Intern George

When Intern George isn't rubbing our feet, scrawling "Mr. George Fug Girls" on his Trapper Keeper, or peeling grapes that he then feeds us from a silver platter -- as we lounge on our chaises and swoon, "Dahling, WHITHER the fug today, I shall simply PERISH if Mischa Barton doesn't soon leave the house in a Value Village tee!" -- we sometimes let him answer our mail. And today, we decided to let him print some of his answers. We swear on all things holy (so, on George himself) that these are all VERY real e-mails we've received at GFY HQ, with names removed to protect the somewhat innocent.

E-mail #1

Subject line: (no subject)

hi... i been working at my job for almost 3 years.... should i start to look for another job

right back

[name redacted]

Dear Friend,

Aha! A dilemma! Nothing makes me happier than picking up the puzzle fragments of a broken soul and putting them together, creating a brand-new abstract picture of Abiding Joy holding a martini. And a puppy.

Start by connecting your precious edge pieces. Do you enjoy your work, or do you cry? Do your bosses greet you with flowers and weep with joy that you flavor their day with your soft hair's soothing salt-and-pepper tang, or does the light in the bathroom make all your pores look ten-feet deep and your skin seem jaundiced and dry? These are important questions to ask yourself, preferably while a loved one is applying gentle hug-like pressure to your hand.

Next, begin assembling the warm, gooey center of your emotional jigsaw: Have you recently feared that you poisoned your chauvinistic boss by swapping rat poison for his usual artificial sweetener, then discovered after you took him to the morgue that he was NOT dead, forcing you to kidnap him and tie him up while you run the company in his place?

Finally, look at the resulting photo: Is it of a smile sitting on a rainbow, eating Oreos while it rains wigs? If not, then try The Notebook. It's where I find my answers when I'm in a work pickle.

Good luck, brave soul! Fight with the strength of a thousand Olympians in a sit-up contest.

Wax on,

G

E-mail #2

Subject line: courtney its me [name redacted]

i l;ike you for who you are i need to here your side of everything please call me at [number redacted]... i really want to get a hold of you mi allways liked you nomatter what the f**k people think ... i really want to see you not like a fan but like a brother I really cared a bout kurt and i grew up with him all i want to do is talk to you for ! min and if it dont jive i will never bother you again

Dear Friend,

Oh, it jive, tender arm-spreader. It jive. Trust me, if she's conscious, Courtney just got goosebumps. I know I did -- you'd need an off-road vehicle to navigate the uneven terrain of these arms. For so long I roamed this thankless globe worried I was alone in my quest to squeeze the hate out of its people, one torrid embrace at a time. But now? This love-wolf runs in a pack, and tonight, we hunt -- if only in our dreams.

Letting the bed-bugs nibble because they need affection too,

G

E-mail #3

Subject line: (no subject)

IM SICK AND TIRED OIF SEEING ANGIE AND BRAD !!!!!!! THERE ARE CERTAINLY OTHERS THAT ARE LIVING CHRISTIAN LIVES THAT YOU COULD BE WRITING ABOUT AND PHOTOGRAPHING

---A CONCERNED WRITER

Dear Friend,

What a volcano of feeling! And its lava reeks of truth. They are so many Christian lives -- there's Christian Slater, Christian Siriano, Kristian Alfonso (she was so marvelous on Days of our Lives when she was suspended in a cage over a vat of acid!)... Come to think of it, I owe Christian Bale a bundt cake. Ergo, Concerned Writer, let my phantom thumb rub the worry lines from your countenance before it cracks two eggs over a mountain of purest flour. There WILL be pictures.

Beating until smooth,

G

E-mail #4

Subject line: from [name redacted] -- pakistan

Hello Barton,

As i heard that you are in hospital. God may give you good health and keep you in good health and happy all time. My many best wishes for you and good give you good health.

Ok Barton have a nice day and take care.

yours sincerely.

Dear Friend,

Yours is the soul of an angel, coughing as it fights the infections flu of global negativity. May I be your Zicam? Are you a lozenge person? Do you prefer oral mist? I hear marvelous things about the nasal swabs; just press me to your nostril and let the healing begin.

Boosting you,

Vitamin G

INTERN GEORGE: Hello, Giorgio. Julia, you look lovely.

JULIA: So do you, George. Happy birthday!

GIORGIO ARMANI: BIRTHDAY! HOW DELICIOUS! LIKE CHOCOLATE FROSTING ON SKIN!

GEORGE: Funny you should mention that, because... I mean, are you WEARING chocolate frosting? You look awfully tan. Like, abnormally tan even for you.

JULIA: Actually you both look sort of unusually brown tonight.

GIORGIO: I AM A CHOCOLATE-FROSTED CAKE OF A MAN! PUT A CANDLE IN MY EAR AND BLOW ME OUT! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

GEORGE: Yeah, Sarah bought me some bronzer for my birthday. I'm not sure why.

GIORGIO: Because you are PALE! LOOK AT YOU! YOU ARE WASTING AWAY BEFORE MY EYES! SOMEBODY PLEASE BURNISH THE GEORGIE!

GEORGE: Is he talking to himself now, or me?

JULIA: Sometimes I can't tell.

GIORGIO: GOOD BOY!

JULIA: Go on, George. Go with the man.

GEORGE: Pipe down, Roberts. Maybe he's talking to YOU.

GIORGIO: QUICK, SOMEBODY, SQUEEZE SOME SUMMER ONTO HIS FACE! PUREE A YACHT AND SPREAD IT LIKE PASTE!

GEORGE: Oh my GOD, if I put on any more bronzer, people will start calling me Leatherhead for REAL this time.

JULIA: Let's just back away and go get some champagne. We have much to celebrate. You're looking great, everyone's forgotten about your last movie already, and you have an exciting internship that affords you new and wonderful mail-answering, foot-rubbing, and mixology opportunities every day.

GEORGE: Perfect. On three, let's escape. 1....2...

GIORGIO: WHEEEEE!

GEORGE: Close enough. RUN!

When Intern George isn't rubbing our feet, scrawling "Mr. George Fug Girls" on his Trapper Keeper, or peeling grapes that he then feeds us from a silver platter -- as we lounge on our chaises and swoon, "Dahling, WHITHER the fug today, I shall simply PERISH if Mischa Barton doesn't soon leave the house in a Value Village tee!" -- we sometimes let him answer our mail. And today, we decided to let him print some of his answers. We swear on all things holy (so, on George himself) that these are all VERY real e-mails we've received at GFY HQ, with names removed to protect the somewhat innocent.

E-mail #1

Subject line: who is this?

whose email is this? I don't know how i got it.

Dear Friend,

Did it ever occur to you that maybe your aura reached out and brought it to you? Sometimes, ours is not to reason why -- or how, or when, or where an e-mail address came from -- but rather to allow destiny to cradle our Inbox. If every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings, then maybe whenever the divine holy chorus of "You've Got Mail" quickens a person's pulse, it's because a lost soul has gotten some George. Today, that soul is you. Fate opened my arms and wrapped them around your quizzical torso, and we will find the answers together. And when we're not sure what the answer is on the multiple-choice test of life, we will guess "C," because that's usually right. Ask yourself: It any coincidence that "C" is for "Clooney"? No.

All of the above,

G

E-mail #2

Subject line: Fugly As Hell

I'm a good looking guy. I had this ass fugly girl who was

trying to get some meat from me. She used the lame ass

line "I'm rich", "My dad who works at a church works for the

CIA", Fugly ass bitch. I wanted to hit her with a fugly tree.

That probably wouldn't do any good though, because she

was already hit with one. Fugly Ass Ho!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dear Friend,

What fun -- a butcher who writes poetry! When your fugly tree's branches reach out and entwine me like this in so rough a hug, I simply want to crawl up and build a nest in your iambic wackameter. But listen, my relationships are built on honesty, and this is a touchy subject, but I must ask: You're not REALLY all that good-looking, are you? Please know that I cleave to people's souls and wingspans, not their faces, so this bravado from you is not necessary. Maybe you'd understand best if I tried to speak your rhythmic language? Here goes:

"My pulsing arms will hug without restraint, so drop your hate mask,

put down the tenderloin of fury and love yourself

enough to use trees and meat only for tender, warm

embraces. Do not waste energy reviling Reverend Spymaster's girl

until you can come to terms with your own self-loathing

and marinate in Sweet Georgie's healing glow."

Are we seeing eye-to-eye now? Heart-to-heart? Like Robert Wagner to your Stefanie Powers, I am chasing the mysteries of the world with you even when we're not together, and solving its spiritual crimes.

The butler did it,

G

E-mail #3

Subject line: girl friend

would you go out with me?

Dear Friend,

You intrigue me. What IS gender? It's more than anatomy; it's an aura. As manly as my chest-pillow is, as strong as the wands of testosterone known as my arms might be, I do sometimes feel like my soul is splayed open like a hot-dog bun waiting for its cylindrical meat cargo. Does that make me a girl? A boy? A man? All? Who can say. Let's go for coffee and discuss over cheese danish -- you to your favorite haunt, me to mine, together yet apart. We'll have to go dutch on the check, but not on the insights.

You latte my life,

G

E-mail #4

Subject line: (no subject)

I say to you, Harvey Levin...fug yourself!  You are a slimy skank and a disgrace to yourself, and the legal profession.  On second thought the legal profession is precisely where you belong!  Bite me!!!!

Dear Friend,

Is this like one of those therapy exercises, where you find a stranger and vent to him or her about your deepest fears, frustrations, and yearnings? I'm privileged to be the sounding board, and would wrap my burly plumage around you if only this assignment didn't demand confidentiality. I imagine Harvey would read this, sip his coffee, purse his lips thoughtfully, then draw a circle around you on the transparent whiteboard of his heart -- thus bringing you in for all eternity and feeding you with his joy. Or at least, that's what I would do if I were him. I fight fire with passion, you sweet ball of fury, so keep burning your hate-incense to the quick and you will only inflame my desire to love you right out of your anger pants. Together, we will take those exclamation marks you so cherish and turn them into parentheses. Why? Because they hug.

(imagine yourself here),

G

Being the employers of one of the country's sauciest bachelors and smoothest-sailing dreamboats, we understand Sarah Larson's pain: All eyes are on her because George brought a date, she's the only one of his string of brunette-bots that he's brought to something like this, the magazines are screaming that she's the lucky girl who'll get him to commit again, and she knows we're all wondering why Clooney is making out with a girl who once ate a scorpion on Fear Factor.

But dating Intern George has its plus side -- you know, one or two -- and that is the fact that designers were probably throwing gowns at her by the dozen in an effort to woo her into their camp for the Oscars. She must have had an entire room at the villa full of options, and she picked this:

It's apparently a Valentino couture dress, but it looks more like Jessica McClintock passed out one night on top of a book of Monet paintings and woke up with drool on her cheek and a jones for wearable water lilies. We complained about a lack of interesting colors at the Oscars this year -- it was all red and black, making me wonder if there was a poker theme we didn't know about -- but I'm not sure I can get behind a crazy melange of pastels that may once have upholstered a couch in the lobby of my grandmother's condo building in Florida.

Oh, George, don't be like that. You know we're right. We're not saying she's not NICE -- not that we'd know, though, since we never heard her say anything all night and you never bring her around for dinner or Diet Coke breaks or donuts, but WHATEVER. So chill with the skepticism. Also, you've never seen that couch.

That's better. Now come home! We want to hear more stories about Tilda Swinton.

When Intern George isn't rubbing our feet, scrawling "Mr. George Fug Girls" on his Trapper Keeper, or peeling grapes that he then feeds us from a silver platter -- as we lounge on our chaises and swoon, "Dahling, WHITHER the fug today, I shall simply PERISH if Mischa Barton doesn't soon leave the house in a Value Village tee!" -- we sometimes let him answer our mail. And today, we decided to let him print some of his answers. We swear on all things holy (so, on George himself) that these are all VERY real e-mails we've received at GFY HQ, with names removed to protect the somewhat innocent.

E-mail #1

Subject line: Not Above The Law

This is to say paris your  not above the law !!!!!YOur  driving that way  and  more than one time is  pathetic ,  you  could  of killed  someone and hurt them  very badly .Can ya  deal with that ????Hope the  law  gives you the  most penalty  that  can be  given ,  you  deserve it totally , no  sympathy for you  period .  And there's  no  muff for your  tiolet  seat  either , so enjoy  that !!!!!!!Get it  good !!!!Not a  Fan  !!!!!!!

Dear Friend,

Playing Sherlock Holmes for a second on this vague, veiled missive, I am sensing feelings of rich disdain. A very wise person once told me, "The sum of your feeling equals the number of exclamation points you use when you're in a wicked strop." Here's a hint: Her name started with "M" and ended in "other Teresa." I thought we'd topped the scale at 14, which were the number she used in a handwritten missive to me raging against the cancellation of Models, Inc., but your 23 push things into the next stratosphere. Such passion! My toes are curling, pet. And you're right, if there's one thing that scaly heiress needs, it's a tiolet seat sans muff. But that doesn't mean I can't knit one for myself...

Getting it good,

G

E-mail #2

Subject line: (none)

hey can u tell amanda bines to stay out of my garbage can thanx

Dear Friend,

I understand your concerns; Anne Heche was once in my garbage can for three weeks. It was awkward, but she wove me potholders out of my old Coffee Bean cups, so how could I begrudge her? I urge you, put on your empathy pants and consider things from your visitor's perspective: Did it ever occur to you there might be a reason Amanda Bynes is in your garbage can? Maybe she was just passing by, and lost an earring. Maybe you threw out a sweater she thought would make a great piece for her clothing line. Maybe she's rooting around to try and find your Social Security Number so that she can steal your identity and run off to Fiji to escape memories of Sydney White. Gosh, maybe she saw an intergalactic wolf-sprite peeking out at her, begging her to return with it to another galaxy and save the world by spawning a new civilization with Andy Dick (although I've heard that before, ahem, ANNE, and it didn't happen, so tread carefully if Amanda tries that old chestnut).

My point is, stretch out your arms and embrace the unknown -- in this case, the reasons a Hollywood starlet is standing on your lawn nape-deep in your trash. There is nothing a hug of curiosity can't answer. But bring noseplugs if you ate fish recently.

Feeling whiffy,

G

E-mail #3

Subject line: words "Go Fug Yourself" sure is a fashion reject

the words "go fug yourself" sure is a a verbal fashion reject. it has very BAD connotation.  you probably thought you were oh so cute, but it is a blight on the culture. here you are, pointing out the errors of others, with a blattant business name that is depressing and demeaning.

Dear Friend,

It is? It does? Bless, you sweet peach of knowledge -- I learn so much from reading the GFY e-mail. For instance, I only found out the other day that Britney is just like the rest of us, and that Hilary Duff needs her head shaved by someone who cares. But consider me your knight in shining tuxedo. Once I explain this to the girls, we'll have a renaming summit, going for something that really sends out positive vibes. We'll get all the best cuddle-monkeys in the business together -- David Cassidy, Faye Dunaway, that Verizon guy... It's going to be  magnificent. Gird your loins, Officer Sweetpea of the Reject Police, because it's going to set them aflutter and the ensuing round of hugs will shake the smog layer clean out of Los Angeles.

HappyFashionPancakes.com,

G

E-mail #4

Subject line: hi

I am interested in know an famous people do you can help me ? Thanks

Dear Friend,

I can do better than that. I can hold you. I can sate your thirst, and sup on your elixir of yearning for some celebrity sparkle. My name is George. I wear many hats, but my most cherished is the Intern headdress strapped to my grateful cranium every time I get to man the bar at GFY HQ. I cherish sarcasm, pigs, human rights, and silk pillowcases. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can whiff the world, and it smells like truffles. Hugs are my kryptonite but also my moisturizer. Feel this. Know me. Let's buy each other dinner and then watch it get cold, to remind us that the piece of our hearts we gave to one another lives somewhere else.

I must go. Celebrity Apprentice beckons like a post-coital sandwich.

You're hired,

G

Take a moment, dear readers, and behold our delicious intern, George:

Is he not suave? Do you not wish to bathe in his manly aura? Don't you have several inappropriate and double entendre-laced questions to pose?  That's a good thing, as extenuating circumstances have conspired -- both circumstantially and extenuatingly -- to prevent us from posting until a bit later today. Please hold tight as we sharpen our claws and whip things into shape, and please check back later for SAG-y deliciousness. Thank you. Have we mentioned you look fantastic today?

When Intern George isn't rubbing our feet, scrawling "Mr. George Fug Girls" on his Trapper Keeper, or peeling grapes that he then feeds us from a silver platter -- as we lounge on our chaises and swoon, "Dahling, WHITHER the fug today, I shall simply PERISH if Mischa Barton doesn't soon leave the house in a Value Village tee!" -- we sometimes let him answer our mail. And today, we decided to let him print some of his answers. We swear on all things holy (so, on George himself) that these are all VERY real e-mails we've received at GFY HQ, with names removed to protect the somewhat innocent.

E-mail #1

Subject line: (no subject)

if i can i have britneys real adress id be sooo happy

Dear Friend,

My deepest apologies for holding out on you, but it took a great many covert operations, stolen embraces, and bended-knee pleading (in a tux!) to get that overprotected information. It wasn't easy on my conscience -- I left a lot of dazed, vigorously hugged people in my wake, walking around bumping into walls with silly grins on their faces and flowers tucked into their hair. And trust me, the crazy sight of Kevin Federline plucking thorns from a rose before affixing the blossom to his do-rag is not something I'll soon forget. So forgive me, fellow believer -- ordinarily I would be a slave for you, but I can't release such sensitive information to rival fan clubs in case other people's intentions are more toxic than mine. But I'm sending her over a bundt cake and some Noxzema with one of those musical Hallmark cards (it plays the Dallas theme song, which makes my heart sing on a blue day), so I'll include a note about how much you want to hug her, baby, one more time.

Not a girl, not yet a woman,

G

E-mail #2

Subject line: jealous

ease up on my girl bai ling. she is every mans ideal woman. I AM SICK IN LOVE WITH BAI LING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!. I THINK YOU ARE JEALOUS. dont worry, not all white guys drool over her-just the straight ones!

Dear Friend,

It's true that I'll never fill out hot pants and a bustier quite like Bai Ling. And what Earthly soul wouldn't sit awake in bed hugging naught but his or her knees -- gazing out the window like Little Orphan Annie on another hopeless eve under Miss Hannigan's thumb -- and wondering why blessed Bai got 19 personalities that look great in tutus and we all only get one? But I dispute that she's every man's ideal woman. I was born to cradle the world in my healing embrace. How could I fulfill that destiny that with sprightly Bai? To quote the nuns in another great movie musical, how do you catch a cloud and pin it down? How do you keep a wave upon the sand? How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand? My mortal arms were made for squeezes; she is the Milky Way, and I'm just a man on the ground staring up at the night sky. Perhaps we could comfort each other in our mutually futile quests?

Weeping now for what will never be,

G

E-mail #3

Subject line: (no subject)

does nicole ritie have a sister

Dear Friend,

For this one, I let my fingers do the walking and my arms do the talking! I arrived on Mrs. Ritie's doorstep yesterday afternoon, and after we revived her, it took but one dose of my warming wingspan to get the information you need: No, she hasn't been off her feet all day and yes, she would love a cup of tea and a foot rub; no, she doesn't completely feel appreciated by her children for the fact that she irons their bedsheets and pillowcases after washing them; yes, she'd love it if I'd whip up an elegant dinner she can pretend she made so that her husband stops complaining about eating so Lean Pockets for supper; yes, she does love her four sons even when they get into the cookie jar and feed stale baked goods dipped in salad dressing to the dog; yes, the dog is going to be just fine now that they've pumped its stomach; and, no, her daughter Nicole Ritie does not have a sister, because she got her tubes tied after the last time her youngest child hung from the ceiling fan while the oldest turned it up to "High."

I hope this helps. Thank you for giving me such a cherished mission, by the way; I scored a wicked recipe for lemon bars and a mocha souffle.

Baked with pride,

G

E-mail #4

Subject line: coolio

thats fo nay!!!!!

Dear Friend,

A CODE! Good fun! Let's see... it's probably an anagram, so... "Fat, stony? Ha!" No, that doesn't seem right.  How about,  "Hat fonts? Ay!" Or, "Any hot, fast?" Hmm, that might be closer, because I am a purveyor of hugs of all speeds and temperatures. Oh, I love jokes and games -- thanks for this divine japery! It's just what I needed after I failed to unite E-mailer #3 with the Ritie family child of his dreams. Go outside and look to the east. Open your arms. Do you feel that? Good! Assuming none of nature's creatures took you for their enemy during this moment of meditation, you should be able to sense my aura. Feel the breeze envelop you as I would.

I'm like the wind,

G

Beloved Intern George,

I'm not really fugging you. I promise we're not mad at you. We could NEVER be mad at you, unless, I suppose, we found out you'd been eating babies in your spare time, but I'm confident that won't turn out to be the case, because a) you are only a cannibal in the sense that you devour our inner demons and spit them back out as sunshine and rainbows, and b) you don't seem to be eating that much of anything these days, frankly.

The British press is concerned. Readers are worried. And while we know it's not exactly fair to compare you in the throes of Oscar weight-gain to you now several years later, it can't be denied that your neck cords are looking unusually pronounced lately. We could pluck those and play beautiful music. [Which, by the way, maybe we should do when you get back from your summer vacation, just because we haven't done that yet and we know how much you love how ticklish you are.]

Mostly, we're just writing to make sure you take care of yourself when you aren't under our watchful eyes. Remember all the things we taught you about pasta? And sandwiches? And pasta sandwiches? It's like the New World natives told those pesky, lanky Brits when they landed: "A carbohydrate plate a day keeps the Adam's apple at bay." Seeing you like this makes me feel like we sent you off to boarding school without any lunch money, and you're reduced to eating table scraps and whatever you can bargain for from the other students in exchange for staying up all night and finishing their essays on "Nebuchadnezzar: Tyrant or Titan?".

Hugs and love,
Heather

No, Lauren Ambrose. No. Nice try, but I won't let you break me. I've been broken before and Intern George needed to pick up the pieces and it wasn't pretty (even if, secretly, it was sort of fun for me to have my pieces picked up by such a... ... um... loyal employee).

So, I will just quietly note that no matter how great you were with Seth Green in Can't Hardly Wait, and as much as I wish that movie had been about you and not that kind of wussy Ethan Embry character, I can't willingly endorse this look.

I don't even care if you're about to deploy jazz hands, or spirit fingers. The pants under the dress, and those shoes WITH the pants, are SERIOUSLY MISGUIDED, lady. ESPECIALLY DURING SUMMER. I just... I mean... it's... I can't...

"Deep breath, Heather, calm down... BE the jazz hands... that's right. Is your pulse slowing down? Good. Because, sweet fugger, I have a cunning plan to save the day, so hop on the Georgie Express and have a listen. Zooey Deschanel owns way too many pairs of opaque black tights, correct? And Lauren Ambrose apparently doesn't own any, or else she might be wearing them instead of her favorite pair of Boyfriend Jeans from two years ago. So, Lauren should just give Zooey a jingle, arrange to relieve her of a few of those 60-denier security blankets, and the world will continue spinning properly on its axis because everything will be in better balance. We all win! Jazz hands for everyone. Let your spirit fingers waggle freely like hug-worms of elation, because it's chocolate martini time."

Sigh. Thank you, George. You are such a comfort. Also, feel free to give the Godiva liqueur a heavy pour. Don't hold back.

So... do we think Lisa Snowdon's enormous lingerie-blouse is what drew George Clooney to her, or what pushed him away?

I mean, I'm pretty sure I have relatives who wore shirts like that in the '70s, but they were probably polyester and patterned like a discount-bin rug rather than being sheer and lacy. Nice legs, though, but seriously -- in that thing, a stiff breeze could be her gynecologist. (Or her lover.)

Let's ask the man who was once one of those things -- and possibly both; he does seem to be a George of All Trades. So tell us, Intern George, what do you make of that outfit?