We Got The Intern In Trouble

In every successful company, there are pillars that hold the oppression of stress and that gravity of lethargy, and make working that much more bearable, much like getting a tattoo after you've passed out from alcohol poisoning.

I'm talking about things like MSN, the pantry and quality toilet paper. And then you have that one person who you have no idea what they are doing, but you know that they'll always be available for you, even if it's to tie your shoelace.

The intern.

I must admit that I haven't actually had the best impressions of interns in general. I came from a company with an intern that asked me, and I repeat this in verbatim, when I told her that she needed to keep me copied in emails.

"Do I also need to copy myself in the emails?"

It was then that I realised that companies actually hire interns not because corporate sitting makes us lazy, or that exploitation of cheap labour is a dominant ascribed trait in humanity, but they were hired to keep me entertained.

The intern that we have however, convinced me that intelligence existed even within minimal wages. He was a quick learner, took alot of initiatives, dilligent and beyond it all, young and hungry to be a part of our prozac world of intoxicated revelry - as most men who have just conquered puberty would be.

The first time he came out to party with us turned into a tragic affair. It was amusing for me because I have no regards for consequence when it comes to laughing at drunks, but someone had to initate him into the cold world of hangovers and amnesia, and it might as well be me - only that my responsibility stops when they pass out.

The whole thing of even suggesting that he head out with us for a night was like sending Bambi into a butcher's store for an errand. And to entrust the education of a boy who is barely even legal to lock lips with vodka, to a group of guys with a history of drunken misdeneanour - that includes bartop dancing, vandalism and public urination - is just irresponsible, like giving a bag of sugar to a diabetic for Christmas.

It started off cordially with sips in between banter. I don't remember when we started to binge or if we even did because the time where he was still capable of holding a conversation to the time he passed out went by so quickly, it would make a pre-ejaculation feel like a National Day Parade.

Next thing we know, the floor staff had to come to us for help because he had apparently passed out in the toilet cubicle. If I thought this was hilarious, I obviously didn't prepare for what was to come.

When RotiPrata and I got to the toilet, we realised that although he was too drunk to communicate or walk, he still had the decency to keep the door latched. The boy prides his privacy, I'll give him that, even if it posed a lot of incovenience for us just having to climb in to unlatch the door.

There he was, seated on the toilet bowl with his pants down around his ankle and a puddle of vomitus next to his feet that looked like a giant chicken and parsley patty. I yelled,

"Now that's what I call multi-tasking!"

Instead of helping him to his feet immediately, I decided to capture this moment that would make Kodak proud. This is the kind of picture that will make people famous, or cause them to jump on the train tracks. I started laughing to much, I had difficulty just peeing into the urinal.

Conscience is a word lost to me when I drink, so are other vulgar words like, 'responsibility' and 'concern'. I know this for a fact because the only thing I was repeatedly chanting to him when we carried him out and into the cab was,

"I'm wearing a very expensive shirt. Do not fucking puke on me."

You would think that he'll learn to stay away from us after waking with a vomit laced breath and throbbing headaches that you'll think a sperm whale was physically fucking your head. But no. Because youth is filled with stupidity and a penchant for self abuse. Because music and alcohol is a powerful addictive that have left many with lost livers and disqualified driving licenses. Because, just because we love the things that are bad for us.

Well as I've learnt, too much of a bad thing is actually bad, like smoking, carbohydrates, breast implants and anal sex. On Monday, I realised that our late nights and tempestuous wagers against sobriety had played a catalytic role in his dismissal.

He had apparently missed an event because he was partying into the wee hours with us. I obviously don't see the severity of it but horrible adult sounding words like 'breaching of trust' and 'trust is lost' kept coming out and it felt like it was when I was 7 and my mum was yelling at me for cutting her chilli plant.

I hope he doesn't jump the tracks.