The Hell of Work: The Call Centre

If you’ve never worked in a call centre, then you’ve probably never stared at a monitor and thought to yourself, ‘Hey, I wonder if I could fit my head in there?’ and then drifted off into a pleasant daydream in which your bleeding, frazzled corpse is carried out of the call-hall to freedom on a mortuary gurney, shards of glass fringing your scalp with the last tiara you’ll ever wear.

I worked in a call-centre for six months in my early twenties. It was short and brutal, much like a stint in borstal, but without the exercise, and with even more drugs. It’s a totalitarian state built inside a nightmare; a One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest where the Chief has already been lobotomised by the time you arrive (he’s blowing bubbles, but he aint chewing gum). It’s a place that’s haunting, hopeless and sterile, yet also fierce, fascistic and frenetic; like somebody shoved a third-world factory inside a hospital and then started a war inside it. Time is money, and if you aren’t taking calls, you’re a liability. That headset’s got to stay clamped to your skull no matter what, even if terrorists smash into the call-hall and threaten to shoot anyone who even vaguely resembles Madonna. Every piss break precipitates an interrogation, and if you’ve got the runs and have to dash to the toilet more than once in any given six-hour period, don’t be surprised to find that senior management have empanelled a jury in your absence.

I was the guy you called to register your new mobile phone’s sim card, an indispensable lynch-pin and cornerstone of the company, and in no way just a lump of cannon-fodder. If a customer agreed to give their personal data to the evil corporation to which my marginally less evil company was sub-contracted, then they’d receive five pounds free call credit in return. Sounds like a good deal, until you factor in the endless torrents of bullshit marketing literature they’re about to receive every day until death, plus the £20,000 they’re going to lose when their personal details are inevitably sold on the black market.

In the previous paragraph I said, ‘I was the guy you phoned’. For the sake of accuracy I should have said: ‘I was one of literally scores of faceless, corporate drones you phoned’. I was a human robot; a tide-over until they could work out a way to make the role obsolete and save a few quid, which of course they did, because they always do, but in this case thank fuck they did, to save future generations from the artery-slicing hopelessness of this particular ‘D-Day meets Groundhog Day’ of the soul. Thanks, internet!


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It wasn’t just us drones on the call-floor who were warped and curdled by our environment. There was a world-weary female cleaner who used to greet us each and every morning with a cheery and heart-felt ‘Goan take a FUCK tay yersels!’, middle finger held aloft, before bounding off down the corridor like an angry St Bernard. She had the same perm as a 1980’s wrestler, little neck to speak of and big, bulging Popeye arms. She made the ladies of Prisoner Cell Block H look like Miss World contestants, and probably could have choked a whole biker gang to death with her bare hands. No wonder she was angry, though. For the whole six months I worked at the call-centre a toley terrorist was at large (if you don’t hail from Scotland, a ‘toley’ is just another word for a ‘jobby’). No gents’ bathroom in the building was safe from a battering by his bothersome botty by-product.

If the cleaner was angry, then this guy was fucking livid, and was venting his fury and hatred in the most hideous – but perhaps the most apt – way imaginable: by writing on the walls with his own shit. Fax that to HR. Sometimes he favoured the simple approach, eschewing the artistry by just shitting in the bin. We often wondered about the logistics of the act. Did he squat over the bin like some acrobatic cat, or did he manually lift his poo from elsewhere? And if he manually lifted it, did he at least observe health and safety protocols by bending his knees and not his back? To the best of my knowledge, the bin-shitter was never caught. And no, it wasn’t me. I have an alibi. I was jizzing in my manager’s coffee at the time.

I think I understand why the phantom shitter did it, though. What drove him. Twelve hours of reciting the same script, of repeating the same questions, of hearing the same endless rat-a-tat-tat of the keys, of enduring the same Soviet-era approach to employee surveillance, day after day after day after day, is enough to make anyone start behaving like a chimpanzee having a full mental breakdown.

So that was my day. The mantra. “What’s your name? What’s your address? What’s your home telephone number? What’s your date of birth? What’s your email address?”

As the boredom set into my skull like concrete, I chipped away at it with mischief. I started getting creative with the questions. This was my very own word-based version of shit-in-a-bin.

“Who’s your favourite member of the A-Team?”

“What’s your favourite colour of butterfly?”

“What are you wearing right now?”

And they’d answer, I swear they would. It’s incredible. As long as you maintain an even, professional tone and encase the daft questions inside more conventional questions, and don’t ask too many daft questions overall, most people will feel compelled to rack their brains for the correct answer, or at the very least try to give the sort of answer they think you’re expecting. Some people laughed and joked back, which was great, but most people adopted an earnest – almost imperious – tone, and answered as if they were tackling the million pound question on a gameshow.

“What’s your favourite jungle cat?”

“Em… now I know this one… em… Just give me a second… (Grins proudly) Lion?”

When you’re in a locked-down, oppressive environment like the call centre, you need a comrade-in-arms as a ballast for your sanity, even if you have to draw a face on a paper cup and spend all day talking to it, sharing your problems with it, gently stroking its plastic face – even taking it out to a club with you and then spending the early hours of the next morning making urgent, dirty, drunken love to it, which I absolutely, categorically state that I did not do, despite what my lying ex-girlfriends might tell you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thankfully, though, my comrade in this case was a real, flesh-and-blood person (or at least I hope he was, or I’ve got bigger problems than I first imagined). I’d been in the same year at school with this guy – let’s call him Scott, mainly because that’s his name – and fate had conspired to unite us in yet another stifling, authoritarian institution.

We tried many tactics to keep us from cracking. We cut speech bubbles out of blank sheets of paper, filled the bubbles with incredibly childish and offensive chunks of dialogue, and then placed them onto pictures of people in newspapers and magazines in an attempt to make the other person laugh out loud while they were on a call. When we were in a less sophisticated mood, we’d just draw dicks on everything. We were usually in a less sophisticated mood.

We also played the word game, where you had to donate a word, or list of words, to the other person that they then had to somehow smuggle into a conversation with their next customer, no matter how incongruous or offensive the word. Jobby, testicular, orgy, shit. They all made appearances (many other words were vetoed, as I’m sure you can imagine). But we quickly grew weary. We needed to up the stakes, so we stopped trying to smuggle words in, and started forcing people adopt them as their security passwords instead. We usually told them that the password had been automatically generated by the system and was unchangeable, so go get a pen. “OK, are you ready? I’ll spell it for you. It’s B-A-W-B-A-G.”

So very immature, but so very, very satisfying.

My favourite time-squandering prank, though, was the millionth customer wind-up. It began as a day just like any other, with lots of boredom and dick-drawing. I answered the phone with my usual, achingly-polite mantra. On the line was a pleasant-sounding woman with a thick Yorkshire accent, who asked if she could register her sim card. So far so excruciatingly familiar.

‘Congratulations!’ I said, a few million mega-volts of happiness ripping through my words, ‘You’re customer one million, and you’ve just won free phone calls for life!’

First silence, then an urgent, jammering stammer, redolent of Zippy receiving a particularly vigorous blowjob. ‘Oh…I, uh… ah, ah, ah, oh that’s great, love, that’s great.’ She lowered the phone to share the news with whoever was in her vicinity. She sounded tinny and distant, but blatantly shell-shocked. ‘I’ve won free phone calls for life,’ I heard her say, to high-pitched chirps of excitement, and then ‘Hello?’ as she came back to me at full volume.

‘Oh my God, I am so, so sorry,’ I said, my words weighted with so much regret I could almost taste the Oscar. ‘I don’t know what to say, I feel terrible, I’ve made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake. I was looking at the wrong panel on my screen.’

Wait for it.

‘You’re only customer nine-hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine. I’m so sorry.’

Silence.

‘I’m so sorry. You haven’t won those phone calls.’

There was another long, long, loooong silence. ‘It’s not your fault, love,’ said the woman who was now the most despondent human being in the western hemisphere. She sounded broken. Depressed. Just like me.

Yass! I’d never felt happier.


If you’ve got any memories/stories of working in a call-centre, please share them below so we can all feel better about our miserable fucking lives.

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FUNNY MOMENTS AT WORK: THE AIRPORT

The Hell of Work: The Airport

I used to work as a baggage agent at the airport, meaning I was the person whose life you threatened if your suitcase stayed behind at your airport of origin, or ended up going to Kabul by accident. I was the scapegoat, the fall guy, because whatever had happened to your piece of shit bag was never, ever my fault – although your childish or psychotic response to the reality of having to spend three days without a hairdryer or favourite golf club often made me wish that it had been.

On one occasion, an Argentinian man who looked like an angry Postman Pat took exception to me ordering him to stop shouting at one of my colleagues, who was a tiny 60-year-old woman. He threatened to splat my brains against the wall, and called me an ugly bastard, which was a bit rich coming from a man who looked like a pube-headed puppet with a cat for a best pal. He seemed to calm down once a big Scottish copper with a machine-gun came over to speak to him, as people generally tend to do. Ah, machine guns: life’s great levellers. Nos vemos más tarde, Cartero Pat! I promise we won’t ‘accidentally’ send your bag to Kabul, tu feo bastardo!

I wasn’t hostile or cynical by default, although any job that puts you in prolonged contact with the general public tends to bring that out in you. I did feel genuinely sorry for a great many people who lost their possessions and/or souls in the great lottery of air-travel: among them, the band that was in town for a gig who had been separated from their entire collection of instruments whilst travelling on the airline that actually sponsored them; families with young kids arriving sans child seats; a guy whose actual fucking WHEELCHAIR hadn’t made it on to the plane. How do you even begin to excuse that? “Good luck, mate. Here’s some tokens for a free sandwich.”

I had no real power, responsibility or influence. I was just a guy who sat behind a desk waiting for all of you whinging, moaning bastards to be on your merry, bagless ways so I could slope off for a cigarette or six, or head through to the back office to put my feet up and read the paper. I used to work with a guy who made a habit of falling asleep in the FRONT, public-facing office, who was once actually roused from sleep by a group of passengers. Bold as brass, the fucker just opened his eyes and gave a dismissive and slightly irritated, ‘Yes?’ They ended up apologising to him, which is a level of greatness most people will never see in their lifetime.

When I wasn’t smoking or skiving, I’d while away the minutes rifling through the piles of unidentified bags in our store-room under the auspices of helping to trace the owner, but really just to hunt for funny or unusual stuff to help mitigate the monotony. Unfortunately, it’s a sad truth that most bags, like most people, are utterly boring: some jumpers there, a stick of roll-on deodorant here, an indentikit airport paperback there. But a small percentage of bags made all that rummaging around through strangers’ possessions (with its associated risk of AIDS-y-finger-pricks and the inadvertent grabbing of handfuls of unspeakably wet underwear) worthwhile.

Wonderful bags. Sensational bags. Bags that could’ve belonged to serial-killers-in-training. Bags that definitely belonged to seasoned perverts taking their kinks global.

I once found a bag that held such an embarrassingly large cache of dildos that they must’ve belonged to an international assassin who specialised in death by vagina. One bag was filled to the brim with whips, chains, clamps and tassels, almost certainly destined for a Tory party conference somewhere. I can’t convey to you with any degree of precision just how much niche wanking material I discovered over the years. Actually, there probably hasn’t been anything yet printed or filmed that the male of the species hasn’t been able to transform into niche wanking material, no doubt even microwave instruction manuals (“I’ll make you fucking ping alright, you dirty rectangular bitch.”), but you know what I mean. I once found a spanking magazine. An actual magazine about spanking, you understand, as in spanking ladies’ bottoms with paddles and assorted flat objects. It contained articles about the best materials to use, the science behind the best thwacks, vintage photographs, short stories, the lot. We managed to track down the owner of that bag, a local guy, and when he came in to collect his stuff he looked exactly as you’d expect a man with a collection of spanking magazines to look: absolutely normal.

Because the job requires you to juggle stress, boredom and death threats, when an opportunity for japes or laughter comes along you grab it with both hands, and choke the bloody life out of it. You come up with elaborate jokes and pranks to keep you from succumbing to the urge to rage-quit. Like the jape below, of which I’m still very proud.

Thanks, Schrödinger

Sometimes luggage is rejected at the aircraft, or doesn’t even make it that far, getting lost in the labyrinth of chutes and belts that weave spaghetti-like around the airport. When that happens, the luggage is sent back along a conveyor belt to the arrivals hall, where someone like me would pick it up, and send it to Kabul.

One day, a lone cat-box – the little plastic mini-jail that we all have so much fun cramming our cats into before a visit to the vet – appeared on one of our belts. We were initially horrified, imagining that a live (or hopefully still live) kitten was inside. It was empty. But the box’s appearance gave me a great idea.

At that time I had a mobile phone that thanks to some loose clips and connections could only stay operational through a very delicate balancing act between the battery and the handset. One bump – even an especially large quiver – could make the two pieces of the phone part company, instantly switching it off. I decided to make my phone’s most irritating characteristic work in my favour, by utilising it in the commission of the particularly cruel jape that was still taking shape inside my absolute dick of a mind.

First, I used the phone’s sound-recording function to make a 90-second clip of me miaowing. Next, I made sure the animal-loving woman who worked for a rival airline in the office next to mine was definitely at her desk. Then, I made sure my phone’s volume was turned up to max, pressed ‘play’ on the sound file, gently placed the phone inside the cat-box, and walked next door with a concerned look on my face.

“Can you believe that they’ve put this through on the belt with a cat inside it?”

The woman rose from her seat, horror moulding her mouth into an ‘O’. “Oh, the poor wee thing. We need to get it out of there.”

Before she could get out from behind her desk, I executed a perfectly-timed stumble and trip, throwing the cat-box up and out of my arms and into the nearby wall, whereupon the phone’s battery disconnected from the handset, and the miaowing instantly ceased.

Dear reader, I let that poor woman contemplate my imaginary cat’s snapped neck for an unforgivably long time before revealing the truth. And I loved every bloody second of it.

She tried to send me to Kabul.

“Daddy, Where Do Babies Come From?”

My eldest son, Jack, 3-and-a-half, has been exploring the concepts of pregnancy and parenthood, acting out a series of scenarios with the aid of toys and teddies.

A few weeks ago he was carrying around the head of a Cyberman – a big, bulky, wearable, adult-sized head – introducing it as his baby, asking us to kiss it goodnight, even strapping it into his little brother’s buggy and shooshing us incase we woke it up. Adorable, yet also pretty surreal.

He then became attached to a rather more cuddly and anthropomorphic baby-substitute, an orange, squish-faced mini Tellytubby his little brother Christopher got for Christmas. He named him Shah. Cheers for the potential fatwa, son. At least you never named him… nevermind.

Sometimes Jack carried Shah around, cuddling him, cradling, passing him to us for short bursts of time before jealously grabbing him back again, like he was the proud and overzealous parent of a newborn. Sometimes he stuffed Shah up his jumper, and pretended to be an expectant parent. Last week he told us that the baby would come out of his tummy in ten weeks’ time, before plucking it out of this jumper seconds later with the ease of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, which we all felt was rather a slap in the face for those poor women forced to spend endless, agonising hours sweating and screaming in the delivery room, and then have to get their fannies and arses stitched back together.

I think we should have made this a teachable moment, and let him watch a particularly gruesome live birth on YouTube – right after we’d schooled the ignoramus on Iranian history and politics, of course.

In any case, a teachable moment presented itself a few days later. I had just finished reading him his bed-time stories, when he grabbed his bed-time teddy bear (Shah had been deposed at this point) and pushed it up his pyjama top.

“Dad did WHAT to you?”

“I’ve got a baby in my tummy again, Daddy.”

I smiled. “It’s good to pretend like this. It helps you learn things, and find out how things feel, and find out how other people feel about things.”

That being said, I made it clear that in the real world the only guys capable of giving birth are seahorses and Arnold Schwarzenegger. I went on to give him a bit more info.

“And mummies don’t carry the babies inside their actual tummy, where the food goes. There’s a special part that’s just for growing babies.”

Jack nodded vigorously. “And then they poo the babies out.”

“Not….” I began, talking more slowly and carefully as I began to realise where the conversation was almost certainly heading, “…really. They don’t… mummies don’t… poo babies out of their bum.”

I turned to look at his face. It was deathly still, though a little furrow was forming on his brow. I knew it was coming.

“So where do the babies come from, Daddy?”

Code red! Code red!

This was a pivotal moment. I knew that whatever I said next could have a profound effect on Jack’s personal and psycho-sexual development. Euphemism or truth-emism?

Do I tell him that babies come from the magical kingdom of Fluffington? That they’re emailed from heaven and printed on a 3D printer embedded in mummy’s crotch?

Or do I throw him a truth-bomb, break out charts and diagrams, and make him do join-the-dots pictures of vulvas and uteruses? Show him photos of big gaping fannies in such glaring, high-density close-up that it’s like staring into the jaws of the Predator? Do I talk him through what was happening that time he walked into the kitchen and found his mum bent over the counter in her dressing gown, and I told him she had a sore back and I was just massaging it better?

Ultimately, much like when Jack himself was conceived, I decided to have a quick, no-frills stab at it.

“Well, you know how we boys have willies? Me, you, baby Chris, all men.”

“Grandpa too, he has a willy.”

“That’s right, grandpa, too.”

“And papa. And uncle Aiden. They have willies.”

“That’s right.”

“And my other papa.”

“Yep.”

“And…”

I cut it short, so we didnt’t have to spend the whole night listing the names of anyone who’d ever possessed a penis.

“This is some hard shit to hear. Spark me one up, pops.”

“Well, ladies don’t have that.”

“What do they have?”

Good question. They have… they have a…

“Well, they have a… a vvvvvv…. a vvvvva….vvvva….vv…vvvvvaa….”

Why was this word so hard to say? I couldn’t seem to get my tongue around it (‘Stop your snickering up the back of the class there!’). I was beginning to sound like a man with a faulty chainsaw.

“Vagina!” I said with sudden force. “It’s called a vagina.”

“Fajina?”

“Vagina.”

“Vagina….” And then, inevitably, he said: “Vagina, vagina, vagina, vagina.”

At that moment, as if summoned by the magic of the word itself, a voice boomed from the hallway outside: “He’ll be running around his nursery shouting that all day tomorrow now!”

“There’s nothing wrong with vaginas!” I shouted back at his mum, conscious that the word vagina was beginning to lose all meaning through repetition.  I turned back to Jack. “See, it’s called a vagina, but it’s sort of …a hole, that ladies have. Boys have willies, girls have holes. That’s how the baby gets out.”

He nodded, seemingly satisfied. I quickly changed the subject before the questions became any more technical…

A few days ago I came home from work to find Jack holding Shah again.

“Hi Shah,” I said.

“It’s not Shah. It’s Lou-lou.”

“Oh. What happened to Shah?”

Jack shrugged. “He died in a fire.”

I dare say it won’t be long before we’re having the death talk.

Vaginas have got a lot to answer for.

Conclusive Proof that the Earth is Flat

Everything we ever believed about the world, the universe and our place within it has now changed inalterably. We stand on the brink of a new age of understanding, knowledge and enlightenment that makes our first enlightenment look like an en-shite-enment. It’s hard to believe that only a few short weeks ago most of us monkeyish dunces were still labouring under the frankly absurd notion that the world was round. Round? Really? Our home is the same shape as a tomato, is it? Or a kumquat? The same shape as Gary Lineker’s left testicle? Christ, we were stupid.

2D or not 2D, that was the question… but it isn’t the question anymore, so just stop asking, OK? The truth is out: the earth is flat. Most of the best things in life are flat anyway: snooker tables, hedgehogs, Theresa May’s enduring emotional state. So see you around, round! Get out of here, sphere! Fuck off… em, parabolas?

This giant leap for mankind is all thanks to the dogged determination of a crack team of late-night talk-radio presenters who unilaterally decided to come off their meds; a nightclub dancer who once snorted coke off of Peter Andre’s back in the 90s, and millions of misinformed people who spend the duration of every shit casually yet angrily flicking through niche interest groups on Facebook.

These brave souls, our intrepid Flat Earthers – or just ‘absolute bloody geniuses’ as they’ll now be known – didn’t need fancy books, an education or a grounding in one of the major sciences to work out the true shape of the earth. They didn’t need ‘facts’, ‘evidence’, ‘corroboration’, or any other forms of Jewish conspiracy. They just had to open their eyes and look aflat. They pointed at the horizon and said, ‘That’s flat’. Then they pointed at the sole of their left shoe, and said, ‘THAT’s flat, too’. Thanks for lying to us all of these years, Stephen Hawking. You knew the truth the minute you realised your wheelchair wasn’t whooshing around the world at 6000 mph every time you took the hand-brake off. But at least you got some books out of it and an appearance on The Simpsons, you treacherous cunt.

He’ll be the first against the wall.

Think about it, morons. If the earth really was round, and spinning really quickly like the reptilian death-barons at ‘NASA’ say it is, then every time a little boy kicked a football it would end up in France – unless he was a French boy in France, in which case we wouldn’t care what he did anyway. If you lived on this unfeasible, magically-round earth and wanted to go on holiday to Australia, you wouldn’t need to fly. You’d simply get on a plane as normal, but instead of it taking off, a bunch of guys in roller-skates would lift the plane six feet off the ground, and then simply wait for the earth to spin round to Australia – like they were inside some planet-sized slot machine – before gently lowering you to the tarmac. Look out for that kangaroo, mate! Kangaroos, of course, if they timed it just right, would be able to jump from Australia to Scotland, so long as they took care to avoid all of those little boys’ footballs flying towards France.

It doesn’t really matter if you don’t understand the science that underpins the truth of the earth’s flatness, because you’ve no choice but to accept it. Clinging to a belief in a round earth is now a form of social suicide, and preaching belief in planetary roundness is now illegal, and punishable by death. Death by steam-roller, since you’re asking. That’ll fucking teach you.

The pioneering flat-earthers should be happy. They should be rejoicing. But they’re not: they’re angry. They’re angry that the global conspiracy took so long to smash; angry that their revolution took so long to happen. And they’re absolutely livid at having to use sphere-centric words like ‘global’ and ‘revolution’ to explain and contexualise their anger. So now, because I don’t want to go to jail for the next 500 years, I’d better start this paragraph again.

The pioneering flat-earthers should be happy. They should be rejoicing. But they’re not: they’re angry. They’re angry that the really long way across conspiracy took so long to smash; angry that their long journey across a flat surface that eventually doubled back on itself took so long to happen.

The movement’s most vocal supporters have been quick to heap scorn on those who worked to keep us in the dark for most of human history. “We were lied to, man, all these years we were lied to,” says former Big Brother contestant Dizzy G. McMastaBlasta, who now juggles his time between rapping and sciencing. “For years now, NASA has gotten up and down to the moon using a ladder, yeah? The rockets were fake, they was all CSI. Space, real space, is like a platform game, innit. Like Super Mario, but there aint no space turtles and shit, yeah? Actually I dunno, does space have turtles? Don’t quote me on the turtles thing, bro.”

Dizzy G. McMastaBlasta wrote a song about the round-earth conspiracy, which he recorded and released under his stage name ‘James Donaldson the Rapper’. It went straight to number 1, and will soon be adopted as the UK’s new national anthem. The song’s called ‘Big Flat Bitch‘.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s flat, it’s so flat, baby, yeah yeah. Don’t you be thinking it aint flat, it flat, baby, ooooh, you know it. It’s flat. Is it flat? Yes. Yes it is. Aint no doubt. Oooo, girl, da earth be flat. Maybe you didn’t hear me, girl, I said it’s flat, so flat, so flat it hurts, baby, oooooooooo flat, oooooooooo so so flat. I’m reasonably satisfied that the pattern of repetition in this song has left absolutely no doubt in your mind as to the flatness of the earth, girl.”

Judge Judge Judgeton (he’s a judge called Judge who comes from a long line of Judges) has released a list of people who are now effectively barred from serving in public office or from having a public platform of any kind. “East 17. Been around the world and there’s no place like home? No you haven’t, and yes there is, you disgusting liars. They’ll do life if I catch them. Ben Fogle. He’ll do 10 – 15 years. Nothing to do with the flat earth thing, just can’t stand the cunt. Who’s that wee guy who looks a bit like Simon Anstell and bangs on about astro-physics while wearing a succession of hideous jumpers? He’s off to the gulag, too. Zippy, Bungle. They’re dead. Dora the Explorer? Hung, drawn and quartered, the shameless fucker.”

A heavy sense of relief has rocketed throughout the world. Conditions even seem ripe for pushing the boundaries of discovery yet further. Rex Coltingham of the Democratic Americans for the Furtherance of Truth In the Eastern States (DAFTIES) is hosting a conference in Rhode Island next week in which he will set forth a new scientific agenda for the US. “Flat earth’s the first hurdle. We’re over it now. Next we talk comedy acronyms. That shit aint funny no more. It’s time they stopped. Then we move on to gravity. What is gravity? How does it really work? I’ll tell you how it works. The ghosts of tiny aliens, that’ how. And that’s a FACT. We’ve gotta be nicer to these guys. Wherever we go, they’re holding on to us, pulling down on our legs so we don’t float away. Asleep in bed? Twelve of these guys are on your chest. You go for a piss? They’re holding your cock so you don’t piss in your mouth. Without them, we’d all float off into space. That’s bad, because you can’t breathe in space, right? Wrong buddy. Your lungs work fine in space. It’s the space turtles that’ll get you, those hangry bitches.”

Good day, folks. And please remember. The future’s bright: the future’s a rectangle.