#Monday Morning Commute
Fuck, man. Don’t listen to the media. Don’t heed the Illumnati. Don’t accept the notion that you ain’t worth something. You’re wonderful. A delectable collection of atoms. Squeezed into new form by your equally wonderful mother and father’s Copulation Boom Boom. And while you’re here, and while you’re loving yourself, why not share what else you’re loving this week? That’s the point of Monday Morning Commute. New books, new movies, new favorite things to do with your boogers. Whatever got you smiling.
It’s Monday! But fuck, who cares. You could grouse about that shit, or you can do what I did. Yeah, I did that. You know. Unleashed the soft-serve ice cream machine into the depths of my pants. Ran up to the first Authority Figure I could find on campus. Hugged him with a ferocity, velocity, and eagerness seldom seen. Embraced the cold, yet welcoming, explosion of soft serve ice cream that rocketed up out of my unbuttoned jean shorts. Hitting us both in the neck, face, tits, soul. Screamed “We just ice CREAMED all over each other. #YOLO #YOLO #BADPUNS”, not forgetting to say HASHTAG before all three.
You could do that.
Or. Or you could just come hang out in Monday Morning Commute. The collection of arts, farts, social engineering projects, cataclysmic poor decisions, and other things you’re looking forward to this week.
OH DIP. It’s Monday Morning Commute. Rocketing out of my Mind-Anus at the speed of light, as I try to bang this out before teaching class. Which will lead into teaching class. Which will lead into teaching class. Which will lead into tutoring. Which will lead into an hour-and-a-half in traffic. Yeah, commuting. On a Monday. SO AS YOU MAY/MAY NOT know this is the watering hole that’s posted every Monday. Within its rotting, mucous-slicked walls we share what we’re up to on a given week. [Update: a student came by and now it’s 8:39. That’s life. That’s life.]
I Eat Teeth.
You could say it’s an idiosyncrasy. Some people need to pull their socks up after they sit down. Some folks need to turn the faucet three times to the right before they can leave the bathroom. Others shine their shoes so they can look up them skirts on the subway train.
I Eat Teeth.
Big whup. Mom didn’t like it when she was around. But now she ain’t around. She’s behind the shed. And yet. Still.
I Eat Teeth.
Dad didn’t let me visit the nursing home no more after that one time. Didn’t think I should eat teeth. But now he ain’t around no more neither.
I Eat Teeth.
Mom, Dad, the Neighbors, the Teachers. I’m sure they had their own thing. Dad’s tissues next to the nightstand told me was up to somethin’. Mom’s perpetual change of clothes in her car. The Neighbors’ pool parties with their friends, the teacher’s eyes and the cheerleaders’ skirts. Don’t matter. We all got our thing.
I Eat Teeth.
Mom’s teeth, Dad’s teeth, Ted’s teeth, your teeth. But no worry. You live in me and I live in the Center and together we live forever.
I Eat Teeth.
If there was one thing Grandpa was good for at Thanksgiving, it was sniffing a legion of nanobots before sitting down at the dinner table. There was an inevitable moment during the passing of the animal-flesh and the smashed-starches where his slackened, tired jaw would clench-up. Science retrieving something scattered decades ago by the natural progression of his Meat Case. Somewhere between that third fucking scoop of potatoes his eyes would dilate. His neck would kink. And as he tried to keep his hands from jittering upon the wooden offering-plank, a barely audible moan would escape them cracked lips.
“Oooh, the potatoes” he would murmur. False teeth clacking. “Ohhh, this turkey. Th-the gravy” he would gasp. We tried not to stare. When you’re one-hundred and thirty-four you write your own rules. None of us said a word, but we all knew the goddamn truth. That withered one man’s dick was titillated. An orgy of chemicals in his veins, an orgy of nanobots in his balls prodding his phallus into a seemingly-impossible climax.
Goddamn Grandpa and his goddamn nanobot-induced autoerotics.
This is Monday Morning Commute. Share what you’re up to this week.
Hello friends. Humanoids. Martians. Sentient cups of coffee. Pythons with overdeveloped cerebral systems courtesy of Nazi experiments still being conducted on the Far Side of the Dark Side of the Forgotten Moon of Jupiter, Rapture. If you’re reading this, I implore you to join in this wonderful column-based activity. Monday Morning Commute. The place where us Conscious Piles of Organic, Inorganic, and Unidentifiable Matter gather and share what we’re digging on during a given week.
I’ll go first, then you share your weekly beloveds.
Monday. Morning. Commute. Welcome to its Insides. The Place where we share what we’re up to during the current work week. It’s rife with strife, gloom, and malaise. JUST KIDDING. Let’s party! Fuck the Frowns, Embrace the Clowns?! Do I mean this?! I don’t know! Am I pumped up on Diet Dew and a False Sense of Excitement?! You fucking bet!
This is what I’m up to this week. Happily.
And on the 22 of September 2014, I am writing this column. Monday Morning Commute. High on cough syrup, low on existence, I’m coming to you live from the Space-Ship Omega. Per par for the perpetual course, these are the niceties that are capturing my attention, imagination, and speculation during this week. Serving as a ship to hopefully sail me across the tempestuous work week waves.
Monday! Monday! Monday! Here in the Armpit of the Internet. The Space-Ship Omega. Air recyclers busted. Stuck in a orbit around Io, praying for the tug-ship to come in with replacement thrusters. Ain’t got nothing to do but fuck one another, wax poetic about existence, and drink whatever stock of cheap synthetic whiskey we can find. Empty your pockets and pull down your trousers, we’re going to make the best of it.
Oh. Oh Yeah. And in case you didn’t know, this is MondayMorningCommute, the column where we share what we’re up to this week.
In short, because I’m fucking busy! This is Monday Morning Commute. The cavernous post at the end of the Internet where we all share what we’re up to during a given week. The arts and distractions that are helping us Mind The Grind. Spittin’ about our anxiety-laden lives because of Said Grind. Maybe a random anecdote about the time your donger got caught in that chalupa (is this a euphemism? I don’t know!) in the Taco Bell bathroom.
I’ll go first.