I was at my desk doing courtesy farts on the phone when one of the assistant managers came up to me and told me that the FAART manager wanted to see me. That could mean one thing: Bad news. Very bad news.
Slowly I got up from my desk and walked across the call room to his office at the other side of the room.
“Nervous?” the FAART manager said to me when he saw me standing at the doorway. Hello to you too, I thought.
“Yeah,” I stammered.
“You should be,” he replied, motioning me to the empty chair next to his desk. His words did nothing to ease the escalating tension.
“One of my assistants saw you using a whoopee cushion to do your calls, is that correct?”
A very uncomfortable pause. Then I answered very tentatively, “Yeah.”
“Does Teleperfart allow the use of whoopee cushions?” he asked.
“No,” I answered.
“Does our client permit the use of whoopee cushions?”
“ARE WHOOPEE CUSHIONS EVEN ALLOWED IN THE CALL ROOM!”
“You sure know the answers,” the FAART manager replied, “but you certainly don’t know the rules. How many times have we spoken about this already?”
“Two times?” I whispered, knowing full well it was more than that.
“TWO TIMES?” he blurted. “Are you serious? Do you really think we’ve only met twice to discuss this?”
I nodded timidly.
“For your information, this is the fifth time we have spoken about this. The first two times were friendly verbal warnings, then you were given a written warning and then you were suspended, and you still don’t get the message? Guess what’s happening next.”
My body became became paralyzed with terror.
“Give me your whoopee cushion, please.”
Slowly I fished into my pocket and pulled out my whoopee cushion. He grabbed it and pulled out a small electric pump from his desk drawer. Then he turned to his computer and executed a few clicks of his mouse before finally turning back to me.
“Come with me, please.”
The FAART manager escorted me back into the call room, where the other agents immediately took notice of his presence.
“May I have your attention please!” he announced. “I just terminated your calls. Can anyone here tell me what the Teleperfart policy is against Assisted Artificial Farting?”
One agent stood up and replied, “Employees shall not artificially produce flatulent sounds under any conditions or exceptions and are expected to consume gas-inducing foods needed to produce the natural flatulent sounds to fulfill the requirements of our clients and customers. Abuse of this Policy may result in revocation of farting privileges, or other disciplinary measures, up to and including termination.”
“Very good,” the FAART manager replied. Holding up my whoopee cushion, he asked, “Anyone know what this is?”
“CONTRABAND FOR ASSISTED ARTIFICIAL FARTING!” All the agents yelled in unison.
“Is it allowed in the call room?”
“NO!!!” they all roared.
As the agents cheered, the FAART manager switched on the electric pump and began to inflate my whoopee cushion. Bigger and bigger it got and it soon reached the size of a bowling before it burst with a loud bang. The cheering was deafening before it slowly faded away as the agents returned to work.
Then the FAART manager turned to me, ripped the badge from my shirt and called security to have them escort me out of the building.
And now here I sit at home, unemployed and drowning my sorrows in a huge bowl of baked beans so I can spend the rest of the evening farting up a storm in memory of my job’s untimely demise.