#Monday Morning Commute
It’s Monday Morning Commute! Er. It’s Tuesday Afternoon Commute! How you folks doing? Me? I’m on my first day of break. And honestly I feel like I should be enjoying it more than I am. As a man of routine, the obliteration of my Daily Planner leaves me confused. Lost. Should I be productive and write? Or consume 3,000 calories? Go to the gym? Or play nine hours of Grand Theft Auto 5? My penchant is a predilection for self-destruction. So here are the various things I’m relying on to keep me (somewhat) functioning this week.
Welcome to Tuesday Morning Commute! I’m busier than a mofuckah’ here the last week of the semester. Students coming out of the woodwork, not wanting to fail. Tutees wanting me to salvage papers last moment. And grading! Oh, the fucking grading. But I’m almost at the end. I can see six weeks of gluttony, literature, and gaming right around the corner. Here’s what I’m looking forward to this week though. The materials that are dragging me through this sad limp to the finish.
Hey friends. Today was a rockier commute than usual. The long, long weekend giving way to a long, long drive into Boston. Long, long silences when I tried to drag effort out of my students like poison from a wound. But I can’t blame them, because fuck this semester has been going on for a long, long three months. My head is pounding. My stomach is seething after a day of daring to fill it with food products that are neither slathered in gravy, nor cheese. Still. The Column-Spice must flow.
These — these are the various things I’m looking forward to this week. That I shall latch onto, not unlike a tick. And hopefully suck the life-blood out of, allowing me to not call out sick. Which would follow with me festering under a blanket. Eating my weight in Laffy Taffy. I can do this. You can do this. We can do this.
Welcome to Monday Morning Commute.
It is Thanksgiving this week in the heart of the Empire. Say what you will about the manipulative mythos that has conjured such a holiday. Say it to the wind. Say it to people outside of the local Walmart. But know this. I think it is wonderful to celebrate a day where family, and gratitude are paramount, regardless of your ideological inclination. And so a wild anarchist like yours truly can still find himself sitting down this Thursday to cop to the warm, fuzzy embrace of familial gluttony and momentary harmony. I’m goddamn glad to be here. And for everything I have.
So while it isn’t a typical work cycle, still I offer up Monday Morning Commute. The column where we share what we’re looking forward to during a given week. This iteration filled with 100% more mashed potatoes than usual.
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.