Welcome to Monday Morning Commute. This is the column where we all slow down enough to talk about what we’re enjoying on a given week. Me? How am I doing? Why, how kind of you to ask! As you may or may not know, I work on a college campus. And this week I’m lucky enough to enjoy the week off between Spring and Summer semesters. I’m going to spend the next seven days trying to figure out what that fuck I’m going to be teaching in a month, watching The Most Ill of all Bro Movies, and throwing a party at my new apartment. It’ll be a good week.
Welcome to Monday Morning Commute - the weekly tribal meeting where those upon the SpaceShip Omega share what they’re interested in during the next seven or so days. The exercise is designed to pollinate each other’s lives with both shared and new arts and farts, in an effort to mitigate the tediousness that Existence can become.
Time is short, let’s tug on one another.
Rumble rumble rumble goes the engines of Spaceship-Omega. Here aboard, I’m straight chilling. It is Sunday whilst I type this, though for those without premonition and-or access to dimensions where it is not so, the column won’t be going up until Monday at 9 am. Hello! From the past! The aforementioned column is Monday Morning Commute. Within its walls we share the Enjoyable that we are partaking in during a given week. It’s a simple conceit, and through its execution we brighten our respective Existences. Communal exchange of arts. Maybe even fluids. If you do find a dance partner, please relegate your interfacing to the designated rooms upon the Spaceship.
Let’s do this.
If there was one thing Durban hated, it was his bedside electronic crow.
Every morning, every goddamn morning, the metal-feathered automaton would leave its battery-perch, hover above the bed, and screech directly into Durban’s face. It didn’t matter to the faux-fowl whether Durban had a day off from the mineral farm or if he was dreaming of his ex-girlfriend from Jupiter or if he was in the midst of an ethanol-fueled fever dream. And this is why it was such an effective companion.
`Cause at 5:45 AM, the electronic crow was guaranteed to terror-scream Durban back into consciousness.
To be fair, Durban recognized the practical value of his name-brand, top-of-the line robot-rooster. After all, he wasn’t going to wake up and go to work completely of his own volition. And who could blame him? It takes a special sort of masochism to rise early enough to catch the first boneshaking Teleport-Shuttle of day to Rhea, the most bastardly of Saturn’s moons, only to spend the next eight hours scavenging for traces of Lupillian.
But without the bird, Durban wouldn’t get to Rhea on time. And if Durban didn’t get to Rhea on time, there’s no chance an operator would save him an excavator. And if Durban didn’t excavate Lupillian, he wouldn’t be able to pay his rent. And on most days, the thought of not paying his rent on time positively horrified him.
But on one fantastic Monday morning, Durban decided that his hatred of the crow was more palpable than his fear of landlord-ire.
5:45 AM crept into existence, and the crow came to life. Shaking itself off of its docking station, the bird began to flutter upwards. But Durban had awoken nearly a half-hour before, plagued by a crotch-burn no doubt gifted to him by the discount Prosti-Clone he’d rented on Ganymede. So with one eye open and a fire plaguing his urethra, Durban waited for his every-morning adversary to strike first.
“CAW! CAW! THE CURRENT TIME IS FIVE-FORTY-FIVE ANTE-MERIDIEM! CAW! CA-“
Whoosh! The whiskey bottle spiraled through the air! Smash! The crow simply hadn’t been programmed to anticipate such an attack, and as such its beak was decimated by the hard glass corner of the bottle’s ass. The bird spent its last few seconds writhing in robo-agony, head caved in and vital sparks bleeding into the air.
“Well, I guess ya still woke me up, eh?” Durban was crouching down to assess the damage. Seeing that the target was destroyed, he took a self-satisfied swig from the whiskey bottle and walked over to his much-littered coffee table. From the table, Durban snatched a stack of comic books.
“Fuck work. And fuck birds. Today, I’m drinkin’ and readin’ comics.”
Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! As OL’s weekly gathering for entertainment show-and-tell, the MMC is digital nerd-discussion at its finest. Here’s how it works: I’m going to showcase some of the fun-stuffs I’ll be munching on throughout the week. Then, you hit up the comments section and show off the enjoyment-snacks you’ll be stuff into your own mind-gullet. In the process, we geek out and debate and talk all sorts of nonsense.
Let’s go for it!
Yeah, total rip-off of the Far Cry 3: Blood Dragon premise for the article title. I can’t help it. That game has my tits a-twitter in ways that are normally relegated to the seedier portions of my tumblr dashboard. How are you doing this Monday? I am well, thank you for asking. Here on April the 8, it is going to climb to nearly sixty degrees in my neck of the Empire. That warmed clime is itself enough to make me smile. This is Monday Morning Commute, and herein are the things on my mind this week. Arts, farts, et cetera.
Remember how last week I was all excited for life? This week is the glorious inversion of such a feeling. A viscous ladling of ennui is rattling around my belly, daring me to frown. There isn’t so much a reason for me to be sad, rather I’m just like “oh hey, I exist.” Eh, what can you do. Some weeks are more thrilling than others. So I turn to you, dare readers, in this newest of Monday Morning Commutes. Tell me what you’re enjoying this week. Inspire me. I beseech thee. And thee. And thee.
Hit the jump for my tepid chocies for the next seven days.
Sup fuckers. Don your war crest. Paint your face with the blood of those who have fallen before you staves, swords, axes. This is getting real. The following week is filled with enough revelry to burst my little heart. Were I a coward. But I am not such thing. My arteries are thickened from excessive, caffeine-fueled pumping. The next seven days are a gauntlet of awesome that justify this meager little column. Nay, these seven days justify my generally effusive demeanor. This is MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, the column where we pontificate on the various little objects filling our hurt-holes. The arts, farts, funny books, and video games we are using as a salve to soothe the general burn of existence.
Scanners wasn’t wrong. Inter-facing with the Omega Space-Ship through the circuitous telephone network is difficult. As we speak, the hemoglobin slithers down my nasal cavities. My sclera pool into murky, red misery. I do this for you, my friends. Seldom are the days when you get the pleasure of knowing the gentle-man at the other end of an exchange is a fugitive. Yet today, you have this pleasure. The modern-man with his fascist government attempts to hold me-you-us down, insisting that digitally interfacing with a Slurpee machine with our digits (along with other mushy parts) is against some sort of law. Embrace the disembracement of the flesh, let us love all matter within the known Cosmos.
Or just let me fuck my Slurpee machine in peace. It loves me so.
Quickly now, let us not waste time. While Spring is close, it is still nipply out. Running out of the 7-Eleven as I was chased by the Illuminati’s thugs, I wasn’t able to retrieve my pants. So I am balls-out, warbling nonsense into the last known pay phone in my town. Soon I’m going to need to take the quarter out from underneath my tongue to continue this man-phone-internet-Word-Press exchange thanks to the cost of communication. And once I lose my Tuning Coin, who knows how things are going to go.
This is Monday Morning Commute. I’m going to tell you the things I wish I was doing instead of being on the run from the Trilateral Commission’s goons. You’re going to tell me what arts and farts you’re enjoying this week.
Mother Nature must be feeling guilty for those of us in New England. Friday morning I awoke to an onslaught of the Slushy Shit. It was draped across my car, down my driveway, coating the streets. What had been proposed as four inches of snow had turned into two feet of nightmare whilst I slept. Perhaps feeling a smidgen bit cruel for this deceit, Ole Lady Nature has turned the last two days into full blown Spring. You know you’ve been double-fisted by the Winter when forty-degree days are a salve on your soul. A balm on the chapped balls that weather has wrought. I’ll take it, and mix it together with some Daylight Savings Time. Despite the bullshit that is yanking an hour of weekend slumber out from underneath our feet, the bonus sunlight at the end of the day is bueno. As someone who is known to eat chapped stick in single bites while screaming at passersby when my sadness overwhelms me, any extra rays are salvation. They burn away the delirium that the Darkness brings.
Enough about me. How the fuck are you gals, guys, and every other combination? This is Monday Morning Commute, the column where you and I share the various happy happenings in our lives on a given week. The ointments that help soothe the irritation of the grind.
Let’s do this.