#Monday Morning Commute

Monday Morning Commute: Grace & the Face of Annihilation

Grace and the Face of Annhilation

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!

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Monday Morning Commute: The Easy Winter

The Easy Winter

“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!

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Monday Morning Commute: Don’t Stop Me Now!

monday morning commute don't stop me now

Hello, friends. Hello, comrades. Passersby, lurkers, regulars. Hello, hello, hello. We are on Day Three of my Spring Break, which is also Day Three of my wife being away on a vacation in Belize.

Don’t fret! I’ve washed my ass. Don’t fret! My animals are alive. Don’t fret! I’m eating. Don’t fret, don’t fret, don’t fret. Oh sure, it’s a half-hearted scrub. Oh sure, they’re bored of me and I’m bored of them. Oh sure, no vegetables have been spotted near my throat-chasm since last week.

Am I losing my mind? Always.

Am I feeling Cabin Fever? I hope not, because there’s a blizzard coming tomorrow that’s going to pin me right in this house.

Am I hoping you’ll come hang out in Monday Morning Commute? Share what you’re enjoying-looking-forward-to-thinking-about-consuming this week?

Absolutely.

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Tuesday Afternoon Commute: On Intimate Terms With Catastrophe

on intimate terms with catastrophe

There can be something exhilarating and freeing about a condemned, Post-Hope existence.

Sure. I utter this from a plateau. From a monument of privilege.

My wife makes good money, I got a dick, can pass for straight, and sport a blanche complexion.

With those caveats in tow, I mean, this rotting obelisk doesn’t seem so intimidating. It may be a survival technique, these gallantly leapt hoops I am gallantly leaping through. But what else would you ask of me?

The seas rise, the Earth heats, the resources dwindle, the population increases. Those in charge predicate power and greed over empathy and charity.

It’s done. It. Capital “I”, if you will. Shot through the heart. To carry on itself seems a tip of the cap to existential absurdism.

What else to do, what else would you have me do? A little mild resistance during the day. But the heart weakens, the mind fatigues, respite is earned and welcome.

So I fuck, and I smoke a little weed. I laugh with friends, go out to dinner with my wife. Enjoy movies, condemn liberal sophistic think pieces and conservative hate screeds alike. Play some video games, walk my dog. Marvel at the night sky and feel peace in the recognition that We Don’t Matter, We Never Mattered, And It will be fine when we’re gone. It. Capital “I”, if you will.

Every once in a while, I contemplate carrying on my lineage, am reminded that if anyone is getting off this melting marble it certainly won’t be an ancestor of my class and caste. I pass off that condemnation for another week, month, year, maybe forever. Can you imagine that? Willfully procreating at the end of civilization? Sometimes I can. Sometimes I can’t.

I have no words of encouragement other than we’re all down in the bottom decks of this wonderful, wicked, pointless sinking ship together. So fuck it, and fuck it together.

Let’s spend some time chatting. There’s nothing really else to do.

[This is Monday Morning Commute]

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Monday Morning Commute: Electron Elixir

electron elixir

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!

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Monday Morning Commute: Remember the Bloodletting

Remember the BloodlettingOne time I got my ram stolen.

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!”

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!

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Monday Morning Commute: Doldrums City

monday morning commute doldrums city

Welcome to Doldrums City, comrades. Population: Me (at the very least). I’m sick. I’m tired. The Earth is melting, our government is run by lily livered cretins and monsters. Football is over. The sky is ash. I’m stick. I’m tired. All I want to do is sleep, masturbate wildly while screaming at the ceiling fan, and eat. Eat, and eat, and eat, and eat. Rinse. Repeat.

The columns must flow, though. The Commute must be Monday Morning’d. So here we are. So here we are.

This is MondayMorningCommute by way of TuesdayAfternoon.

Being MMC BYO TA, the task at hand is simple. I share what I’m looking forward to this week. What I’m hoping will rocket me out of Doldrums City, comrades. Then you share your own anticipatory happenings in the comments section.

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Monday Morning Commute: The Sky Above Was Neon

monday morning commute the sky above was neon

I suppose, invariably, writing Monday Morning Commute on an actual Monday evening will find me: tired, stank-ass from the gym, palming my eye sockets attempting to figure out what to say. So, invariably, here we are. Here I am. Stank ass. Tired. Palming my eye sockets, praying to the Elder Ones to provide Divination. I’m tired, you’re tired. I’m somewhat fulfilled, in a somewhat fulfilling job, that compensates for its fulfillment by being tenuously existent from semester to semester, and perpetually stressful about said existence. But as the French Philosopher CaffPow once said, “C’est la adjunct life or some shit.” He said that. I said that. I hope you’re feeling at least as fulfilled as me, minus the stress, the perpetual scrotum-shrinking stress of contemplating the harrowing, horrifying prospects of what Next Semester Will Bring, less than a week into This Semester.

Fuck, fuck me, I’ve gotten myself off one of them Old Tangents. They used to be about how I beat my meat inconsolably to gifs of Katy Perry or some shit. Many moons ago. Now they’re just another tepid meat-case lamenting its tepidity whilst stuck in said meat-case, completely ignoring how Goddamn Good the meat-case has it Relative To So Much Of The World.

But, uh, buddy. Buddies. How are you folk-fuckers doing? What are you up to this week? Watching anything dope? What are you sweating? Anticipating playing anything dope? Sharing the answers to said questions is not cheating, folk-fuckers. No, in fact, it’s encouraged in this post here’s comments section. One could even say it’s the fucking raison d’être (the phrase popped into my head but truthfully I had to Google it to confirm it actually was a phrase) of this entire column. Generating a self-sustaining Community Bubble wherein we can share what we’re STOKED and JACKED for during a given week.

Me, this little ole devil? I’ll go first.

Hope to see you in the comments section! Folk-fuckers!

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Monday Morning Commute: The Next Four To Eight

the next four to eight

I’m fucking tired, man. Like — way tired. Like — eyelids half closed. But here I am! But here we are. This is Monday Morning Commute. The column where I share with you fellow rotting meat-sacks what I’m looking forward to each week. Furthermore, additionally, I then, with all my audacity, ask you to share what *you* anticipating across the next seven.

So! Without further ado, without further verbosity, without further self-indulgent blathering, let’s do this!

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Tuesday Afternoon Commute: The March of the Monsters!

here they come

The March of the Monsters.

It will reach its first crescendo, as they slither into the symbolic house of power this week. Here they come! Ancient ones! With gnarled fangs protruding from ruptured sockets. Here they come! With blasphemous sores upon oozing phalanges! Gnashing and beying for the life-force of the wounded, the wearied. Here they come! Tentacles and ill-intent! Here they come! Smashing and ripping and devouring. Here they come! Blood in their eyes, death in their mouths! Here they come!

What can you do? Shelter-in-place! Here! At the Space-Ship Omega! In this here post! Monday Morning Commute! By way of Tuesday Afternoon. Where we share what we’re doing this week, what we’re looking forward to this week. You know, when we’re not preparing the survival kits, building the house-sized umbrellas to shield our domiciles from the shrapnel borne out of shorn blood-meat from conquered deities.

The March of the Monsters.

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