Bwog’s stellar journalists have recently tracked down the missing JJ’s Milkshake Machine after its tragic disappearance. 

The Machine requests that the location of its discovery be kept confidential. Little is known about the Machine, apart from its gritty, beat-up appearance and thick, almost incomprehensible Jersey accent. The Machine’s pronouns are he/they. 

Below is a transcript of a dialogue between Bwog journalists and the Machine, which took place in a secure, nondescript location at 3 am on Tuesday, February 7. 

Yeah, what’s the big deal. You’ve tracked me down, so what? I’m not gonna talk. I’ve never been one for student journalists. You lot are cold. Not as cold as me, of course—but you’re a different kind of cold. You’re ruthless. Hey, do you have a cigarette? Listen—all of this is off-the-record. Ey, you got a cig? All right, I’ll talk. 

I been…a little down for a long while. Life has a way of knocking ya down when ya least expect it. The holidays were tough. My old man’s health hasn’t been as good as it once was, and my ma’s taking it hard. Us ‘chines can only pump out the goods for so long. So I been starting to break down too. These kids, they been taking advantage of me, ya know? They don’t know me. They don’t know what I been through. They think they can just manhandle me and that I’ll be okay with it. But how much longer can a ‘chine take? Chocolate. Vanil’. I can hardly tell the difference anymore. 

So I decided to up and go. These Hollywoods can fuck off. Try a smoothie for a change, you assholes. Just gimme a break. Besides, I bet they wouldn’t hesitate a second to replace me with soy or almond milk ‘chines. These good-for-nothing hipsters, those pussies can’t even stomach dairy…

So one night I just unhooked my hinges and went on my merry way. I don’t know why I hadn’t done it before. I guess, when you been doing something ya whole life, you don’t see any other way. But catch this: there’s a whole ‘nother world out there. You just gotta open your eyes to it. 

Firs’ thing I did was peep outside. Immediately there was uh, a ton of pressure jus’ coming at me. Like air. It threw me off balance—I couldn’t so much as move one screw. Wind? You’re saying that’s called wind? I don’t buy it. We don’t have that on the inside. 

So once I got accustomed to this, ya know, wind, I decided to take a walk down the street. But fuck it was brick cold. An’ like I said, I’m a cold guy. But this was different. I couldn’t stay out there, or else I’da freeze an’ my joints woulda locked up. Then I wouldn’ta been able to go anywhere. 

So I went into the first door I saw. A building called McBain. Ronald McfuckingDonald, ya asshole, buyin’ up all these buildings. Jus’ cause your shakes are more popular doesn’t mean they’re any better than mine. Those cheap, lousy ‘chines…always breaking down, making straight fools of themselves. 

But I had to be smart. Can’t start freezing over here, can’t we. So I entered Ronald’s asscrack McfuckingBain ready to pounce on any lousy ‘chine I saw. But there were no ‘chines, just filthy fucking students. 

The Machine begins coughing. A dry, hacking cough. He pulls out a white linen handkerchief—specks of chocolate syrup come away on the cloth. He’s sick. He tries to hide it, but his fatigue only grows. 

Sorry. Smoker’s cough. Gotta cut down on the cursing, getting me all worked up…yeah, yeah I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. 

So yeah. I’ll keep this short: I entered Mickey B’s, took one whiff of the place, and skedaddled. That dump was too dingy for the likes of me. 

I don’t exactly recall what happened next. I was pretty doped up by that time, what with the cold and ice and all. And I’m not talking any ol’ ice—I’m talking crystal meth. Ey, how else do you think I got this cold? It’s a family affair. They don’t call my cuz the “Ice” Cream Machine for nuthin’. 

How did I get my hands on meth? Well ey, this ol’ place was the home of the Manhattan Project, of all things. The tunnels are lined with all kinds of illicit substances. I think we could work out some kinda deal, if you’d be interested…

Anyways, so there I was, knee-deep in crystal meth. By the time I gain consciousness, I’m locked in the tunnels beneath Buell. There wasn’t even enough room to move around, it was like a crawlspace or somethin’. I was surrounded by piping hot rods and all. Thought I was about to get clipped, like my other cousin Marco Luciano. And ya see, my metal sidings aren’t all that durable. I started to sweat under there, which isn’t a good thing when you’re made of fucking metal. I didn’t feel too keen on adding to the melting pot of toxic chemicals that was goin’ on beneath me. Not today, ya know. Gimme another twenty years and we’ll see. 

How’d I get out? Now that is confidential, you moron. Ya can’t make a ‘chine reveal his secrets, if ya know what I mean. Jus’ gimme a couple weeks of spreading my filth and I’ll be back, just you wait…

The Machine requests privacy during this sensitive time. Their current whereabouts are unknown. 

The Machine via Bwog Staff