Busy day, haven’t been able to get around to these parts. I apologize a million times, and leave you with this as I rush off.
Yeah, total rip-off of the Far Cry 3: Blood Dragon premise for the article title. I can’t help it. That game has my tits a-twitter in ways that are normally relegated to the seedier portions of my tumblr dashboard. How are you doing this Monday? I am well, thank you for asking. Here on April the 8, it is going to climb to nearly sixty degrees in my neck of the Empire. That warmed clime is itself enough to make me smile. This is Monday Morning Commute, and herein are the things on my mind this week. Arts, farts, et cetera.
Voodoo-prescribin’ witch doctors once invited me to a party.
It was the summer of 1987 and I was in the middle of one of the worst hangovers of my entire life. Since April, I’d spent every waking hour thrashing to Among the Living and doing lines of gasoline-soaked blow. As far as I can recall, it wasn’t until mid-July that I even realized I’d made it all the way to Nova Scotia.
Don’t let anyone tell you that heavy metal and drugs won’t lead you anywhere. They will. Specifically, to the beautiful port-town of Yarmouth.
Anyways, I stumbled out of buck-toothed Ambellina’s bedroom, leaving behind my Walkman and cocaine in the hopes of finding something slightly more transcendent. Fortunately, I found the Tim Hortons whose manager seemed eager to keep my coffee cup filled to the brim, free of charge. (In hindsight, I think must’ve let him look at my Polaroid collection. You ever see a Yeti’s genitals? No? Well, then you haven’t seen my Polaroid collection.) After my thirteenth cup of black wonder, I saw them.
The witch doctors.
There were three of `em. They were all black dudes. They were all wearing sleeveless Wham! t-shirts tucked into blue jeans, which were in turn tucked into work boots. And their accents couldn’t've been more diverse. The fat one spoke with a Cajun twang, the old one spoke through a metrosexual French patois, and the tall one sounded German.
In a flash, they’d all taken the liberty of joining me in my booth. Surrounded on all sides, strung out, and shaking in an over-caffeinated stupor, I had no hope of escaping `em. Which wasn’t really a concern of mine until the old one pulled a decapitated chicken out of his backpack and started rubbing it on my face. “Ah, mon ami, you need to stop stressing out!”
“Ja! Too stressed” shouted the tall one, loud enough to turn the heads of patrons.
“C’mon,” encouraged the fat man, “un p’tit boug hain’t gotta worries! We fixxya!”
I was vexed, absolutely sure that these three were going to murder me. I finished my coffee, the best last meal I could ever hope for, and prepared for my demise. “So, you’re goin’ to kill me, huh?”
The old man put the chicken back into his bag and did me the favor of wiping the grease and blood from my face. Granted, he cleaned my visage with his bare hand and then proceeded to clean his hand with his tongue, but the sentiment was there. He then did his best to reassure me.
“Eh bien! Murder is for poets! We are witch doctors! And we’ve got a prescription for you!”
I was curious. “Okay…what is it?”
“ES IST VOODOO!” bellowed the Bavarian.
“Um…” I equivocated, “what type of voodoo?”
Toothy grins spread across the trio of shadowy faces. And then, seemingly from out of nowhere, four of the ugliest, skankiest Canadian girls I’d ever seen appeared behind the witch doctors. If I had to bet, I’d've put my money on at least two of `em havin’ VD.
The old man grabbed my shoulder and cackled, “The type of voodoo that starts with a bourbon-soaked orgy!”
Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! This is the feature in which I write whatever nonsense pops into my mind and then run through the various ways I’ll be entertaining myself into the weekend. At that point, it’s your duty/honor/begrudging privilege to hit up the comments section and share your own ennui-destroyin’ elixirs.
Enough feet-draggin’, let’s rock!
For your sake, I hope you never have to live life as I do – in the mindset of a crotchety old man.
Sometimes, when I’m especially tired or caffeine-deprived, I can’t help but see change as anything but a pain in the ass. I mean, if you’ve been frequenting Omega-Level regularly, you’ll have noticed a number of recent additions. I should be excited. Really. Instead, I find myself grumbling under my breath, waxing nostalgic for the glory days of OL that never existed.
I mean, why shouldn’t I be excited about all the advertisements on the site? Not only do I get to share my thoughts with the world, but I get to help hawk products such as Norwich University, Dragons of Atlantis, and eFax!
Get `em while they’re hot, suckahs!
Moreover, this site is now rife with all sorts of strange characters! There’re sneaks amongst us, vaginas sliding into the fold, and probably a couple of freaks fiendin’ for another teleportation rape-dream! It’s a veritable gathering!
Okay – time to take an Alka Seltzer and plow through this post.
Thissere’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! You don’t even have to be a cantankerous bastard like me to know that the workweek sucks. As such, I’m going to show you some of the bits of entertainment I’ll be using to survive until the weekend. Your task is to hit up the comments and show off the various ways you’ll be ignoring the overwhelming responsibilities of real life.
Pull your damn pants up and let’s do this!
Don Draper is constantly trying to turn that frown upside down these days. Shit has gotten real for the Totem of the American Dream on the show, and usually we just get to watch our heartthrob brood and make bad decisions. Our helplessness is about to be mitigated to an extent with this free video game, which allows us to help him get his shit together.
Hit the jump to check it out.
Are you like me, ready to gobble up anything Mad Men related? Then I got a poster for you! Not interested? No harm! No foul! Keep moseying.
Hit the jump to check it out.
It’s been goddamn forever since Mad Men concluded its fourth season, but it’s about to come roaring back. The fifth season is dropping March 25, and to prep the land for its upcoming arrival AMC has released a bunch of teaser trailers. Can’t wait for a return to the meditation on the American Nightmare.
[Is there a better way to celebrate the manger-birth of a superpowered messiah-baby than watching television? Hell no! Join Rendar Frankenstein as he navigates Spaceship OL through the Televised Days of Christmas!]
There is something to be said of the idea that human beings need excuses to party.
Think about it – holidays have been celebrated since the advent of the human species. While the pretenses and customs vary from tribe to tribe, most cultures have set aside days specifically for the purpose of cutting loose. Work is momentarily forfeited, and individuals are encouraged to engage in social events so that they can relax, enjoy the kinship of their peers, and contemplate concepts that transcend the corporeal.
It’s basically psychic catharsis.
Again, such is the necessity for relaxation that it has been prescribed by multitudes of societies. Anyone doubting this need only consider the confluence of December-holidays: pagans honor the winter solstice, Christians eagerly anticipate Christmas, Jewish folk rock Hanukkah, and of course the saturnalian Romans go bananas for Saturnalia. These holidays are different, for sure, but the common thread is that all celebrants look forward to shirking responsibilities and spending time with loved ones.
For many, the holiday season serves as the canvas upon which some of life’s most cherished memories are painted.
But what about those individuals who, for one reason or another, are without their families during the holidays? How would you feel if in the time between one Christmas and the next, you divorced your spouse and could no longer see your kids on a daily basis? What if you didn’t want to burden friends with your grievances? In what ways would this alter your attitude about the most wonderful time of the year?
If you’re Don Draper it means that you take a swig of booze, bang your secretary, and woefully declare, “I don’t hate Christmas, I just hate this Christmas.”
It feels like Mad Men has been off the air for fucking ever, thanks to arguments and slap-fights and contractual wrangling between series creator Matthew Weiner and AMC. The good news is that when the son of a bitch returns, it’ll be at a slightly extended running time.
I fucking hate the fact that contract disputes have robbed me from watching Mad Men this calendar year. However, at least we know progress on the motherfucker has resumed. And how! From out of I Wasn’t Expecting It field comes news that the most gorgeous person in the world, Jon Hamm, will be directing the premiere.