Rob here. So, like, the office is in a state of total, y'know, disarray, or whatever, right now. It's all kinds of fucked up. I pulled "format and post advice column" duty, which is sucky, 'cause I never know what to write, but cool, 'cause there was only two jobs left and I don't want fuckin' "clearing lab six" duty. You don't even want to fuckin' start to try and imagine the shit that's up in that joint.

So . . . So, earlier, I swung by Lord A's tank to see what was up with his column—which would usually be Molly's job—and he was curled up in the corner all folded into a little ball. I checked the pressure gauges, cause last time that shit happened it was on account of the mix being off and he had too much nitrogen and thought he was Elvis for a few hours. It was funny when he tried to sing "Suspicious Minds" with that weird voice of his, but less funny when he started calling me Priscilla and tried to convince me to climb into his pressurized tank and "WORSHIP UNTO THE KING!"

That shit ain't never gonna happen. No way. Not again. That's what I'm sayin'.

So I went around to the access panel, and checked the exchange meter, and both filters, and the salinity, and it was all tip-top. Then I noticed that his color was this awful shit brown, and his skin was sorta spikey, like an Octorock's. So I guess he was depressed? I asked him what was going on. I was all like, "Hey-hey Lord A., why you so glum and hiding in your corner today? Did you see a whale on TV again?"

And he was all "NO ROBERTO, MY ONLY FRIEND."

And I was all Warning sign!

And he continued, saying something like, "I WAS WATCHING THE CATHODE TELEKINETICON, AND DID ESPY ON THE FOXY CNN SOMETHING SOME OF THE DOUCHEBAG COMMENTATORS, ERR, GRUNTAPES SAYING THAT BUSH'S POPULARITY WAS REALLY REALLY LOW, ALMOST AS LOW AS MINE. AND THEN LIKE A BIG BABY I THREW A FIT AND SAT IN MY TANK AND STEWED."

Or something like that. I forget the actual words he used. A lot of times, like, he starts talking and it's all just, zoom, 747 at 36,000 feet. Anyway, I went to find Molly to help cheer him up, cause I've been reading way too much news lately and my head is not in the right space to try and cheer up anyone, but I found an email saying that Molls had to go to D.C. to testify before Congress about some sort of human rights violation. I turned on C-Span and there she was, glaring at the Congress dudes like Sigourney Weaver at the end of Aliens. Her lawyer was doing all the talking.

And Jarwaun is at the end of his school year, and he hasn't done, like, any of the papers or science projects or reading he needs to do. So he's grounded and can't come to work. This is a bitch, 'cause it means that I've got to try and explain to the Chinese cleaning guy about lab six, but it's also cool, because is sorta proves that even with differences in race, class, religion and geography, kids are basically lazy and stupid everywhere, right? And I looked for Devo, but there's a note on his workbench about him being on vacation right now. I know he told me where he was going. It was Fire Island, or Ibiza, or San Francisco or some other super-gay island. More power to him. I hope he gets laid like a dozen eggs and stops moping over Spider. Shit's been a year, at least. That guy needs perspective, you know.

I even tried asking Leeks, our accountant, for help. But there was a voicemail from his doctor saying he was in quarantine with, like, drug-resistant West Nile bird flu mad cow disease. And so soon after tax-time, which is a total bitch for him. Lord A has crazy, like, Winchester Mystery Tax shelters. The tax return was 18 inches thick last year, and parts were on scrolls and inscribed in steel plates and shit. It's nuts. Part of it has to be filed via telegraph from beyond the grave or some shit.

But, so, looking around the empty offices, I totally had a "Last Man on Earth" flash, all imagining running down Jefferson Ave. chasing wild deer, they all hoppin' and leapin' among the stalled-out cars. Then, at night, the bat people come out, but I don't care, 'cause I'm snug as a bug on the 74th floor of a fuckall huge building. The Aztecs said it'd end in 2012, right? Well, shit, that's less than four years away. We are now in the Run-Up. The Pre-Game season. Apocalypse Spring Training.

So tell me this, How will the world end? Make your voice get heard. Rock this Vote. Or whatever.

War with the entire Middle East leads to nuclear terrorism
War with China leads to nuclear war
Genetically-modified foods cause massive eco-collapse, resulting in global starvation, then Aztec zombie bat people
Nanotechnology runs amok and turns the universe into gray goo; the only survivors are me, Will Smith, Charlton Heston, and the Zombie Bat People
Leeks' drug-resistant disease escapes quarantine and kills us all (no zombie bat people in this one)
The world will never end, just humans will die off soon — which, I guess, is basically the same fucking thing
We evolve into Aztec-style zombie bats and infest our city with deer

Wait, fuck, if it's just me and Lord A, then I'm totally stuck hosing out lab six. Fuckers. Next year, I'm taking whole week of Passover off; I don't care about what it does to my personal days.

Whatever. Until the end, you fuckers,
Rob OUT