AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This is a solicitation for money, so if you aren't prepared to cough-up a generous chunk of cash, you needn't read any further. Just remember: it's for the children.

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Every so often, I come across a term I've never come across before. Last spring, for instance, was the first time I had heard the phrase, 'lick the wino'. It was also the first time I had seen such a large group of young people, lassoed in duct tape, waddling enmasse through downtown streets at the height of lunch hour.

They were being herded by a smaller group who were carrying long sticks and wearing business suits.

"They're interns. It's a tradition!", explained one of the herders, when I stopped to ask her who these people were and what they were doing.

"We're one of the most prestigious accounting firms in the city.", she continued, "These college kids will do anything-- and I mean ANYTHING to get our company's name on their resumes."

"Including getting taped together and making a spectacle of themselves in public, apparently.", I added, as we watched the group lose their collective balance and roll into the gutter.

"This isn't even the funniest part.", she assured me. "Wait til they reach the park and have to take turns licking the winos!"

By this time, the battered interns were still sprawled in the street, a tangled mess, trying desperately to right themselves. It was a scene unlike any I had ever seen before-- except perhaps for news reports of disasters at foreign soccer stadiums.

"When you said 'lick-the-winos' ", I asked, "you didn't really mean..."

"...that they have to put their tongues on some smelly, old derelict?", she answered. "That's exactly what I mean. Sometimes it gives them a rash, but that usually goes away. And the winos never seem to mind all that much."

I shook my head twice in disbelief. Once, in reaction to the wino story and again as I watched the interns regain their footing, lurch forward and bounce off the side of a moving bus. The woman responded to this near-tragedy by joining her co-workers in beating the interns with her stick.

When the battered students finally rose and staggered on toward the park, I followed, doing my best to find something positive to say.

"Your company must have one heck of an internship program for these kids to put up with so much abuse.", I offered. "I can only assume that you give them some real responsibilities and valuable, on-the-job work experience."

The woman turned and cocked her head, giving me an expression I hadn't seen since the time I tried to order a hot dog at McDonald's.

"Responsibilities? Work experience?", she laughed. "Look buddy, we're talking about INTERNS here!"

We reached the next corner and I stopped, watching the wretched college students stumble and bumble their way down the street.

When I was a kid, my old man claimed that getting the snot kicked out of me on the playground was just a normal part of growing up. Apparently, the same notion applied to being a college intern. I had been one myself, long ago, and hadn't fared much better than the poor bastards who were, by now, licking drunken derelicts up in the park. Nor had the countless interns I had met during the course of my career:

I remember a young man who came to us hoping to get some first-hand experience with industrial management. Instead, he spent the summer learning how to drive the boss' kids to and from the swim club. There was the finance major who learned to sweep the warehouse, the accounting major who learned to fetch donuts, and a shy, chubby grad student named Eugene, who was forced to dress like a woman and strip-tease for the boss' surprise birthday party.

Fortunately, none of these kids fully-understood the degree to which they were being exploited. They were too tired to notice. They all had night jobs, since they weren't getting paid for their internships.

It was then, standing on that busy street corner, that I experienced a life-changing revelation. I had been working for decades. I had a job, a career, a paycheck-- but that's all I had and I suddenly realized I needed more. What I lacked was a purpose... a mission... a calling... and I had finally found it: I knew what I had to do. From that moment forward, I would dedicate my life to helping the poor, the downtrodden, the exploited and abused... COLLEGE INTERNS OF THE WORLD!

ONE YEAR LATER:

Dear Concerned Friend,

Like you, we the People for the Ethical Treatment of Interns (P.E.T.I.) are appalled and revolted by the inhumane treatment of innocent college interns. Everyday, these poor creatures are routinely humiliated, taken advantage of, forced to live in tiny cubicles without adequate light, food or water, subjected to physical and mental abuse and are frequently clubbed and skinned for their meat and fur.

But with your support-- WE'RE FIGHTING BACK! During the year since our organization was formed, the world's leading fashion models have added their names to the P.E.T.I. Petition, urging the United Nations to create a High Kommisar for Internship Affairs. Dozens of Hollywood stars have helped us lead a boycott of corporations who abuse interns for free labor and sadistic entertainment.

While P.E.T.I. does not sanction the use of force or the destruction of private property, we do support and applaud the actions of the I.L.F., (Intern Liberation Front), for their efforts to rescue interns from inhumane conditions. If the occasional cubicle or boss' office gets trashed... if inane corporate motivational posters of waterfalls with caption that say 'Teamwork' get smashed to tiny bits... or if the honors snack tray gets emptied in the process of bringing freedom and dignity to an abused intern-- so be it.

As a philosopher once said, 'The measure of a civilized society is the way they treat their lowliest members'. By defending the rights of humble interns, P.E.T.I. is protecting the dignity of the entire human race. Remember-- Interns are people too.

We trust that you will send a generous, tax-deductible contribution today, in support of this worthy cause.

AUTHOR'S OTHER NOTE:

No interns were harmed in the making of this story.