Here's Why I Celebrate Christmas: in Layman's Terms

Just in case anybody hasn’t heard this before, the reason Christians celebrate Christmas is because (abridged version!) we believe that God created people to have a perfect relationship with him where we love him more than anything and totally trust him--and that all of life would work perfectly because of that (no sadness, no fear, no death). But the very FIRST guy God made got curious of what life would be like if he did the one thing God told him not to do, and because of that choice, God allowed sadness, fear, death etc. to rule the world instead of him. The rest of the story after that is people on earth trying to make everything work the same again, and God, actually making everything work the same again, just in his own slow, perfect way. It’s a story of struggle to re-create that perfect relationship after it’d been completely broken—you have to get that God is H-O-L-Y, perfect, mighty, able to crush and rebuild, biiiig, to understand why one guy disobeying him would lead to a completely messed up world. 

So God gives everybody this totally unattainable set of laws, out of his love. Tons of them. These laws and animal sacrifices (for when laws were broken), if done perfectly, would fix the problem—they would make people holy enough to be close to God again. But of course, no one could get them all right. They weren’t just “don’t kill people”—they were “don’t be jealous of anything” and all the laws were equal, so if you were jealous, it was just as bad as killing. God said any time you broke the law, the penalty was death. So people killed/sacrificed a completely clean and spotless animal, or they risked dying without God’s grace on them. Over and over again, they try to elect kings—people to do all the laws right and help the people do them right, too, but the kings never worked out. And the whole time God is being really nice to them even though they don’t really trust him and they keep picking ding dongs to lead them, and he keeps telling them that he’s going to make things the way they were again in the beginning—when there was no death and everyone was happy and people trusted him. But again, people are ignoring God, then apologizing over and over again, and the whole time, even though he’s allowing them to get into these horrendous pickles, God is nothing but nice to them and keeps giving them food and water etc.—example: sometimes miraculously by raining down food from the sky.

So the whole time, he keeps giving all of these hints about how it would happen that the world would get right again. He keeps talking about it being a person that comes, rather than a snap of the fingers “ok, it’s fixed, we’re cool again!” kind of thing. God’s saying he’s going to come from a certain lineage—from the guy who disobeyed God in the first place, named Adam, which is pretty cool. So everyone’s looking for this person who’s going to come and fix everything. But in the meantime instead of trusting God, everybody goes nuts as if he’s not in control, and God goes quiet for a while and lets them kind of sit in silence and think about how much they really do need him.

And then, like 400 years later, there’s chatter again about this “savior” that’s going to come and make the world right again. God uses an angel and tells a girl named Mary, who’s a virgin, by the way, that she’s going to get pregnant (without the help of her fiancé) with the baby who will grow up to fix the relationship between all of the people and God. News gets around, and everyone is just floored—they’re like FINALLY! They’ve been SLAVING over animal sacrifices and laws and rituals all to make them “clean” before God, but there was always this understanding that it was never enough. It never ended. They were literally slaves to sin and to all the stuff that had to be done to clean up their sin. And non-Jews?! They really didn’t have any hope. It was messed up. 

But Jesus was the best and only person to come and take care of the sin problem because he was God, just in person form. God came and grew up on earth and never messed up or sinned. But we did—there was so much crap that separated us from God, there was no way we could get back into a perfect relationship with him unless he did something drastic, because we couldn’t just say, “sorry” and get back on the level with him again. He is too holy and perfect and clean. So he came down here, himself, and let people accuse him of stuff he didn’t do, and then execute him…and while Jesus was being killed, God poured all of his anger out on Jesus—we could NEVER have handled God railing on us like that. He exhausted his wrath over old sins and every sin to come of every person on the whole earth, on Jesus—not just for Jews who were “God’s people”—he said that now ANYONE who believed in Jesus could be considered God’s people now because Jesus died instead of them. Just in the way that Jesus died for a crime that he didn’t commit, he died for all of our sins that he didn’t commit. He was all of humanity’s substitute. The only reason that God could do that was because it was his son (he, himself) on the cross—and he knew he could bring him back to life. And three days later he did.

So there was no more slavery to sin. Jesus took care of it. And he one upped the "fixing the sin" problem where he saved everybody, he said that following Jesus meant you got a new heart and desire to WANT to do good and love God--AND, that you'd be adopted into God's family with Jesus as a brother. He just said that if you truly are sorry for your sins and you believe in him, that he’s the son of God, and follow him (do the things he does, love others the way he does), that you will live in heaven with him forever. You’ll die an earthly death, but it won’t be the end. And heaven is exactly like what it was in the beginning, when there was no sadness, no fear, and no death. Heaven is eternal joy with God, the way he wanted it to be in the beginning.

There was the perfection in the beginning…and now everything in the middle is the story to us getting back to that perfection. And the reason that’s happening is because Jesus came. And the only reason the end of this broken, messed up world will come is because he promised to come back and get everyone who believes and follows him. So when we sing, “joy to the world, the Lord is come,” we mean it. He has FINALLY come to save us, and he WILL come to get us. Now the clock is counting backwards for this world to end and eternity in paradise with God to begin…and that’s why we celebrate Christmas.

(This book says it wayyyy better. Because it's just scripture--in order--about Jesus coming. It's amazing. http://www.historyofredemption.org/)

"Ryan Gosling: The Movie" (Or, How I Met Ryan Gosling)

The Only Thing I Do is Dissect Mumford and Sons Lyrics

The fact that in the song, "Sigh No More," it says:

"Man is a giddy thing"

before it says:

"Love; it will not betray you, dismay, or enslave you, it will set you free [to] be more like the man you were made to be"

is, to me, the most comprehensive observation of humanity's general response to the grandeur of God's love.

We are wary of it.

We feel like accepting God's love and subsequent call to righteousness will enslave us.

We physically experience the inconsistency of human love, which fails, so we are hesitant of a love from a God we can't see or feel.

I think Mumford and Sons is talking about God's love, not man's love, being a love that will not betray you, dismay, or enslave you. A love that will set you free so that you can be more like the man you were made to be. There does not exist a human level of love that can guarantee all of those things. That's transcendent, Holy Spirit-given, powerful, refining love.

That's what I hear, at least.

"I Am" Advertising

I work in advertising (for a company who sprints from the status quo). Because creativity is utmost at my place of business, our people reject the expected and dig for what's unique, because every brand has something. I'm surrounded by quality, high-level art and copy, so my taste in advertising, I guess, has been refined simply because of the company I keep.

I think this is why I hate the chronic plague of "I Am" advertising. To bolster my claim that this is a plague to concrete evidence, I began keeping a list of companies and non-profits who have either self-inflicted or paid someone to infect their brand with an "I am" campaign.

You know what I'm talking about, right? "I am Time Warner Cable." "I am Susan G. Komen for the Cure." "I am a Pheonix." "I am ACC."

I am Nikon
I am a Mormon
I am Second
I am Canadian
I'm a PC
I am a Celtic
I am Global Warming
I am an American
I am USPS
I am Greek
I am Love
I am Syria
I am PWD
I am Norm
I am African
I am For the Child
I am Global Green
I am True
I am Woman
I am Choice
I am Diva
I am a Refugee
I am Diverse

I am...sick of writing down examples. There are surely hundreds more campaigns. Are they working? A lot of them probably are.

Great! They're making money! That's not why I'm frustrated.

What frustrates me is the mega brand that is Nikon, for example. Nikon?! Why is Nikon jumping aboard the S.S. Been There Done That? Non-profits with no advertising budgets and a 19-year-old PR Major for a marketing department, I sympathize with you and your efforts to raise funds by "I am"-ing your way through a 30-second spot. While overplayed, the lack of creativity is understood. But Nikon? A little Googling has uncovered that you hired a top European agency to come up with this ad. And it's an amazing ad! I got a little emotional! It made me want to buy a Nikon!

But that's not my point.

My point is: quit siphoning off existing concepts just because they're working well for other brands. "I am" kills your credibility. I look at your brand and think, "Huh. Interesting. I would have thought they'd fight to be more unique." I am not a statistician, I'm not a Creative Director, I'm not a Vice President of Marketing, and thankfully for my company, I'm not the one who wields a calculator. I manage my agency's intern program and hire the best and the brightest to come in and learn from the best and the brightest. I'm a recruiter trying to enable the next generation of advertisers to avoid complacency.

Maybe "I am" advertising made a wave in history that I don't know about and it's not a brand new phenomenon. Maybe it started as insidious nibbles from the "i" of Apple's success hurricane. Or maybe the first guy to slap "I am" into a line of copy had a serious God complex and was honing in on Old Testament "I Am that I Am" proclamations made by The Father, Himself. I'd love to hear actual research if anyone has it.

But for now, this blog is 1/4 rant and 3/4 encouragement to the ad students out there trying to get some insurance from what's successful while clinging to your integrity. Don't steal other peoples' work. Don't steal other brands' work. I see you tweak a famous tagline to make it your own in your books sometimes and it really makes me sad. Be better than that.

Whether you're still in school or you're a recent-grad-full-timer trying to prove you're worth the risk, please heed this advice for the sake of creative advertising worldwide:

The second you feel it in your gut that something's already been done, run the other way. Make another pot of coffee and DVR Breaking Bad for tomorrow. When your client asks for an "I am" advertisement (or whatever the next cliche will be) because it worked for ___________, politely tell them that you can come up with better. And then come up with it. And then make them money so you can keep your job.

Maybe you decided to be an advertiser instead of a painter because you want health benefits and a salary. That's cool. But fight to be just as daring as you are when you're at home in your studio with a blank canvas and no creative parameters. Your client, let's say for the sake of puns it's Iams dog food, might be the ultimate reason you get a paycheck, but they're paying you to make their dog food stand out and sell more. So be creative and don't bury Iams in a sea of...

Say it with me now: I Am's.

Some Light Discourse About Boobs

Hello, ladies of all ages, shapes, and varying degrees of "hotness." I think it's awesome that you have breasts.

But I long, so desperately, for The Era of Cleavage to be over. Oh that women might tuck their Lady Guns back into their holsters. That the Line of Horror might disappear completely behind fabrics that, dare I say it, graze the far north regions of the clavicle.

Do not tarry, oh Day of Booblessness! Save us all from the Spillover Sorority Sweethearts, or the increasingly prevalent Freckle-Chested Cougar, preying on the vulnerable, both young and old alike.

But most importantly, oh Day of Booblessness, hurry and end the epidemic of The Padded-Bra Pre-Teen. Now I'm talking to you, precious young girl, who garners the world's uninvited attention by presenting your breasts as more important than your face, your intellect, or the contents of your soul: I don't even know you and I know that you are worth more than your cup size. Boys talk to you because they see how you dress and assume you're easier to get something out of than the girl in the turtleneck. Is it true? Maybe not--I've known a couple floozie turtleneckers. But they date you because your boobs hinted that you might have an extra ticket on the No Pants Express. Please know that 15-year-old boys are controlled by one organ and it isn't their brain. Wait, this just in, it turns out every man ever in the whole world all over everywhere is apparently still not controlled by the brain.. You come across as sexually available (and a host of other derogatory words like "slutty"), not trendy, not in style, and not "typical young girl," by wearing a tank top that you can't bend over in without your childrens' future meals falling out.

Women, you are older, wiser, and decades past adolescence: Do you want strange men who aren't your husband to lust after you sexually in the grocery store? Do you want to contribute to the demise of the American male due to sexual addiction? Do you want yours to be the breasts hanging out of a knit v-neck (that seems harmless to you because it came from Old Navy which isn't even related to Victoria's Secret but it's not harmless because you could store canned goods in your cleavage there's so much of it?!) as you casually shop for carrots, that cause a man to momentarily cheat on his wife by imagining you naked? 

If you walk around with your breasts out, you are not innocent. What I mean is, you cannot act as though you don't know what you're doing. When you buy a padded bra, wear a shirt that bears too much, or hold yourself in a way that promotes eye-to-breast contact when you go out in public, you are actively saying, "I don't care if we know each other or not, but you're invited to look at my breasts totally free and if you want to, you can take a mental (or silence your phone and take a real) picture for later."

I am convinced, though, that most women don't want that. Most women aren't thinking that way.

So then, why advertise what isn't for sale?

The First Time I Ever Used a Fire Extinguisher

I just moved into a new apartment. My one deal breaker was that I wanted washer/dryer hookups and my one nice-to-have was a fireplace. This little jewel had both. At my old house, we had a fireplace, and since Biff is allergic to her own hands, we used those "Lasts Up To 4 Hours!" starter logs instead of real firewood. And on moving day, we had one log left, which was kindly left in my possession and traveled to my new digs.

It is 107 degrees outside at midnight in Austin, Texas. Well, not that hot, but close enough. But on the fateful day I used a fire extinguisher for the first time, it was a CHILLY 82--and I had just bought a copy of Southern Living with a very fall-ish apple pie on the front--and I just wanted to make my apartment cozy, ok?

So I decided, hey, screw the man and his temperature rules and oppressive ideals of appropriate fire-making weather, I'm a strong Latino woman and I'll do what I want! So I checked the flue.

Me: that's weird--there's no flue lever?

Invisible Studio Audience: You idiot, there's always a lever. Keep looking.

Me: Hmm...I guess it's some sort of apartment safety measure--maybe the flue is defaulted to always be open and I don't have to do anything?

Invisible Studio Audience: WERE YOU BORN YESTERDAY?!?!?!

Me: Ok, I'll go ahead and light it and stand here for a sec to make sure the apartment doesn't fill up with smoke.

Invisible Studio Audience: No.


So that's exactly what I did. I lit that red paper bag on fire and watched it burn for a solid two minutes. The three separate flames I ignited slowly burned horizontally until they became one massive, log-engulfing flame. I stood back, stared at my fireplace, took a picture, and texted it to my friends. I even Facebooked my fire with the caption, "Don't judge me." I had an escalating number of "likes" and "comments" as I walked into the kitchen to keep making dinner. A few minutes later, while my food was cooking, I came out to sit on the couch and see how many people on Facebook thought I was the coolest person alive for making a fire in September. Except, I never got to the couch because my living room was drowning in a cloud of thick, grey smoke. Hey guys! The flue wasn't open after all!

So I stood there, staring at my bad decision as my two smoke detectors proved their batteries' worth. I calmly and mentally revisited my tenure as a Girl Scout. "Don't throw water onto a fire because it can make it worse." So because I was never a part of the Talented and Gifted program, I considered throwing a towel over it. But alas, the lessons of my youth confirmed that throwing a towel into the fireplace would inevitably burn the complex to the ground. And then God, not Oprah, gave me an "ah-ha moment": my new management office has provided me with a state of the art (probably not) fire extinguisher under the kitchen sink. FINALLY! All those years of fulfilling the Facilities Management aspect of my job by checking fire extinguishers at work had led me to this moment!

I approached the fire, my porous lungs filling like waffles with smokey syrup, and I pulled the trigger. POOOOOOFFFFFF, a Lost-worthy billow of smoke rolled out of my no longer pristine fireplace. But there were still flickers of life--like that slow blink in a deer's eyes when it's not quite dead. I pulled the trigger again. POOOOOOOFFFFFF, the second blow killed it.

I stood back, and stared at my fireplace yet again. This time, though, I felt no compulsion to text my friends or post a picture to Facebook. Proud that I'd conquered, but ashamed that I'd instigated, I quietly opened all the windows and doors, and began sweeping up the foam from the first time I ever used a fire extinguisher.

A Story About Leslie

This guest post was written by my friend Todd who once wrote and produced an ad for the Paramount Theater featuring our dearly departed Leslie. This is hands down the greatest Leslie story I've ever heard. I'm so glad he let me post it here. Enjoy!

It was 1:15PM on Monday, May 14, 2007. My boss came to my desk and

asked if my partner and I could handle a quick turn around project for 

the Paramount's Anniversary gala. It had to be concepted, written, 

shot and (print ad) produced by noon Wednesday the 16th. 

Craig, my brilliant art director partner and I immediately went to Whole

Foods to concept over some gelatto. We had an idea, the Yorick, I 

knew him well bit from Hamlet. We would have Willie Nelson hold 

up a small cow skull and do the pose and we would write "Here's 

to being, since 1915" (It's a well known miss-practice to hold a skull

and say "To be or not to be…" even though those are two very 

different parts of the play. 

We phoned Willie's agent, Willie was in NYC at the time. I knew

Willie as I'd written a film for him the year prior. Who now then? 

Mayor Will Wynn.  He couldn't do it that day or the next. Well then

it HAS to be Leslie. Leslie was usually pretty easy to find. He'd leave

a house he was staying in out in Westlake at 7am, take the bus to 

Taco Deli on Barton Skyway, read the paper, then walk downtown

around 10am to make his rounds.

But that lady sold her house and he was no longer staying there. 

Ninfa's was gone, and so was his ever-present hotel bellhop cart from 

'round back. It's hard to find a vagrant when you really need to. 

It was now 5pm, Craig and I texted everyone in our phones to ask if

they had seen Leslie in the past hour. Within five minutes we had 

three responses.

A friend of ours had seen him at noon near South First and Live Oak. 

Another called to say he knew Leslie sold magnets through the guy 

who owned Wet hair salon. We piled in the truck and pointed toward

Wet on South Congress. 

The owner was getting someone hair did so we waited in the seating

area. After enjoying a book on mullets for 30-minutes, he waved us 

over. Said he didn't know where Leslie would be but, "I've got his

cell number." Albert Leslie Cochran, homeless man with a cell phone

plan. 

We thanked him for his time, bought a couple magnets and went 

outside to call. After a couple of rings, "Leslie, talk to me, babe."

He agreed to meet us in an hour at Bouldin Creek Coffee shop on

South First. We waited, and waited. Waited some more and here

he/she came in all his regalia. Gold bluetooth earbud, fannie pack, 

pink running shorts and high heels. And binoculars. 

Two minutes in to our pitch, he'd agreed. On TWO conditions:

His gold Dolce and Gabana razr phone rings. He points and 

individual index finger in the air to notify us that he'd be taking

this call. "Leslie, talk to me, babe." 20-minutes later, after a VERY

heady conversation about real estate prices, he was back. 

1. He wanted a taco and a beer, right then and there. 
2. We meet him at that exact spot at 9am the next day with a 12-pack of Tecate and a pack of American Spirit yellows and $50 cash. 

He went on to tell us about his train trip to Iowa to look for the perfect

horse for a friend of his who'd hired him to do so. Then opened the 

binoculars and offered us a pull of his tequila. We declined. He drank

from the binoculars long and hard. 

It was set, we'd be there at 9am Tuesday, May 15th.

Craig and I had met at GSD&M and placed bets on whether Leslie would 

be at Bouldin Creek Coffee shop at 9am. We arrived at 8:45 and sat 

outside, it was May and it was beautiful outside. 8:59:59…

He/She appeared beyond the hedge row. In EXACTLY what he'd agreed

to wear. 20's flapper-style dress, tiara, heels, jewelry, everything. Even 

dyed his hair and washed it the night before. Amazing. 

He said, "let's go boys, we have work to do." 

This is important: Craig has a one-bench truck. Leslie rode bitch. 

I love him, but he's gross. 

We crammed into the Ram, Craig and I being what pretty much any 

culture on the planet aside from the Samoans would call "beefy" and 

Leslie – swinging hands and rocking to and fro – in between us going on 

and on about astrophysics and the works of Ray Bradbury and 

Kerouac like a seasoned lit professor. 

It was truly amazing. Craig hadn't said a word to this point, just 

stunned the entire time. We arrived at the front door of the Paramount 

Theatre at 9:15am on Tuesday, May 15, 2007 and were greeted by the 

wonderful manager who informed us that she was sorry but the ballet

had taken the stage for rehearsal and we would have to use the State

theatre or the stairwells in the Grand Hall. 

The stairwells are gorgeous so we chose those, setting up our lighting

equipment and camera. Our boy Dave Mead had hooked us up with 

a props guy who got us a skull. With the effortless professional intuition

of a model, Leslie tilted his head toward the light and moved just a bit 

upon the echo of each shutter sound. 

It was amazing. We must have taken 70 photos in 20 minutes and he

carried himself with the grace of a true hero thespian, the likes of 

Kingsley and Hopkins. 

He left to go out front and greet his fans and have a smoke while 

Craig and I packed up the gear. Craig REALLY didn't want me to leave 

him outside alone with Leslie, but I had to run back inside and thank 

the manager for letting us use the facilities. 

WHILE I WAS GONE: 

Leslie looked at Craig and said, "This is excellent parking for a Saturday."

Craig hemmed and hawed for a few seconds and – placing lights in 

the bed of the truck – turned to him and said, "Uh, Leslie, it's Tuesday."

The professional and eloquent lit professor were 1,000 miles away and 

all that was left was a shell of a man in a flapper gown and tiara. He 

was nowhere to be found in the eyes. He took off his heals and waved 

over his shoulder and began to walk away. 

We demanded he get in the truck, and couldn't believe we were going 

to drive him the three miles home. 

Not a word was said in the truck as we took him to the lovely home 

he was staying in on Alice Street…

We pulled into the long, narrow gravel driveway leading to the guest house 

behind a lovely little house on Annie. I let Leslie out of the truck, gave him 

$50 and had him sign a release form. The mood wasn't somber, but it was

different. Craig had been holding in laughter for 10 minutes, ever since

Leslie had asked if I was dating anybody. 

Now, we slowly backed out of the drive as Leslie walked to the gate to 

let himself in. He paused, then ran back toward the truck. I looked at 

Craig and said, "shit, he's going to ask for more money." With that, I 

rolled the window down as Leslie spun and turned his back toward me 

and said, "unzip me." Craig made a sound like a bottle rocket went off 

in his nose. I unzipped Leslie and he began to strip, all the way back to the 

gate. 

First, the gown. Then the bra, now he was in nothing but an iridescent 

blue thong. HE did a little dance, then bent forward away from the 

truck and slapped his ass. We both erupted with laughter in the truck 

as Craig "sped" down the driveway at 4 mph. I said, "Stop, you're going 

to get us both killed." More than likely thinking about God and  lightening

than the 4 mph wreck. We reached concrete, looked at one another and 

not another word was said all the way back to work. 

Even More Fake Intern Bios!

I write these fake intern bios for each of the three sessions throughout the year. It's become a tradition now...below are a few of the first ones I wrote. The subsequent two posts hold the evidence that they only got weirder and weirder.

First up, we’ve got Kenyan swimmer and ‘76 Olympic gold medalist Kelly. When she’s not signing autographs or practicing the lute in her French Canadian loft, you can find her at Wal-Mart alphabetizing the Yogurt.

Forced to sleep in a hammock until she was 14 and raised on a diet consisting entirely of fish food, Melissa learned to adapt quickly in just about any situation. In 3rd grade, her parents joined a team of NASA astronauts on an excursion to Saturn and left Melissa to fend for herself. Fend well, she did. It’s been rumored that 1990 blockbuster Home Alone was based on her life. Don’t worry about the chronology of this bio; just go with it.

Comin’ outta chute number 7, we’ve got Gretchen, bull riding champion all the way from Staten Island. She’s got a flair for designer socks and is a stickler for tipping window washers. A mother of 16 sets of twin dachshunds, her house surprisingly smells of lavender and clean linens. She only celebrates Turkish holidays.


You’ll notice, she’s missing all 4 limbs and recently underwent a total head removal, but nothing stops Brett. This young woman is 1st in her class at Harvard and developed a cure for body fat during her Freshman Biology class.

During her 15 years as an Alaskan Cab driver, Elizabeth delivered, on average, 19 babies a year. Once, while plowing through snow at 90 MPH singing her favorite Three Dog Night song, “Never Been to Spain,” she delivered a set of quadruplets via Cesarean Section. She’s terrified of cardboard and once spent 16 hours in a TSA holding room for refusing to check 3 gallons of hand sanitizer. Windmill is her favorite ice cream flavor.

More Fake Intern Bios

See post below for the details of what these posts are about, but here's some more Fake Intern Bios from semesters past. I've left some names and changed some others...if you have a Standard American Name (Your John, David, Ashley types) then I left it as is. If your name is more uniquely recognizable or, say, rhymes with "Helena" (shout out summer 2011!) then I changed it to protect your privacy. (You were a great intern!)



A lover of the arts, and a supporter of secondary education, Brian is particularly enthused about High School drama performances. Attending anywhere from 170-220 plays per year, Brian is the guy you want in the audience when the parents are nodding off. He’s an encore-shouting, applause-at-awkward-moments giving, line-whispering zealot. Said Bonnie High School Senior Ralph Mason, “Yeah, I like totally froze during a Midsummer Night’s Dream and forgot what came after, ‘The course of true love never did run…’ and then I looked out into the audience and sure enough, there was Brian, mouthing ‘S-M-O-O-T-H’. I know I can always count on him.” Brian was arrested in 1997 for attempting to get backstage during Westwood High School’s production of “Grease.” He was halfway dressed as Sandra Dee (the black leather smoking version) when police arrested him. 130 hours of community service and a changed heart, and he was back on the auditorium circuit, promising to stay in the audience.

After spending 4 months as a 32-year-old retiree, (plastics), Angela shaved her head in angst and said, “Dag nabbit, this lifestyle isn’t for me—I gotta get out there and work again!” So she put down her Sour Cream and Onion Lays, cancelled her cable, briefly mourned the loss of, “I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant,” and got a job as a bald whale masseuse. That’s how she lost her left eye. Anyway, obviously, you can connect the dots to see how she ended up on Mars. We’re lucky as woodpeckers to have her here with us. Everybody raise your glasses for Angie. 

The two things you need to know are: 1. Kara is the first black woman to be president of her sorority! 2. She wrote and directed every episode of “Full House.” You know the one where Stephanie feels like her family doesn’t pay any attention to her and she daydreams about being an astronaut and everyone is still like, “oh, what? yeah, Stephanie who?” Well, that’s her favorite episode. Before her career in television, Kara was a part-time research analyst for a computer manufacturer in Alaska while working on her Masters in Enamel Reconstruction from University of Phoenix online. Though she never finished the program, Kara feels confident that she could diagnose an enamel disorder quickly and effectively in most people. She HATES argyle.

Gracie played “Rose” in the 1997 blockbuster, “Titanic.” She’s deathly allergic to cotton, so you’ll notice that she only wears synthetic fibers or aluminum foil. Before landing on Mars, she actually spent time overseas as  “TV Reception Facilitator” because her aluminum foil t-shirts act as a high-powered TV antenna for low-reception areas. She’s did NOT fight in Vietnam.

 

Mary lived on a sailboat in the Indian Ocean from 1964-1985. She attributes her creative capabilities to staying away from LSD but listening to LFO, the 3-hit wonder pop group from 1995 who produced such hits as “Every Other Time” and “Girl on TV.” Mary's favorite creative software is Microsoft Paint but she also went to a Saturday workshop in middle school about PhotoShop so, yeah, she’s pretty confident about that.

The lone survivor of 1994’s infamous Pflugerville Ostrich Attack, Betty beat all the odds and not only regained full use of her limbs, but went on to get her Ph.D in Emoticon Linguistics from Florida State University, a state school in Florida.

Born on the set of Golden Globe winning hit, “Dallas,” Michelle was raised in the glittery shadows of her mother’s limelight. Who her mother was doesn’t matter now. Michelle is her own woman who refuses to be oppressed by the fame of her mother. She’s made a name for herself drawing on tiny grains of rice at kiosks in a number of Hawaii’s major malls. I mean, she’s her own woman. Quit trying to compare her to her famous mother.

Jack played Skeet Polo for the Swedish Olympic team during the 2004 summer games. Skeet polo is the same as regular polo except you shoot skeet while riding a horsey instead of trying to hit the ball while riding a horsey. At least a couple people die during the game, so the fact that he’s still alive is a pretty big deal. He also invented spray butter. Ladies and Gentlemen, Jack!

 

Carly has a rare neurological disease that causes her to break out into the Macarena at inappropriate times. Ask her about her grandfather’s funeral but don’t laugh when she’s telling you the story–it’s not funny (yes it is). In a poll conducted by Harvard last year, 23% of people who meet Carly begin instantly speaking fluent German. Researchers have since begun in-depth studies as to what triggers this occurrence in some brains but not others. Oak Grove High School offered her $400K per year to “teach” German classes but she turned them down because she’s allergic to Oak. Oh, Carly!

Fake Intern Bios

I write these fake intern bios for each of the three sessions throughout the year. It's become a tradition now and they just keep getting weirder...enjoy the most recent batch. Also, under each of the bios, I write ACTUAL intern bios so that the agency can get to know them. I deleted those to protect the innocent. These innocent, innocent interns whose souls will never recover from the torment I inflict on them.

Magical Intern #1 spent most of 1995 in an Atlantic City prison. His offense? Nude moose theft (the moosies were nude, not him). After his famed prison escape in 1997 (watch the 2020 special here), Magical Intern #1 turned his life not only around, but inside out, literally, performing in the off Broadway hit “Hey, I Can See Your Skeleton”. But, the concrete jungle don’t hold hands with everybody, and as eviction claimed yet another soul, Magical Intern #1 changed his direction towards Advertising. And that’s how he landed here at Ogilvy & Mather! So yeah!

Proudly serving our nation’s army for 17 consecutive tours in the run down streets of Ontario, Magical Intern #2 was honorably discharged after solving a Rubix Cube in less than 30 seconds. Two things that differentiate Magical Intern #2 from Mayor Lee Leffingwell: an aversion to mustard and 15 boxes of assorted Jell-O flavors in the console of his car. I won’t tell you who’s who. Figure it out. Magical Intern #2's addicted to eating quarters, and at any given time, he’s got 15-20 sitting in the pit of his stomach. Also, in 1871, Magical Intern #2 killed a man with a blunt pencil and buried him in the back lawn of his parents’ North Hampton beach home, only to find out 6 months later that in fact, he FAILED at successfully killing/burying the man when he ran into him at the local general store.

Convinced that she was a figment of the world’s imagination until age 12, Magical Intern #3 refused to not only attend school, but also social gatherings and meal times. On her thirteenth birthday, Magical Intern #3's desperate yet-somewhat-aloof mother, Regina, gave her a mirror (finally) and sighed a haphazard, undirected prayer that Magical Intern #3 might see her reflection and understand her existence. It worked. Magical Intern #3 grasped that she was, in fact, real, and began to jump about, flailing her arms and kicking her clubbed feet. Unfortunately, in her celebration, Magical Intern #3 kicked over a kerosine lamp and set her mother ablaze. Fortunately, her mother happened to be wearing a fire-proof jumpsuit and goggles. Magical Intern #3 never learned to read or speak, but has had numerous advertising internships based on her keen sense of smell. Magical Intern #3 wears penny loafers every single day.

Born in Botswana and raised in Portland, London, Japan, Switzerland, and Burger King (12 locations throughout the New York City area), Magical Intern #4 speaks 19 languages and understands the Windows 95 operating system fluently. In 1999, Magical Intern #4 was elected president of her sorority and mandated that all the women wear head-to-toe camouflage. In resistance to her demands, the Tri Kappa Latte sorority formed a gang-like coalition against Magical Intern #4, threatening her with knives and other sharp weaponry. While no official fights broke out, the tension was high and Magical Intern #4 feared for her life, eventually building an underground bunker near Atlanta. There, she futuristically watched every episode of Mad Men and made her mind up to escape the sorority gangs and move to Austin to be an advertisist.

Magical Intern #5: America’s Sweetheart. We’ve all seen his movies and sung along to his #1 hits (who could forget his summertime classic, “Oops, I Forgot My Wallet!” or his striking resemblance to Marlon Brando in the straight to DVD film, “The Godfather Part IV”. Funny, kind, a friend to animals, Magical Intern #5 embodies everything we want in a Hollywood actor and a friend. He’s appeared on Ellen more than 12 times and Page 6 of The New York Post said that he’s considering running for president in 2016. As long as he vilifies and strips the legality of “Poodle Dye”, he’s got my vote, am I right, America?!

Magical Intern #6 was a member of The Island Yolk, a destructive Hawaiian-based cult, from 1988-1993, when the leader, Jeroc Sandovanch abruptly jumped off the side of the Eiffel Tower, leaving behind only a pair of Khaki Dockers and a note that said, “just kidding about all the ‘trust me’ stuff! TTYL!” She bought a plane ticket to Atlantic City the next day and picked up where her childhood as a circus clown left off. Magical Intern #6 clowned around Atlantic City dressed as a clown, doin’ clowny stuff until one day, she met Howard Kenston, an NYU professor on summer vacation alone in the city. Magical Intern #6 was 18, with Howard at 56, but age didn’t matter, and their love drove them straight to the chapel where they wed. We’re pleased to officially announce here, today, that Magical Intern #6 and Howard are expecting the birth of a beautiful parakeet in March.

In 1903, Magical Intern #7 invented furniture out of sheer necessity. After sitting on her dog, Manfred, for 11 years, he developed severe Osteoporosis and required constant care for the remainder of his short life. At that upsetting turn of events, Magical Intern #7 realized there must be something more suitable for one to sit on besides the spine of a k-9. Armed with a surplus of ribbon, dog biscuits, thumb tacks, 17 copies of Us Weekly, 9 rabbits, a brick, and some good old fashioned saliva, Magical Intern #7 began to fashion what we now know as “chairs.” Immediately, townspeople and foreigners alike were begging for a piece of her craftsmanship. Unfortunately, on the eve of what would be a furniture contract with Macy’s, Magical Intern #7 was deported to Belize where she resides today.

OLD TIMERS! 
You can tell they're second-term 'terns because they've got grey hair. They know the ropes, they've been here before, this ain't their first rodeo. 

(I don't know why her circle is blue...It was black when I made it and I didn't notice until this already posted. I am choosing to just let this one go.)

At the moment, Magical Intern #8 holds the championship title for Austin's Angry Birds Competitive District (AABCD). After losing several jobs due to conflicting Angry Birds training schedules, Magical Intern #8 says she's laid down her talents in the name of financial stability and has vowed her allegiance to Mars. Until last week, Magical Intern #8 hadn't been outside in 8 months and survived in that time on a diet mainly consisting of cigarette ashes. (“She doesn't smoke, but her cat does.”) Don’t EVER ask Magical Intern #8 about years 1997-1999. She doesn’t want to talk about it, ok? Seriously. Stop.

After 30 years of exile on a cannibalistic island outside of Topeka, Magical Intern #9 birthed the courage to dive into the shark infested waters and swim for freedom. Three weeks later, he was in Vermont painting caricatures on street corners by day, and dancing in a traveling Fosse Review by night. In his memoir, Magical Intern #9 poignantly notes, “My past is my past. Yes, I ate 13 human beings, including a baby, during my time on that awful island. But that’s my past. Can I say I DON’T occasionally crave human flesh? No. I can’t. Because it’s who I am. But it’s not who I want to be…But it's who I--look, you wouldn't understand, and really--” Magical Intern #9 now lives in Jamestown, Floridarado with his wife and 8 or 9 children.