Qualityland

CLEAN

“It’s no coincidence that this fucking video has appeared now, of all moments,” groans Aisha, “just as we’d almost caught up in the opinion polls.”

She stares at the video, switched on to silent, of the masturbating member of the Progress Party.

“What a moron,” she murmurs. “Because of him Cook will win the election. It always comes down to something so ridiculous in the end. Just think how many world catastrophes we could have been spared if men could just keep their dicks in their pants.”

“That’s a bold theory,” says John.

“A ballsy theory,” says Aisha.

“You should’ve been a comedian.”

“Name any historical catastrophe, and I’ll show you how it only came about because some man couldn’t keep it in his pants.”

“Okay then,” says John. “The Eight Years’ War.”

“Right,” says Aisha. “Easy. The Eight Years’ War would have been unthinkable without the preceding rebirth of nationalism. This was fueled by fear of refugees from Islamic ‘failing states.’ These ‘failing states’ were a direct result of the American attack on Iraq. Iraq was attacked because the American people elected a moron called George W. Bush as their president. Bush was elected because his Democratic predecessor couldn’t keep it in his pants.”

“That’s an astonishingly coherent argument,” says John.

“I even read a historical novel about it recently,” says Aisha. “The Intern and the President.”

John calculates for two seconds. “Hmm,” he says. “I preferred Calliope’s other works. I thought George Orwell Goes Shopping was excellent, for example.”

Aisha looks back the monitor. “Do you know what the worst thing about all this is?”

“No.”

“The tennis sock,” she says. “How tasteless. What self-respecting man wears tennis socks?”

“And on his penis, to top it all off.”

“Yes,” says Aisha. “If they were on his feet it wouldn’t be half as bad.”

“This doesn’t have to be the end.”

“Yes it does,” murmurs Aisha. “This white tennis sock with the red stripes is going to haunt me in my nightmares. It’s the end.”

“Perhaps we could use the whole thing to our advantage.”

Aisha pricks up her ears. “How?”

“Well, it’s no coincidence that there’s no video of me like that.”

Aisha catches on at once. “There’s guaranteed to never be that kind of video of you…”

Androids don’t masturbate. They don’t have perverse sexual preferences. Or secret affairs. Or illegitimate children. They are… clean.

“You’ll always keep it in your pants,” says Aisha.

“I don’t even have—” begins John.

“Too much information, John,” Aisha interrupts him. “Get in touch with Oliver at WWW at once. Tell him we need a new campaign commercial. Today.”

“Done,” says John.

Aisha initiates an encrypted conversation via her earworm.

“See to it that the idiot gets kicked out of the party…” she cries. “Tony, I couldn’t give a shit who his father is… It’s not true that everyone does it… John doesn’t… Now listen to me, you mentally challenged nitwit. Either you become vice president under John or a goddamn laughingstock in the history books… Okay, I’m glad we understand each other.”

Aisha hangs up. She smiles.