Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!
What’s the deal with the MMC, you ask? Well, this is the weekly feature that sees me vomitin’ a bit of short prose at you, and then apologizin’ by way of showin’ off the worthwhile entertainment I’ll be checkin’ out throughout the week.
Then, if you’re not totally repulsed, you hit up the comments section and tell us about the movies, TV programs, video juegos, rap songs, snacks, and other delectables you’ll be chompin’ on so as to make the workweek a bit more bearable.
Yes, you’re right — it is sorta like show-and-tell for Internet Maniacs. Let’s boogie, y’bastards!
“Let’s keep things in perspective – it was an easy winter.”
He thought of the foals they’d lost. Breathing labored and desperate. Eyelids too gummed up to open. Hot blood draining into cold snow.
He thought of the job they’d botched. Hyperdrive malfunctioning in subzero. Automatons screaming in death throes. Too few minerals for too many men to two-time `em all.
He thought of what this life’d cost. The honor. The glory. The woman.
“Easy winter? Hombre, there ain’t no such thing.”
Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! This is the spot for sharin’ our survival tactics, the showcasin’ of wares we’ll be relyin’ upon to survive the workweek. `Cause it’s lookin’ bad out there, folks, so if we’re goin’ to keep the gaspipes from our lips, well, then we’re goin’ to need something to keep us gaspin’ for oxygen!
I’ll start this rock’n’roll dance-off!
Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!
What’re we going to do? Well, first I’ll share a bit of word-nonsense that I brain-bloodletted. Then, I’ll run through some of the pop culture and slop culture I’m devouring in the hopes of filling the existential void this week.
Then, if you’re feeling kinky, you can hit up the comments section and share the ingredients you’ll be using to create an Anti-Ennui Potion.
Okay, time to rock!
It was the morning of the Harvest Festival. My thirteenth Harvest Festival. And as such, I was going to get to prove my Worth to the Tribe. I was going to sacrifice Demeter, the family ram, in front of the Great Altar, and in doing so I’d be acknowledged as a Member Whose Voice is Heard.
It was to be a bloody, gruesome, and glorious rite of passage.
But I woke up to Skinny Tina, my kid sister, screeching “He stoled it! He stoled Demeter!”
“Who stole Demeter?”
Peter-Boy was my rival, and not in no friendly way, neither. His family’d provided more for him than they’d ever should have. And the Tribe’d provided more than it should have. But he just couldn’t get his shit together. So when he lost his family’s goat just a week before his thirteenth Harvest Festival, he found himself in the most unenviable position of not having a viable sacrifice for the Great Altar.
No sacrifice, no way to prove Worth to the Tribe. And let me tell you, the stink of trying to prove your Worth during your fourteenth Harvest? It don’t dissipate quick.
So when I gently instructed Peter-Boy to “Give me back the ram or I’ll tear your goddamn lungs outta yer chest” it shouldn’t’ve been no surprise that he’d flash a blade. But! It shouldn’t’ve been no surprise to him when I flashed my own. We darted and slashed and dashed, and when it was all over there was a clear victor.
That nite, I became a Member Whose Voice is Heard. And I did it by spilling blood for the second time that day. And it was bloody and gruesome and glorious.
Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! Remember way back in kindergarten when you’d have to bring in something to show the class? And then you’d tell the class all `bout it? And everyone would get excited? And then you’d kinda forget that you were even in
the Indoctrination Camp school in the first place?
Think of the MMC as the same idea, just amplified in importance. What sort of pop culture, subculture, and uncultured nonsense are you going to consume to stave off the Void this week?
I’ll get us started!
Standing in front of the starcruiser’s big bay windows, Lonnie stared into the abyss of the chalice in his hands.
“G’head now, m’boy, no needsfer delayin’.”
“But, but, Grampa…I…I don’t wanna. It smells bad.”
“Maybe so, maybe so. But if we’re gonna kick this baby into hyperspace, we needta go to sleep first. So be a g’boy and drink up.”
Lonnie’s gaze shifted from the chalice to bay windows and then back to the chalice. He thought, just for a moment. A single moment. Just long enough to remember Momma and Poppa and Brother Reggie and how good it felt to be on terra firma, grass between the toes and sun upon the brow. How good it would feel, again.
And then he drank.
“Thazzaboy! Okay, Lonnie, y’goan to your sleep-pod now and I’mma set the coordinates!”
“Sweet dreams, Grampa! Hope you dream of the sun like I’m gonna!”
“Thazz right! Thazz right! Dream of the sun!”
And with that Grampa took a swig deep enough to empty the chalice. And then he sat down in front of the big bay windows of the starcruiser. And then he started to dream of the sun. And then he dreamed of his son, and dreamed of his son dreaming of Lonnie. And then he wept and wept and closed his eyes tight.
`Cause when you’re two hyperjumps away from home and you’re out of fuel, all you can do is dream of the sun.
This is a public announcement. The MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE has been commandeered. My name is Rendar Frankenstein and I mean you no harm. Join me and we’ll discuss what the fuck we’ll do in the hopes of getting out of this workweek in one piece.
[Whelp, this weekend is it. Samantha will officially become Samantha Omega this weekend, as she and I get married after a year and a half of planning. Trust me, Mr. and Mrs. Omega’s Open Bar will be flowing on Saturday evening.] [0101001010REDACT+DELETE]
Listen up! CAFFPOW is gettin’ hitched on Saturday! As such, he’s going to be a mess of matrimonial bliss, green-medicinal smoke cloud, and bubble-spirit brain-smash! Hell, I’m not even sure this post’ll list me as the writer, since I’m just messin’ up something CAFFPOW already wrote.
That’s right, you sons-of-bitches — it’s Rendar Frankenstein back in the house and I want to know what the hell you’re doin’ this weekend!
Close your eyes. Take a breath. It’s going to be okay.
It doesn’t matter if you’re out of gas money or your car’s exploded or you’re in too much pain to get off the couch. `Cause that’s not what real traveling’s about. In any of those circumstances, you can still close your eyes and tune out. And right when you think all you’re perceiving is the Great Nothing, you’re going to realize that you’ve fallen into the Wonderful Everything.
I want you to mind-travel the universe.
Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! I’m going to highlight some of the ways I’ll be staving off existential crises and reinstalling hope. After you see what I’m doing, hit up the comments section and share your own prospective week-activities.
C’mon, don’t be a lamebrain!
It hadn’t been my intention to light the mailman on fire.
I’d just wanted to give him a good scare. A shake-up. A reminder that I’m entitled to nothing less than the respect granted to all employers. `Cause love `em or hate `em, it’s the employers that give us the money for bill-payin’. Don’t believe me? Well, get caught screwin’ your boss’ husband and see how long you can keep payin’ for cable television and discount lapdances and beer and horny-videos and everything else worth livin’ for.
But seriously, I never thought the mailman’d actually go up in flames.
The way I sees it, I’m the mailman’s employer. Why’s that? Well, the mailman’s paycheck comes from taxes. And since I pay taxes most years, it’s my money that becomes his money. Sine qua pro bono. As his employer, it frustrates me to no damn end to see him royally bangin’ the job up the `ole keister. Parcel-delivery is one of the foundations of our friggin democracy! Without it we ain’t more than savages! There’s no excuse for the job bein’ done haphazardly!
And there’s no ignorin’ the fact that the mailman’s been stealin’ my goddamn TV Guides!
So yesterday, I waited by my mailbox. As the mailman approached I asked if he had my TV Guide. When he told me it must’ve been lost in the shuffle, I politely informed him that he was going to lose all of his “filth-riddle ass hairs.” Seizing his moment of confusion, I pushed him into my bushes, sending letters and packages all over the sidewalk. I quickly pulled down the back of his state-issued shorts and covered his buttcheeks with hairspray. As he screamed and squirmed and protested, I kept sprayin’, followin’ the cannister’s instructions to “apply thoroughly.” As I lit the match, I told him that I believed in poetic justice and his theft of my TV Guides had really been chappin’ my ass.
It hadn’t been my intention to light the mailman on fire. But I can’t say I regret it. Where’s my TV Guide?
Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! I’m going to list the activities that’ll keep me entertained throughout the week. Your task is to hit up the comments section and share your own suggestions for fun-havin’!
Rock! Roll! Lose control!
Battles will be won. Victories will be celebrated. But we can’t let this momentary triumphs blind us to the grim reality — it never ends. Everything against which we fight will always come back, no matter how valiant our efforts. For as strong as we are, the enemies are immortal.
The Workload. The Stress. The Existential Crisis.
But it’s time that we cue up some new weapons. Tools with which we can wage our eternal struggle. This is the Monday Morning Commute, and I’m going to show you the entertainment that’s helping keep me alive. Your task? Hit up the comments section and show off your own wares.
Listen to the rogues that you come across.
These scoundrels are going to tell you things that make you uncomfortable. Hell, they might just tell you that your way of life is wrong, that it’s contributing to greater evils. When you give them an open ear, they’ll fill it with all sorts of detritus. Stuff that’s bound to upset your sensibilities. Ideas that make you want to vomit. Maybe they’ll ask you to chew on the notion that everything you believe is a lie. They’ll be vulgar and angry and a bit discomfiting.
And you need to listen to them.
`Cause right or wrong, if we don’t entertain roguish ideas then we have no right to accept the easy ones. Sure, some of the time the doomsayers and fringe-dwelling miscreants are wrong. But we can’t know that for sure unless we give `em a chance. And every now and then, when the blue moon turns blood red, the rogues are right. And when this is the case, they’re usually showing us that Daddy Society’s been belting the most hapless, defenseless of his children.
Listen to the rogues.
Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! I’m going to highlight some of the pop-culture junk I’ll be snackin’ on over the course of the week. Then, you hit up the comments and share your own recipes for entertainment-treats. It’s show-and-tell amongst the crew and passengers of Spaceship OL.