[Editor's note: For the inaugural issue last month, the staff of 606 Magazine raided our neighbors' refrigerators and made up recipes from whatever happened to be available. “The Intern,” created using substances like bread, bacon, salsa and orange juice, came from our publisher's fridge. It's nasty and smells bad, but we threw it off a balcony, thus justifying its existence. Enjoy.]

I can't believe we're even making this thing.

But not only are we making “The Intern,” something like looks vaguely like a head but is mostly just moldy bread, but the general feeling in the room is that we are creating the next David. We are artists, creating the next great sculpture. I'm beginning to feel like I'm in Andy Warhol's factory, minus the drugs. We've secured the booze, a brilliant idea at 2 p.m. on a Sunday while following an imaginary recipe, and have replaced the drugs with burritos.

Despite the fact that we have forgotten the English muffins and wind up borrowing carrots from one of the neighbors, we seem to have most of the ingredients, including hot dogs, shredded mozzarella and key lime pie-flavored yogurt. It appears we're actually carrying on with this ridiculousness. We are assigned our tasks: My job is to look disgusted and hung-over while leaning on the counter, and I'm good at it. Our art director, Scott, is the Master Chef, and Nick, the magazine's editor, is his assistant, or Juice Boy if you want to call him that. I do.

Initially, the bread is not mushing together as easily as we'd like, thus the addition of the orange liquid. To my absolute amazement, bread will, in fact, mush together when you add frozen orange juice concentrate. I am equally amazed that Scott is actually using his hands to squash all of this together.

Have I mentioned that Tolva, the publisher, is documenting literally every second of this with his digital camera? It's unsettling.

Once we have torn through a few loaves of bread and a pitcher of juice, we must sculpt this sagging, lumpy mess into something that resembles a head. Personally, I would like to see the head have a very defined chin with a cleft in it. No one else is interested in this idea, so we settle on something that looks less like a head and more like a giant flat egg on a cookie sheet. It'll do. Now to throw the thing in the oven.

While waiting, we plan our next move. We decide how to document the demise of Wally – it seemed we should name him if we were going to destroy him – and hold a moment of silence in his honor.

None of this stomach-turning concoction is helping my hangover.

Note that the instructions at this point explicitly state to “be careful not to burn yourself or become aroused.” Immediately after returning from break, our Master Chef opens the oven and places his open-palmed hand on the head, burning himself. Remarkably, the bread and the juice have actually baked to a semi-solid pastry-looking thing. We decide that a little more juice will help Wally's features stay in place, so we dig holes in the drier places of the head. Scott and Juice Boy manage to make a slew of sexual gestures and comments as they fill the holes with juice and stir it around.

Don't become aroused. The instructions are there for a reason, gentlemen.

It appears we now have an audience. Our neighbors, curious as to what we are doing with their carrots, are now watching Wally's finishing touches with what appears to be complete bewilderment.

The directions call for an unspecified amount of butter, so Scott is scooping Country Crock out of the tub with his hands and slathering it all over the Intern. He's hoping that Wally will have “an all-over pasty complexion, like Missy,” referring to me. He burns himself at least twice while doing this, bringing the total number of burns so far to three.

For a guy who just spread butter with his hands, it's interesting that Scott actually manages a look of total revulsion when he peels the bacon out of its package. He rolls it into circles – an interesting touch, I thought – and leaves it on a plate for a yet-to-be-determined purpose. I try to clean the counter that has been dubbed the “Creation Station,” and am told that the mess is part of the fun as they shoo me away from the table. Juice Boy has been demoted – or promoted, depending on how you look at it – to Weiner Master and is in charge of creating Wally's mouth out of a hot dog. Some deliberation occurs as to whether the Intern's mouth should be a smile, using one hot dog slice, or lips, using two hot dog slices. After a democratic process, Scott unilaterally decides he will have lips.

The carrots are jammed in the head for eyes, with the bacon circles around them. Scott continues to insist that he will not use utensils, and adds the yogurt-dollop nose with his hands after playing with it for a moment.

The shredded mozzarella has been melted because it seemed like a good idea, but we can't figure out what to do with it. The instructions suggest using the melted cheese to help the bacon stay in place, but it makes terrible glue and doesn't seem to serve any purpose anymore. Both Scott and Nick play with it and burn themselves though, so at least I get a laugh out of it. Total burns: now five.

As if the smell of this thing wasn't already churning my stomach, we still have to add the salsa. After being begged not to use his hands for the salsa, as then it could be consumed later, Scott finally surrenders and uses a fork to spread a heaping pile of salsa all over the top of Wally's head to serve as hair and sideburns. Every second of this is still being recorded by Tolva.

The final product is just ridiculous looking. Even more bizarre, and alarming as well, is that it actually looks like a face. The yogurt-dollop nose is pale green, making the overall effect all the more amazing. We realize that we have not given Wally ears, and after realizing that we are out of ingredients, we decide he doesn't need any.

Now the sad part: It is time to say good-bye to Wally. Tolva places a lit cigarette between Wally's hot dog lips and we march out to the balcony, audience in tow, to say our final farewell.

We all twist around on the cramped and crowded balcony trying to ensure a good view of our prized possession. The decision is made that Tolva will throw him to his death, and a serious discussion as to whether he will be thrown on three or after three ensues. After three, the cookie sheet that baked and nurtured Wally is thrown forward.