Your Main Guy,
Rob Kinda-Fucking-Tweaked-Off-that-You-Just-Skipped-Out-Without-Leaving-a-Fucking-Note-or-Shit Miller.

Begin transcription:

"Is that a tape recorder?"

"Yeah."

{long pause}

"You know, when a person asks you, 'Is that a tape recorder?' it's usually a prompt for you to, you know, explicate why you are holding a running tape recorder up in their face. Does that social cue click with you, Rob?"

"I'm recording this."

{long pause, the sounds of the ventilation system turning off, the rustling of a digital audio recorder being turned around.}

"Note: Molly is walking away shaking her head and shit. Oh, what, she's turning aro—"

"Did you post that question up on the tank yourself? Did you write a question to the squid asking his empty tank where he was? Who is going to answer that question? What kind of person are you? What is this place?""Note: I sit down at my desk so I can, like, assess all of the—"

"Why in the hell are you narrating?"

{long heaving sigh, followed by squeaking characteristic of OSHA non-compliant 1978 green Steelcase office chair rotating 360 degrees while wobbling with a grown man in it. For reference sounds, please see Leeks Audio, files 367-1147:special:office sounds, Robert}

"Basically, Leeks was like, 'Mr. Miller, our employer is absent. However, the structure of our lease for this space requires, among other things, that a weekly advice column of some sort be posted—'"

"You know, Leeks doesn't have that nasal sound in his voice. You sound like a black guy impersonating a white guy, but worse, because you are a white Jew impersonating a black comedian impersonating a white gentile."

{squeaking noise, 48 seconds, see reference above}

"Whatever. Like, Leeks says make a column for this week. I say, 'Sure man, that sounds cool.' Then he gives me fucking Olympus digital tape recorder and a deadline, and all of sudden I am like, no way, I am not at fucking work, and what's the deal with this fucking 'our employer' shit? I don't work here anymore. I haven't worked here in, like, four fucking years. I work for my Da', dig. People work under fucking me now. I, like, order people around and shit. I don't say 'shit' and 'fuck' when I am at fucking work 'cause I am serious and shit. I just chill here because I like you guys, and me and Lord A., we been through things and shit, and I'm all like, 'okay' when it's just Leeks fucking asking, but now I got a tape recorder, and I got a fucking deadline, and he's all looking at me with his eyes in that fucking way, you know, and he gave me a fucking card with, like five step instructions on how to properly up load this fucking audio file so that he can hire out a transcription. Doing this shit for free, you know, for the fucking LULZ, whatever that shit is, that I can do. But copping a boss pose and shit on me? That shit ain't right."

"You don't know how to check the incoming-questions database for fresh requests to the Giant Squid, do you?"

"No."

"And you don't want to have to stick around until Jarwaun gets here after school?"

"No."

"And you're bitching and moaning instead of asking for help with a 'please' and 'thank you.'"

{pause}

"Rob, Do you even know what I do here?"

"No."

{long pause. squeaking.}

"Note: So, Molly totally just walked away. She, like, opened her mouth like she was going to say another thing, and then, I could totally see in her eyes that look people get when they know they just wasted seven and half fucking minutes staring at my piehole while it did it's shit all over the place. I know that look like I know my own fucking heart. I'm proud of that lady. Takes fucking balls to just walk away, not even say a thing, just turn around in the middle of a conversation. Doesn't matter how stupid the conversation is, but to just turn away while we're talking . . . fucking balls. Like pulling out a tooth with a piece of fucking string.

"So, you know, note that, transcription dude."

{squeaking}

"Also, like, just for the record, she's our marine biologist. She, you know, checks tank pressure and shit, keeps the gas mix in the water right, checks on the aquaria in the fucking menagerie—which, like, basically makes her the lab director, ever since Sang went AWOL. She's got a PhD and shit, used to work at Wood's Hole or wherever. I know what's what, and she's hot to boot. I just don't like being called out on shit like I'm a lizard-brain doped out and shit. I just talk this way 'cause I like being relaxed, you dig?"

"Note: so, the lab is totally fucking empty, and the tank is weird because it is empty and scrubbed crystal clean, and now it just, you know, refracts light coming in the windows like a gigantic crystal ball."

{pause, indistinct cursing in an unidentified voice}

"Trael? T? You chillin' in the media room?"

"Maybe."

"You don't got school? Where the hell is your bro?"

"We . . . got a half day?"

{footsteps}

"If there's a half day, where's Jarwaun?"

"I . . . mean just we got a half day, in the elementary. He still at school, on the full day."

{transcriptionist's note: this is a lie}

"Right on. You busting it up on Mario Kart? Hells yeah. I'm in."

{the sigh of a leather couch taking on a grown man's weight}

"Oh, hey, Trael, you know where the Big Squid is?"

"Yeah, he say gonna ride up in a big balloon or something. Oh, man, I used up all my shells . . ."

"In a balloon?"

"Note: Trael just, like, used his head to point out the big window. I don't see shit out the window, just the Detroit River. Not a river, for real, actually it's, like, a strait between Lake St. Clair and Lake Erie. That's what the city name means, man: 'Detroit' means, like 'the straits and shit' in fucking French."

{furious clacking of fingers on game controllers}

"So, anyway, column done. Question: Where is the squid? Answer: In a fucking balloon and shit; now stop bothering me while I school the lil man in Mario Kart—shit! You are a nimble lil bastard, Tray! But, like, anyway, 'In a balloon' is a decent answer I guess. And what you will say is, yeah, but where is the fucking balloon and shit? And I will say, 'touche' which means fucking Touch, right? Well, tough shit. One question, one answer. Come back fucking next week if you want to know where the balloon is. I filled up your fucking space, Señor Leeks, crazy-ass lease and shit, so you can hang your cock out to dry. I don't work for you and shit. I got shit to do."

{click}

". . . how the fuck do you upload this... ah, motherfucker, it's recording again. Trael, what the fuck does this cord connect—"

In the absence of Mr. Architeuthis Dux, late of Detroit
I Remain,
Michael Ignatius Leeks, CPA
Interim Editor-in-Chief, Poor Mojo's Almanac(k)