Working two jobs, completing a Master's program, and daily classroom observation has basically drained me of any and all recreational time, but I somehow managed to crank this out in the midst of an evening spent with my brother. This is for him.

Summary: Beavis & Butthead are unceremoniously dispatched from their jobs at Burger World, and seek new, albeit still sucky employment. Any resemblance to actual and living call centers is purely coincidental. Really. Rated PG-13.

Call Center

It all started when Beavis & Butthead got fired from their jobs at Burger World. That they had kept their tenured positions for as long as they had was the surprising thing that Beavis had peed in the fry cooker, thinking the oil was, somehow, just a vat of hot urine, waiting to be added to, was actually a fairly anticlimactic end to their reign of terror over the world of fast food.

Normally, unemployment was not a prospect that really registered on their collective radar. Having unwittingly turned slacking off, eating nachos, and sitting on a battered couch watching music videos into some sort of art form, neither boy really cared much about earning a steady paycheck, except that having money in their pockets cut down on how often they had to sneak into movies and steal food out of the refrigerator in the teacher's lounge at Highland High School.

Still, their sort-of friend Stuart was working at the local Icee Freeze, and when he kicked them out when he was working the late shift because Butthead kept filching change out of the tip jar and Beavis clogged the toilet, they decided they needed new jobs. If nothing else, it was necessary to have some place to hang out. "Dude, work sucks," Butthead lamented as they trudged up the road after yet another inauspicious day at school. "Why do we have to do it again?"

"Heh, 'cause like, then we'll have like, money," Beavis replied. "And like, chicks like dudes who have money. So if we have money, we'll get chicks, heh. And then we'll score!"

"Heh, you said 'score'," Butthead said agreeably. "Where should we get jobs?"

"How about Burger World?" Beavis suggested.

"You bunghole! We can't work there anymore, because you like, took a whiz where you weren't supposed to or something. Dumb ass."

"Heh, I thought it was because like, heh heh, I scratched my butt with a spatula and then like, that one fat chick with the huge hooters ate that burger and threw up all over the parking lot," Beavis mused.

"Heh heh. Hooters."

"We should get something cool," Beavis continued. "I think we'd get even more chicks if like, we had cool jobs."

"Yeah, cool guys score," Butthead agreed. "Like, Stuart's a loser, and his job sucks. We're like, way cooler than Stuart."

It was at that point that Daria, one of their classmates happened by. "If you guys are really looking for a job, you should try TCI," she intoned flatly. "They take anybody."

"Diarrhea, cha-cha-cha!" they chorused.

Daria just sighed. "I was just trying to help. Though I'm not sure why I bothered."

"Heh, thanks, Diarrhea," Beavis said. She went on her way, shaking her head. "What do you think, Butthead?"

"Heh," said Butthead. "Diarrhea."

TCI, or Telecommunications Center, Inc. was a large, white building in one of the crappier parts of town (and there were a lot of them). Beavis and Butthead left school early the next afternoon, mostly because they'd gotten sent to the principal's office for taking the frogs they were supposed to be dissecting for Biology class and chucking bits of them at the other students, and the principal, a perpetually sweating man named Mr. McVicker "McDicker," Butthead had guffawed afterwards had simply pointed a shaky finger out the window until they went away.

The waiting room area of TCI held two battered-looking computers, and a handful of chairs, which were arranged to face a sliding glass window that was currently closed. A couple of other burn-outs whom Beavis and Butthead recognized from around town were there, though the computers weren't in use. As if on cue, a bored-looking HR person slid the window open and sized up the room's newest occupants. "You guys filled out the application yet?" he asked.

"Heh, application?" Beavis queried.

The HR guy sighed, and then pointed to the computers. "All incoming employees have to fill out an application it takes like fifteen minutes, tops. Then you can wait here, and you'll be interviewed, which is another fifteen minutes. I think we have our next training class tomorrow, so you guys got here on a good day."

He made to close the window again, but Beavis chimed in again. "Diarrhea said this place hires everyone!" he protested. "So why do we have to apply?"

The HR dude blinked. "We need a way to keep track of everybody we hire," he explained with somewhat forced politeness.

Butthead snorted. "You guys should just like, take roll or something, then. Dumb asses."

HR Guy smiled weakly. "Yeah, heh, we uh, we should. Anyway, um, why don't each of you take a computer and fill out your application. Roger, will you come with me, please?" he gestured to a tall, gangly teen against the far wall with a piercing in every conceivable orifice, who stood and trudged awkwardly over to the door of the HR office. It open and closed again methodically, and Beavis and Butthead watched through the window, fascinated, trying to peer in at Roger's interview. "They're just like, talking," Beavis said, disappointed.

"Yeah," Butthead agreed. "This show sucks." They turned their attention anew to the computers, set up against opposite walls, the screens already broadcasting a blank copy of the application form. Butthead squinted at the 'name' field in confusion. "Nah-meh," he mispronounced. "Dude, what the hell is nah-me?"

"Um, I think that's like, where you put your like, name and stuff, heh," Beavis offered. "Like, I would put, B-E-E-V-I-S, 'cause that's like, 'Beavis' or whatever, and you would put, um, N-A-D-S."

Butthead typed it in and then stared at the screen. "You bunghole! That says 'nads', not 'Butthead'." He held down the 'delete' key until the computer made an erroneous noise, and then held it down a few more seconds before the room's other occupants glared at him. "Dillweed."

After a rigorous application process, the two boys waited for an interview. The other people in the room went first, all of who exited the HR office with a packet of paper in hand and looking at least moderately pleased. "Man, I totally screwed up that last word," an acne-laden girl with oily blonde hair said to her companion, a dude Beavis and Butthead had seen around town whose name was Darren. They left together, and the HR guy stuck his head out the door.

"Okay, so which one of you is 'Beevis Poopshire', and which one is 'Dirk Bignads'?" Beavis and Butthead giggled. "Guys, you do realize you could get fired for not copying down correct information, don't you?" He handed them both back their applications. "Now, I'll let you fix these, because I like you fellas and I think you were just having a little joke, but you're not going to get another warning about this sort of thing, okay?" Both boys took their respective applications, scribbling out their cool new monikers with stubby bits of pencil they found lying on a table in the waiting room. "Should I like, also take out the part where I said I was like, this really famous pro-wrestler who fights dudes in Mexico and drinks lots of tequila and scores like every night?" Beavis asked.

HR Guy stifled yet another sigh. "Well, did you do any of those things?"

"Heh," Beavis said. "No."

HR Dude shook his head. "Okay, well, anyways. My name is Bill, and I will be interviewing you both. Who wants to go first?" Both boys were silent. "Don't be shy," Bill said encouragingly. "How about you, um, Butthead, is it? Boys, you said you were going to write your real names down this time."

"Huh, that is my name, turd burglar," Butthead snorted.

"Oh. Oh, um, okay, then. Well, Butthead," Bill blinked, "let's head into my office and talk about why you want to become a TCI employee, shall we?" He opened the door wider and waited for Butthead to follow him. "Butthead?"

"Huh, do I have to like, take my pants off or something?" Butthead asked. "'Cause like, I don't like doing that in front of other dudes."

"Oh, no, nothing like that," Bill assured him. "This is just an oral interview. We're not a doctor's office or anything." Butthead snickered "huh huh, 'oral' but followed Bill inside, and sat down in the chair he'd seen Roger and the rest occupy. Bill placed a list of about thirty words in front of him. "Butthead, do you know what we do here at TCI?" he asked, folding his hands on the desk in front of him.

"Huh," Butthead replied. "Work?"

"We provide research to companies who hire us to gather data on a variety of topics usually, political, socio-economic, and occasionally religious."

"Huh huh. What?" Butthead asked.

"We do phone surveys," Bill reiterated, more slowly this time. "Have you ever done phone surveys before, Butthead?"

"No," Butthead answered honestly. "But like, this one time, me and Beavis called this phone sex line to talk to some chick with big hooters. We totally scored."

"A-ha, well, yes. Um, this isn't really the same thing," Bill said quickly. "You just read whatever's on the screen and record people's answers. Do you have any experience with computers?"

"Huh huh, once me and Beavis had to watch for police and stuff while this Todd guy stole a computer. Todd's like, cool," Butthead said approvingly. Bill just sighed and made a note on his clipboard. Then he pushed the list of words towards Butthead and asked him to read them. "Heh heh, okay. Um, let's see. 'Ar-cans-ass'; 'e-piss-co' uh, huh huh, piss. 'Cat-eh', uh, huh huh, what if we don't know what any of these mean?"

Beavis' interview went about the same. Bill told him about being able to use an alias on the phone and he chuckled. "You can have your ass talk instead? Heh heh, wow, that's cool!"

Nonetheless, both boys were handed a packet of papers detailing the dress code, rules and other important information granted to "new members of the TCI family", and were instructed to show up the next day at 8 AM sharp. "Dude, that's like, a Saturday," Butthead said flatly. "That sucks."

Bill just smiled at them uneasily. "Uh, right. See you then!" He hurried back into his office and shut the door audibly behind him.

Training was held in a small room without any ventilation of windows. Beavis and Butthead crowded into it alongside roughly twenty other new TCI recruits, none of whom seemed particularly thrilled to be awake so early on a Saturday.

Eventually, Bill made his way into the room and to the center of the convocation of hard plastic chairs. "Welcome to training, everyone!" he proclaimed with an enviable amount of enthusiasm. A few of the new employees muttered; Beavis picked his nose. Butthead chuckled predatorily at some chick next to him wearing a low-cut shirt and dangly earrings. Neither paid much attention to Bill's prattling about QA, dress code, or calling in sick, though the girl next to Butthead grew pouty when Bill told her that her shirt was not acceptable on the call floor.

Finally, Bill paired the room's occupants off into groups of three and had them take turns logging into what appeared to be computers that were older than most of the new employees. A guy who looked about twenty, with multiple tattoos and a Metallica t-shirt that was two sizes too small for him joined Beavis and Butthead. He grunted a hello, and began squinting at a piece of paper with log-in directions typed on it. "What the hell," he muttered, and then turned to the two boys. "You guys know how to do this crap?"

"Huh, crap," Butthead laughed. Bill happened over at that moment. "You boys having trouble logging in?" he said helpfully. "Here Butthead, was it? Why don't you sit in front of the computer and show me how you would log-in. Come on, don't be shy."

Butthead chuckled and moved into position. "Okay," Bill continued, unwaveringly chipper. "Now what would you do first?"

"Huh, I don't know," Butthead snorted.

"Beavis, can you help him out? How about you, uh, Clifford, isn't it?" Bill looked back and forth between the two, a tinge of desperation in his voice. Clifford, however, just shrugged; Beavis pulled a booger out of his nose and wiped it on the underside of the table.

"I think most of you are doing really well," Bill said some four hours later, leading the rag-tag crew out onto the edges of the call floor for their official induction as TCI employees. Clifford had abandoned Beavis and Butthead to chat up the large-busted girl who kept placing her hand across her cleavage as if afraid her breasts were going to tumble out of her shirt. The boys stood at the back of the group, no more the wiser as to how to log-in than they'd been that morning. An emptied section of the call floor had been marked by post-its on each monitor, and Bill steered the group over to them, instruction everyone to sit down and wait for a supervisor to come around and watch them log-in for the first time. A sour-looking woman with glasses and a dull bush of hair stepped behind Beavis and Butthead. "All right, you know how to do this, yeah?"

Beavis chuckled. "Yeah, we know how to do it, heh heh." Butthead laughed appreciatively.

The woman crossed her arms over her chest. "Okay, then. Show me."

Both boys gaped at her. "You want us to do it here?" Butthead goggled. "With each other?"

Beavis chuckled. "That's like, nasty, lady."

The woman rolled her eyes, then seized Butthead's keyboard and began typing. "What's your interviewer ID?" she asked him. He stared at her dumbly and she sighed loudly. "Never mind hey, Bill!" she called down the row. The trainer shuffled over quickly. "Can you give me this young man's interviewer ID?" He did; she keyed it in, and talked herself through the prompts, for Butthead's benefit more than anything, though it was unlikely that he noticed. Eventually, a screen popped up indicating that the computer was logged in. She quickly repeated the action on Beavis' computer, and then moved down the line. "Get ready, you two," she said sternly, evil-eyeing them both. "Your first calls should come in soon."

As she predicted, the calls began trickling in about three minutes later. "Uh, hello," Butthead said, breathing heavily into the mouthpiece. "My name is uh, Butthead. You wanna like, do it?" The person on the other end hung up.

Bill passed by just then. "Did they hang up?" he asked. "Here, you just hit the number that corresponds to the result of the call. In this case it's a '6', and then it asks if you want to try another interview. Hit 'y'. Now you do the next one."

Another call came in about twenty seconds later. "Huh huh, six," Butthead chuckled. The call recipient slammed down the phone once more. "Six, y," he said to himself, pressing the buttons clumsily. He logged the next four calls in quick succession, not even attempting to answer any of them. "Heh heh, this is cool," he said. "What do you think, Beavis?"

Beavis was busily trying to join the ends of the plastic extension for the microphone on his headset up both nostrils. "Hey, check it out, Butthead," he announced. "I'm a bull!" He laughed, and both ends of the extension shot out of his nose, landing on the desk. Butthead chuckled at him for a few minutes, and then resumed prematurely logging his calls.

An hour or so passed. Reluctantly, it seemed, Bill happened by again. "Boys, I've looked at your stats. Butthead, you've hung up without saying anything some 27 times. And Beavis, you haven't even logged your first call yet! I know it's your first day, but most of your training class has gotten at least one completed survey. Do you need more help? Anything I can do?" Bill asked, wringing his hands. "Guys, come on, talk to me. Beavis? Butthead? Buehler?"

"Huh huh," Butthead said. "You can get us some nachos if you really want to help."

"Nachos?" Bill echoed blankly. Both boys snickered, and he sighed. "Look, guys, I hate to be like this, but you're going to be QA'd in the next hour or so. You really need to show me that you know what you're doing, or that you're at least trying to understand." He walked away. Beavis picked up the microphone extension and stuck it in his ear this time.

"Heh heh, uh, huh, my name is Beavis," Beavis said, after Butthead taught him how to press the '6' and 'y' buttons. "I'm calling on behalf of People Studies. Would you like to do a survey?"

"Hmm," a soft, feminine voice answered. "All right. It won't take long, will it?"

"Heh, it's uh, it's kind of long," Beavis replied, snickering. "But um, your o-pin uh, you okay, so like, just do it, okay?" He hit 'enter' and came up with another block of text. "Um, okay," he read, slowly. "How likely are you to vote in the next Presidential e- uh, e-lec, um erection. Huh huh, the President has an erection! Hey Butthead, look!"

"Excuse me?" the voice on the other line said.

"No no, not you," Beavis rasped, whipping off his headset and turning to his friend. "Butthead, c'mon, did you see? The President has an erection!"

"Heh heh, cool," Butthead said appraisingly. He continued with his own call. "Okay, uh, huh huh, next question, ma'am. Do you have: big hooters, really big hooters, really really big hooters, or are you a dude?" The caller hung up. "Huh huh, that was cool."

"Yeah!" Beavis enthused, no longer paying attention to his screen. The sound of someone clearing their throat startled them both.

"That really wasn't cool, you guys," Bill said, frowning at them grimly. "Not cool at all."

"This sucks," Butthead announced, kicking a rock with the toe of his sneaker. "We got fired, and we won't even get money for like two weeks."

"Yeah," Beavis agreed. "I had plans for that money. Think about all the nachos we can buy!"

"Nachos," Butthead chuckled. "Bill was a douche," he said a moment later. "He's like, a bigger douche than McDicker and Mr. Van Dreason put together."

"Yeah, he's a bunghole," Beavis agreed. "But like, he was gonna pay us and stuff."

"He'd better, 'cause that job sucked," Butthead said angrily. "Except for that part where I totally scored with that one chick. She had big hooters."

"Yeah. But like, how could you tell, Butthead?" Beavis asked, scratching his head, and then scratching his butt with the same hand and sniffing his fingers. "I mean, heh, couldn't she like, lie and crap about her hooter size? Like, what if she was a dude or something?"

"Whoa," Butthead said in awe. "A dude with big hooters."

They walked along for a few moments in silence. "Hey Butthead, do you think Burger World will rehire us if like, I promise not to take my weiner out anymore?"

"Huh huh, weiner." And off they went, in search of truth, justice, and a job that would inevitably suck as much as Bjork's music, which was a lot.