Sir Carl would have been 78 today. Let us take this moment to take our mind-altering drug of choice! (chocolate! caffeine! wink!) and bask in his soliloquy about the “Pale Blue Dot.”
There is now a vagina on this site and it belongs to me. Also, birthday wishes. But mostly my vagina.March 26th, 2012 by R.C.
Sorry to interrupt your regularly-scheduled sausage fest, but there’s a new face on the OL team and it’s a damn sight prettier than anyone else’s around here.
The name’s R.C. and it’s nice to meetcha. Before we go any further, there’s one thing you should know right off the bat: I like things. All sorts of things. If things were a man, I’d marry it. And if you were married to things, I’d jeopardize our new friendship by nailing your hot husband. I have been described as many things, including: an immoral raconteur, an astrophile, a zombie aficionado, the bastard lovechild of Ellen Ripley and Badassery, insane, and ridiculously awesome. All of these things are true. I also have a Batman tattoo.
You’re probably thinking to yourself that I can’t possibly be this incredible, but don’t take my word for it. Here are just a few of my testimonials:
“I once lost a Shamon-off to her, and it was awesome.” — Michael Jackson
“She salted the burial grounds of my ancestors so nothing would grow there for a thousand years.” — Rick Santorum
“She’s bitchin’ as shit.” — God
So, let’s kick this off with a big fucking HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Leonard Nimoy, who is, like, 461 years old today. Leonard, I know you’re pretty sick to death of the Star Trek franchise, but nut up and accept the fact that I am going to spend the night Vulcan saluting all over the place in your honor.
Happy fucking birthday, Patton. You beautiful son of a bitch.
Babies and gents, please don’t forget this one fact. Hell, if you forget this, you’re really up the creek, `cause humanity’s been leaning on it since we done sloughed ourselves out of the primordial muck. Without this truism – no matter how you want to take it and run with it – we’re bound to fall face-first into the sludge of post-history and asphyxiate on the our own shortsightedness.
HOPE IS ABOVE THE HORIZON.
God? Space travel? Giant griffins that’ll swoop down, snatch us up with their pillowed talons, and nurture us in their super-nests? Could be. All I know is that we’re not going to actualize the potential of the collective unconscious by grinding ourselves down at jobs we hate.
So on that note, welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! This is the spot where I show off the various wares I’ll be using to safeguard my mind from ennui and work-related dementia. After you take a peek, hit up the comments section and share your own recipe for the Entertainment Cocktail de huit jours.
Faux-French? Goddamn, let’s just get to this.