#Slop Culture

Monday Morning Commute: Happy Dead Prez Day!

Happy Dead Prez Day.

Quick! Look out your window!

See it? It’s floating right there! Yeah, right above the guesthouse your neighbor uses for his weekend binges of cocaine and SNES. No, it ain’t a UFO, at least not of the little-green-men, flying-saucer variety. And yes, it does look a bit like a rocketship made of impounded station wagons and junkyarded computer components.

Because it is.

What’s that? Oh, the lights on the side? You’re goddamn right they’re Christmas lights. What’re they there for? C’mon, they spell something out. Look closer, it’s not hard to see a two-letter combination. Yeah, you’ve got it.


Spaceship OL is touching down in your neighborhood. Why’s that? Well, it’s `cause we’re bringing you the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE. Once you board the vessel, I’ll show you some of the strategies I’ll be using to spend the week celebrating existence. Then, you tell the crew and passengers what you’ll be doing to destroy boredom.

Let’s do this, before that nosy CPA across the street phones the neighborhood watch.

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Monday Morning Commute: Vinegar & Wine.

Vinegar & Wine

Servin’ a life-sentence on Spaceship Earth is a tedious, painful, agonizing wonder.

Why’s that? For one thing, there’s the fact that everyone you love will die. Your best friend. Your kid sister. Your longtime mistress. Your high school math teacher.

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Along the way you’re guaranteed to deal with inevitable body-breakdown. Maybe you’ll abuse your body. Maybe somebody else will fuck it up. Even if you think you’re unscathed, the sands of time are wearing away at your flesh-vehicle’s gears. Every single day. Every single moment. Until when, you ask?

Until they’re so smooth that they don’t move shit.

But alas! There’s hope! Even those of us who’re agin’ more like vinegar than wine have a fightin’ chance at experiencin’ glory! Not only are we fortunate enough to have been imbued with consciousnesses, but we get to live in a hyperreal future! Are things royally fucked up? Sure! But we live in times in which anything is possible!

So if you start to feel a chill as an existential shadow lurks over your shoulder, spin around and blast that motherfucker with a science fiction repulsor ray!


Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! I’m goin’ to show off this week’s strategies for keeping me pleased with existence. I suggest you liven up the party by entering the dance circle that is the comments section.

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ICE-T totally stumbled into recording a ‘DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS’ audio book


I find Ice-T fucking hilarious. A genuine gamer, spitter of absurd lines, and married to one of the most serious donkeys in the Local Cluster. He recently recounted the time he got unknowingly roped into recording a D&D audiobook, and the tale is everything I’d expect from the man.

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Japan burger chain doing up burgers with chocolate sauce. Hey, fly free.

It's doo doo baby!

A Japanese burger chain is busting out hamburgers ravaged by the glory of chocolate sauce. I know what you under the table are saying– chocolate sauce on burgers doesn’t make sense. I also know what you over in the corner are saying — chocolate sauce on burgers makes perfect sense. You two factions are going to have to fight it out over this. I’ll be frank – one of you cannot survive this fiasco.

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Quentin Tarantino is suing Gawker for pimping ‘THE HATEFUL EIGHT’ script


My inconsistency is demanded by the chemistry of my neurological processes. I promise. ‘Cause last week I thought it was ludicrous that Tarantino was shelving an entire film because the script leaked. Now I’m completely on board this week when news drops that the auteur (yeah, I said it!) is suing Gawker.

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Monday Morning Commute: A Most Glorious Death.

A Most Glorious Death“Oh, I can’t possibly imagine that you’d consort with pigs,” chided Thelma the Bartender as she brought over two bottles and two shot glasses.

Over the months that saw Absalom writing at this bar, he’d grown fond of Thelma. She was busty and acerbic and two tax brackets below most of the clientele. More importantly, she was most attentive to Absalom, having memorized his preferred drink-sequence.

Serving the public ain’t easy, and doin’ it well is damn-near impossible.

“Thelma, goddess of libation that you are, how many times do I have to warn you against eavesdroppin’? It’s not becomin’ of a woman like you. If you want to experience a life-changin’ conversation, you mustn’t resort to NSA tactics,” Absalom gave a shot-in-the-dark wink that defied his age, “just ask me out to dinner.”

“Oh yes, ‘dinner,’ that lovely euphemism for those too cowardly to just come out ask for it. Sex. Even if it were my greatest desire to bed you – and believe me, it isn’t – I simply wouldn’t be able to go through with it.”

“And why not?”

“Are you serious?” Following Absalom’s implicit instructions, Thelma set down the two shot glasses. One for a formely-respected, now lying-in-the-gutter-but-lookin’-through-the-smog-hopin’-to-see-a-star Writer. The other for a stoned-on-booze-and-slowly-realizin’-that-my-careerist-aspirations-will-never-get-me-high-off-life Intern. Between them, she placed a bottle of bourbon.

And for Absalom, a fresh bottle of Pepsi.

“By the gods, of course I’m serious! Why wouldn’t you bed me?”

“Mr. Fabliaux-”

“It’s Señor Fabliaux, Thelma, and you know it!”

“Whatever! Even if I wanted to sleep with you, I wouldn’t. And the reason? Your ever-deteriorating old-man body couldn’t handle it! Having sex with me would literally kill you.”

“Ah, but it’d be a most glorious death.”


Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! First, I give ya’ll a bit of fiction to get the mind warmed up! Then, I run through some of the ways I’ll be entertaining myself over the course of the workweek. After I’ve tired myself out, you hit up the comments section and share your strategies for fending off the Beasts of Boredom!

Yes, it’s basically the Spaceship OL way station.

Okay, let’s rock!

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Monday Morning Commute: facekick the workweek


Well, we’re back in the workweek, which means that spirits’re bound to be low.  How why shouldn’t they be? There’re matters which need attending! There’re bosses lookin’ over our shoulders! Hell, there might even times that things have to be done by!

The horror!

Luckily, this here’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! First, I’m goin’ to detail some of the small pleasures that’ll keep me from turning my bathtub and toaster into a fatal 2-in-1 combo. Then, you hit up the comments section and share your own entertainment strategies for survival. Finally, we all reply to one another, making for a totally geektastic show-and-tell.

Work sucks, life rules, let’s do this.

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Shia LaDouche TWEETS RETIREMENT. Still grasps nothing.

Shia LaDouche.

You know nothing, Shia LaDouche. Fucking dummy. If you did, you wouldn’t have to go to such lengths as retirement. You certainly wouldn’t feel important enough to tweet it. And finally, you definitely wouldn’t say you’re retiring due to attacks on your artistic integrity.

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Monday Morning Commute: Witch Craft is Magic?

Witch Craft is Magic

The Pie-Eyed former-bibliophile was flabbergasted, which was new for him. Drunk?  Awkward? Socially maladjusted? Oh, he was plenty comfortable with these. But in this moment, he was straight-up flabbergasted.

“Goddamn boy, what’re you lookin’ so flabbergasted for?”

“‘Cause you says,” a youthful forehead was slapped by its own palm, “youhadda shackkup with a witch. A witch?!”

Absalom bellowed, “Oh yes! There’s no two ways about it, Susy’s a witch! Hell, she has to be the witchiest witch I’ve ever come across in my time!”

“You mean with a cauldron and potions and brum-stick and all?”

“Well, not exactly.”

Pie-Eyed was making the most of his ever-dwindling faculties to figure out what the hell Absalom meant. He lifted his drink to his lips, hesitated for a moment, and then drained the entire thing. “Wait! Wait! Did she have magical powers?!”

“Yes and no.” Absalom chucked to himself. “I mean, we can get into all sorts of discussions about ‘magic’ and of what it is composed. Access to supernatural realms? ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology,’ is that it? The ability to astound, to create scenarios that push the limits of imagination? Artistry? The ability to realize to turn an idea into a tangible product? Do any, or all, of these constitute magic?”


“So we’re coastin’ on fumes, and I swear to the Maker that we sputter to a stop right in Susy’s driveway! No damn brakes or nothin’! The jalopy croaks right in the driveway.”

“It, it,” Pie-Eyed paused to burp, but continued, “it was kismet?”

“It sure seemed like it at the time.” Absalom sratched his grey-goin’-white stubble and flagged down the bartender in the hopes of getting some peanuts. “There we were, a carful of over-eager youths, sweatin’ testosterone and hankerin’ booze. And what was before us? A cabin that looks more like a palace, set woods that look more like a national park, with bonfires lightin’ up a keg-party that looks more like Saturnalia!”

“Betcha couldn’t wait to get outtathat car!”

“I’d take that bet – I stayed right where I was, didn’t unbuckle or nothin’.”

Once again, Pie-Eyed was flabbergasted.

“I know what you’re thinkin.’” Absalom swooped in with a preemptive strike. “How could I sit in the car with the prospect of inebriation and fornication mere yards before me? Well, I’ll tell ya,” the old-timer took a rip of Pepsi. “It’s `cause I knew about Susy’s reputation. I’d never met her before, but we ran in the same circles. And the word was that she was a goddamn man-eater. A seductress. A master of cardiac-vivisection. After I’d made the call to see if we could crash at her place, I told my crew that I’d be sleepin’ in the car and encouraged to do the same.”

“They lissen toya?”

“Hell no! The car’d barely come to a rest when those monkey-brains were already runnin’ towards the coeds, practically unzippin’ their flies as they went.”

Absalom Fabliaux, ever the consummate gentleman, slid the bowl of peanuts to the Pie-Eyed intern. When a passerby attempted to filch a peanut, Señor Fabliaux grabbed the interloper by the collar, growled that the “Yuppie Scumsucker better drop my friend’s nut,” and then dispatched him with a firm shove.

Pie-Eyed was grateful.

“So, wuddya wake up inna morning? Allyur friends hanged over and witthur pants down?”

“I wish. At about three in the mornin’ I wake up to find my buddy Urie frantically bangin’ on the window, screamin’ for help.”

“What wuzzit?!”

“To quote Urie: ‘You’re right, Susy’s a witch – she’s turned our friends into fucking pigs!’”



I’m going to show you some of the ways I’ll be keepin’ myself entertained over the next few days. Then, you (as an ever-faithful contributor to the Spaceship OL passenger-community), will hit up the comments section and do the same. Before all’s said and done, we’ll have had a nice round of digital show’n'tell.

Break the glass and grab your Emergency Word-Weapon!

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Watch: MICHAEL BAY PRETTY MUCH MELTS DOWN at Samsung CES event. Solidarity, brah.

Michael Bay.

Michael Bay is a compatriot to bros everywhere. Fans of rotating cameras, ‘splosions, and vascularity. So while it’s pretty amazing watching his meltdown from Samsung’s CES event, I also want to offer a fist bump. I’m with you, Michael. From bro to bro. Just uh…you know. Don’t walk off the stage when things get hairy.

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