“Oh snap! He just kicked off Grandpa’s fuckin’ head! Didja see that shit! Grandpa ain’t got no fuckin’ head anymore!”
Yeah, I guess you can say it was an eventful Fourth of July weekend at Casa de Los Brothers Omega.
But today is Monday, and as such we must embark upon the Monday Morning Commute! This is the spot where I show you all of the entertainment-junk I’ll crammin’ down my mind-mandible during the next few days. Then, you hit up the comments section and tell everyone what you’ll be feastin’ upon to get to the end of the workweek. Yes, it’s a bit like show-and-tell.
Except instead of kindy-gardners, the participants are the depraved Internet pirates clingin’ to the deck of Spaceship OL.
Okay, let’s do this!
Holy shit! Maine’s making beer now!
As a lifelong resident of Massachusetts, I’ve always been a bit weary of Maine. That’s not to say that the Pine Tree State doesn’t have anything to offer. It does. It’s the spot to go for quintessential New England seafood, the people are friendly, and it’s scenic as hell. I wouldn’t try to dissuade anyone from vacationing in Maine.
With that said, there’s something a bit discomfiting about Maine.
Maybe it’s the fact that the state is in a weird spot culturally. After all, Maine is wedged right next to the libertarian paradise that is New Hampshire, the hippie epicenter of Vermont, and the progressive-to-the-point-of-scrutiny Massachusetts. What does this leave Maine claiming? Rocky shores and some mountains.
Or maybe I find Maine distressing because it’s mostly uninhabited. Last year I drove to Nova Scotia by myself, and spent the better part of six hours weaving my way through the wilderness of Maine. And let me tell you, if I had hit a moose out there (as the signs so comfortingly warned that I might), I would’ve been dead meat. There’s no way that anyone with the abilities of resuscitating my mangled corpse would’ve found me in time.
So it was with a bit of trepidation that I picked up a sixer of Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale from the folks at the Atlantic Brewing Company. As I brought the beers to the register, grappling with a barrage of thoughts, some rational and most not. “Is this ale any good? How strong is the blueberry flavor going to be? Is it safe to drink? Is this nothing more than Maine-yokels fooling us by bottling their pee after eating blueberry pie? Should I call Sam Adams and tell him that there’re some wild Mainers tryin’ to cut in on his action?”
By the time I got home, I was driven to investigate this beer.
I say goddamn! Ain’t no game worth this sort of pain. A Chinese woman recently rocked out on a four-hour gaming session, whilst laying on her back. Little bit later she felt some pain, and yep. Friggin’ breast implants ruptured.
Prepare to up the chemical-ante, folks. Twinkies are returning out of the bankruptcy abyss, planning on turning your blood stream into a sugar-and-chemistry set nightmare. I only wish they could have returned prior to July 4. I would have been a good America. You know. Grilled hot dogs and used the Twinkies as the bun.
Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! This is the weekly entertainment call-to-arms hosted at OL! First, I’m going to share a short piece of fiction I’ve just unearthed from my brain with a caffeine-excavator. Then, I’m going to detail some of the ideas I have for entertaining myself into the weekend. Lastly, the final step of the MMC is for you to hit up the comments section and share party-agenda for the week!
This is pop-culture show-and-tell at its most unabashedly passionate.
Take a rip of your favorite beverage and go for it!
How is Brazil beating the United States at what is so obviously our own game? The fuckers have created a wunder-disc, that upon heating up ends up smelling like a pepperoni pizza. ‘Cause…you know. You don’t want anything more during your viewing of Argo than to begin smelling burning sausage-nips inside your machinery.
I had no idea that this was a theory even in play, but apparently people have suspected for a while that those crazy kids at Jamestown ate each other. Ooph! Now there are some seriously trying conditions. Sound ludicrous? Not to me it doesn’t! And now there is some new info-finding-stuff to support this theory.
Necessity is the mother of invention, folks. So when you need to transport pounds upon pounds of weed, you’re going to need to come up with something. This dude stuffed a Pac-Man arcade machine with the stickiest of ickies before he was busted. Even though he was caught, I still commend the fuck out of him.
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!
Butcher Billy is back with his latest amalgamation. Homeboy has taken the drug-addled carcasses out of the Oozing Maw of Hollywood, and mixed them up with Gremlins. The result is a strange concoction of human-monster flesh, with most of the celebrities actually looking better than usual. Typically dope Butcher stuff.
Hit the jump to check them out.