Two of the men behind one of my favorite shows ever are creating a comedy for Apple. While this is pretty cool, it’s yet another fucking streaming service I’m going to have to get involved with.

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Monday Morning Commute, on a fucking Monday? Up is down! Left is right! The Earth is saved, humanity operates on a higher than base, cruel level, and the Eagles are winning the Super Bowl!

Nothing makes sense, friends! Nothing! But, here we are anyways.

Nothing makes sense, friends! Nothing! But, when has it ever, anyways?

I hope you’re doing fantastic. May your sexual glands be drained, your cups full of your beverage of choice, and your stomach stocked with your preferred form of caloric corpulence.

This right here is the aforementioned Monday. Morning. Commute! The weekly wank-off session where I tell you all the things helping me get through this particular work week. Then! Oh, then! Just as importantly, I hope you’ll share what you’re up to in the comments.

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It’s the Weekend Open Bar.

Here on the Space-Ship Omega.

Round and round and round the Sun we go. Harboring ill memories, favorable moments, abject disproofs of karma, and transformative moments of kindness. In the grand scheme of things, we, the Sun, these burps and blips don’t matter one lick. In the grand scheme of things, these random scatterings of electrical impulses, of poor choices, of wise decisions, of moments of passion and anger, they’re all we fucking got.

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My wife is really good at throwing wood into the wood stove that heats our sunroom during the Winter. Someday I’m going to be typing this from a shelter, or a shack, or my backyard. You see, she’s really good at throwing it. Ashes are really good at flying into the air. Burning embers are really good at hitting the tile, and not the rug.

But woah boy!

Someday them embers are going to hit the rug. I’ve seen it.

But woah boy!

Someday them embers are going to ignite the rug, maybe the dog, definitely the house. I’ve seen it!

In fact, somewhere across the OMNIVERSE, in an incredible amount of Universes, this is happening now.

Somewhere: my pubic hair, which dangles to the ground, is igniting from those embers.

In fact, somewhere across the OMNIVERSE, in an incredible amount of Universes, this is happening now.

Somewhere: my dog, which is also a dinosaur, which is also Jesus Christ, is turning nipple milk into water, drowning those burning embers.

I’ve seen it!

Anyways — until she burns down the house here, until the embers take down this dry ass house in this dry ass state on this perpetually dry ass Planet — until then — I will be celebrating Weekend Open Bar from my couch.

Right here!

Weekend Open Bar! Come come, folks. Celebrate the weekend with me. Come come, folks. Tell me what you’re up to this weekend!

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Weekend Open Bar! And a content one at that.

My wife is home, tucked into bed. Home for the first time in more or less two weeks. Laffy Taff is in my gut, tucked into my digestive tract via my head-hole. In my gut for the first time in more or less too long. Outside, the crickets are chirping. A cool breeze passes by. Inside, the Red Sox are playing. A cool breeze passes by.

The Summer is winding down here in the Eastern arm of the Empire, and it was a damn good one for me. A mellow, unremarkable jaunt filled with teaching, quality time with my wife, some passable cinema, and a lot of really good wrestling.

I will not lament it leaving, though. For as I shed the husk of my most enjoyable Summer in years, it is being ushered out the door in lieu of the Most Wonderful time of the Year.

Fall!

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Was at the movies when my phone began blowing up from fellow wrestling fanatics, letting me know one of our heroes has passed away. Fucking Roddy Piper. Between wrestling, They Live, and his Always Sunny appearances, the good sir managed to pry his way into my heart through multiple pop culture avenues.

What’s your favorite memory of Piper? Share videos! Share images! Just share.

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Monday, motherfuckers. Another day at the beginning of another week. For those of us on the M-F Grind, Monday heralds yet another blitz through the whirling blades of the Existential Gauntlet. But fear not, friends. The Man has peppered our lives with another Meaningless Morsels to keep us just Fat, Happy, and Distracted Enough from pulling plugs and diving into stark abysses.

These are the Meaningless Morsels I’m enjoying this week. Please share your own.

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This is the True Detective Season 2 that we deserve — nay, need.

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Big ups to Bridgit Sheide (I hope I spelled that correctly, my vision sucks) for this mash-up.

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