#Monday Morning Commute
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.
This is all a rental.
From the computer you’re typing on to the meat-sack you’re inhabiting. All will be recycled, reused, converted into a variety of different forms. In my case, very much upcycled. Rejoice for as long as the collection of atoms, elements, and moments that is You can successfully stave off Entropy.
This is all a rental.
You’re slowing down. Dissolving. Inching closer to the Bin where your reconstitution shall take place.
But while we’re here, while This Matter still makes You, let’s have some fun. This is Monday Morning Commute. The column where You share what you’re intending to do during the week. So long as your dissolving, perpetually-ending, decaying meat-sack allows you.
This is all a rental.
It’s true. Nature doesn’t fucking care. About you. About me. About the flitting, infinitesimal blip on the Cosmic Radar that is Humanity. And man, that’s fine. That’s cool. We’re all going to be dead. Dead for a lot longer than we’re alive. Nature’s just going to carry on. We won’t register. It doesn’t matter. What to do in the face of such Truth? Keep rollin’ that rock. Have a wonderful time while you’re here. Make your own meaning.
Here’s a quiet Monday Morning Commute, as I’m surrounded by the Indifferent but Beautiful Nature here in Nova Scotia.
Reality is, at best, a tenuous set of consensual hallucinations that we share with one another. Our greasy faces, our fat, gibbering jowls, our swollen, offensive ocular meat-balls all nodding in agreement at the barest, most pathetic concept of reality we hew together as Man. But hey. What the fuck do you want out of me? I can’t do shit about it. #YOLO So I’m going to live my life, dimly aware that my beliefs are conjured by a primitive brain-steak based on embarrassingly limited means of perception, and also play some video games. Love my fellow man. Hold doors, say please and thank you. Read some books. And watch Brock Lesnar give people the F5. ‘Cause really there’s no reason to do otherwise.
This is Monday Morning Commute – the column where we list the various ways we’re staving off staring into the Abyss and realizing how fucking Dumb It All Is. Generally these ways take the form of arts, farts, cheap beers, and ideally – Skittles.
I’ll go first.
Morning! Morning. Commute! Commute. Mondaye! Mondaye. The column where we share the various endeavors we’re looking forward to (or dreading if you need some catharsis) in a given week. Generally these endeavors are of the arts and farts variety, but if you’re looking forward to picking+eating your toenails frankly I’m with you sharing that too. Me? This week? Guardians of the Galaxy, Boston ComicCon, and more!
Let’s dance the dance eternal.
Saddle up to your robo-partner and plant a smooch right on their Metallic Dome-Piece. This is Monday Morning Commute and I want both you and your Android to be comfortable enough around me to share the various things you’re looking forward to this week. Be it a comic book, a Gathering of the Juggalos, or the new bang session you’re going to partake in with Shiela-Charles-Mach-IV. You can tell us. We know you’ve been saving up for the ultra-smooth, yet insistingly thorough pelvic-pistons with your Cyborg Bitty.
Hello, friends. Welcome to Monday Morning Commute. The column that serves as the Balm that soothes the Unrelenting Burn of It All. Within this post, the lot of us wearied travelers come together. We feed each other Chez-Its, and perhaps too lovingly brush the crumbs from one another’s lips. We rub each other’s backs, leaving the hand perhaps a moment too long on the small of one another’s back. And most importantly, we share the various Arts & Farts that we’re looking forward to on a given week. The sort of Necessary Distractions that illuminate our lives, titillate our brains, and distract our souls from the Maelstrom.
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!