Myself and Spike, the staffroom cockant, were watching Rex The Runt one day after supper. Spike saw the bit with the time machine and said, "I'm gonna do it!" At first I thought he was talking about the bit of clay with nice boobs, but then he shouted something else about a time machine. So that was it: Spike was going to build a time machine.
After watching every movie about the future ever, Spike started his epic creation. And so it was, he invented a time travelling BMX. I had orignally asked for a time travelling DeLorean, but as we all know, Spike is a complete fuck up and he wrecked my order. Shit!
Anyway, after I stole Spike's time travelling BMX, and then after a brief yet incredibly retarded fight between Spike and myself, then a swift punch in the balls to Spike by yours truly, yours truly was off into the future. Whence there, I caught up with Matt, and had a pleasent little interview with the crunt.
And here it is, unedited and unabridged.

Dateline: Saturday, April 12th, 2015.

Volcomstalker: Matthew, let me introduce myself, I am Preston H Pye, journalist and pro snooker player. Thanks for sparing the time out of your busy schedule for an interview.

Matt: No, my schedule is not busy. Actually I was just about to catalogue and value my collection of MAD magazines.

VS: MAD magazines... how cool...
Hey wait, isn't today your 30th birthday? Shouldn't you be doing something fun? Why aren't you unwrapping presents or strippers or something?

MS: Hmm. I would be, but all I can afford are these multicoloured underpants I'm wearing and my Internet connection.
Actually it's ironic, the internet was responsible for my downfall, and now it is my only friend.

VS: Really? Would you care to elaborate on that, Matt?

MS: Of course Preston. One day, about 15 years ago, some odd young man I used to know named Volcomstalker decided to put up a website declaring that I was a very bad homosexual person. As was assumed, lots of crazy kids believed what they read on his shit-arse of a website and thought it was true. After about a month, and still to this day, I can't walk down the street without someone saying, "Hey, fag!" or "You! You're the gay!" or "Get out of my damn bushes, cunt!"
Hence my life as a dirty, dirty recluse. Hmm. Wait one moment.

"Fuck off, you stinkin' kids!" FutureMatt threatens some neighbourhood kids flinging cat shit at his garbage.

At this moment, Matt got up and scared away some kids (see left) as I snapped a photo.

MS: Sorry about that Preston.

VS: Um... no worries. I thought you were wearing pants before? Er, never mind.
So, why do you think people believed and therefore called you a fag?

MS: Well, I'm the first to admit that back at the start of the century my behaviour was a little strange at times, to say the least. As it was then, and now, the average person won't take the time to look into and understand why someone does something different, or what that different thing really means. And so, as to spend less time thinking, and more time skateboarding or some stupid shit, the average person assumes this 'different' person's behaviour comes from humping arse, so they therefore verbally express it.
Sad I know, but that's the truth as far as I can ascertain.

VS: Hmm. Nice answer, fag.

MS: Ha! Precisely!

VS: Whatever, you ugly dickhead. I have a whole list of reasons to hate you, so anything you say has no effect on me. Go fuck yourself, you sad, middle-aged hobo.

At this point, Matt gave me a stern look, stood up, and walked off nervously to the FutureLav, where he stayed until I left an hour later, after stealing all his food and shitting in his DVD player. I'll leave it the reader to decide whether or not Matt took my suggestion of "fucking himself" seriously or not.
I say, "he did fuck himself".