 1. I need money and 2. You don’t need a hairdresser to install a feather in your body. Natalie Portman can grow them herself… and that skinny freak won an Oscar.

Until then, I will pretend I work in a professional establishment where a grown man doesn’t play with himself while listening to Rush Limbaugh and simultaneously picking his bug bites.