How Not to Become Our Intern

Here's a cell phone photo of the only intern our Toronto office owns has. He presumed we were going to use it for a BBW dating site, and was cool with that.

Something magical happens every three to six months (roughly) in our offices. We put out a polite and dignified call for interns, thinking—perhaps naively—that descriptors like "hardworking," "intelligent," and "not totally shitty" will be enough to land us a few solid applicants. Sadly, that is never the case. As soon as our ad goes up, like clockwork, the tidal wave of tell-all, snarkfest applications rain down on us like shitty, diary-style hellfire.

The best (worst) have been screen-capped here and already used internally for our own giggs.

Possibly someone's dad.

There are things that give our eyes pleasure, but this and what followed were not them.

Aggressive, at least.

Our oven is hot, can we shove you into it?

We've already had a freaky Kenny G, sorry guy!

Drawing:

Pretty good joke, actually.

This guy can hang, hundo percent.

Anyway, can you all just calm down and talk to us like normal people for a second, please?