Wow, that was a blast from the past -- my old temp agency.
Flu's got their staff laid up. They need bodies.
Wanna do it? I bet they'll let us temp together.
You think? You think they'd let us temp together?
Oh, God. Last week, I owned a cupcake business, now I'm temping.
Why don't I just ask Chestnut to kick me in the head?
He won't do it. I've asked him like seven times.
Look, we've both casually fantasized about our deaths within ten minutes of waking up,
so maybe we should do something to distract us.
And xeroxing will make us feel whole?
Let me tell you something.
When you're photocopying your ass on a xerox machine, you are never more alive.
Hello, old friend. Here it is, my temping blazer.
Ahh, you can still smell the "no way out."
Why is that in a bucket?
'Cause I don't want to accidentally wear it.
Well, is there a pantsuit in the oven I could wear?
It doesn't matter what you wear -- you're a temp.
They'll be impressed if you don't poop your pants.
And even if you do, not a deal breaker.
All right, I'll go, but if we're temping to make our rent, that's the last batch of those.
I don't want to see, hear, or think any more about cupcakes.