Monday Morning Commute: Then Our Sweatpants Boners Swung.
Monday evening in the Northeast section of the American Empire proper. Cold winds, comfortable clothes. Shut windows and caffeine in the veins. I’m relaxing. I’m also Caffeine Powered, my (literal) brother Rendar Frankenstein tagging me in for this iteration. I’m swinging over the top fucking rope, ready to drop sweet chin music upon all your unsuspecting asses. Gape for me baby, and allow my Love Heel to caress your Soul-Clit.
Rendar passed on this message (and I’m not making any of this up, he’s/we’re insane):
Send this message to the Monday Morning Commute: I am wandering through the wreckage of the Octoberfeast, picking pieces of pumpkin-seed shrapnel out of my chest and looking for the neuro-ghoul that stole my memory of Watchmen issue no. 7. I’m going to choke that three-jawed fool until his dark blood turns sweet, and I can rip open his throat and drink of the brinish-nectar.
On that note, this is MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE. In here I’ll be showing you all the various means for escaping a crushing amount of graduate work and teaching assistantship bullshit. I encourage you to flaunt your own means of escape from whatever machinery you’re a cog in. Buckle up, put on your poncho, and let’s rock.
Movies I’m Sweatin’ / The Rum Diary and In Time.
There are few ways to wind down the week that I enjoy more than a jaunt to the local Chinese food joint followed by a movie with the Mrs Caffeinated Powers. There’s a couple of flicks that I’m looking forward to this week. While I’m vaguely interested in Justin Timberlake’s thinly veiled Marxism allegory in the flick In Time, I think the Caffeinated Couple is going to end up seeing The Rum Diary on Friday.
I couldn’t give two tugs of my poorly-shaken piss cock about Johnny Depp’s movies of the last…ten years or so. Since Pirates Megamix 1, countless shitty Tim Burton zany-fests and an interminable amount of Swashbuckling Shitfests. What could get me to dig on the talented chap again? Once again donning the Hunter S. Thompson garb. And hooking up with Amber Heard who is holy shit my nuts and balls and soul is aching hot.
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Concert A-Go-Go Baby!, Between The Buried and Me.
BTBAM is the band whose newest works I anticipate most. They’ve passed prior legends, and so when they drop a disc onto my computer-lap I begin slathering myself in vaseline and moaning in anticipation. Despite the fact that it’s only an EP, their latest album is my favorite release of the year. Listen when that shit breaks 35 minutes, regardless of how many tracks, it fucking counts. It fucking counts! Come at me! My horned-helm and hate-blade will take care of you.
They’re playing this Sunday in my neck of the woods, and I’m chomping at the bit to see the motherfuckers. Which reminds me,I should probably buy a ticket.
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Finally Started Watching: Fringe! Fucking Fringe!
For years I’ve been promising myself that I’d start watching Fringe. Well, I fucking finally have. And I enjoy it. I’m barely into season one, but I described it to Rendar as the Abrams-Files with Pacey and that’s fucking good for me. I’ve heard that it only gets better, and that only makes me wetter. Joshua Jackson is a fucking beast. Mighty Ducks, Dawson’s Creek, and now an X-Files derivation. He’s done sewed himself up tight in my heart and I’m not going to let him leave. Shortly: a couple of years ago at NYCC he walked right past me and I was smitten. He’s short, but cute, and in much better shape than those last couple of years of Das Creek. Pacey? More like Puffy! Amiritelolol. (Rendar will be back next week.)
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Amber Heard. Yep. Amber Heard.
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Absolutely Dying For: Uncharted 3.
I cannot put into fucking words how badly I want Uncharted 3. The third installment in the best action franchise of the generation, perhaps ever. Oh god. Oh god the pains in the loins. The beast writhes in the boxers, demanding supplication. I tell it to wait. It cannot. Reviews have started coming out, and they’re all shiny. They all prompt me to want it more. I want to sit down next Tuesday and delve into the game’s existence and not let up. Sadly I bet I don’t even touch it until the weekend it comes out. That Saturday. Shitty food. Shitty clothes. Drake and me snuggling while I tell my girlfriend to sit in the corner with the cats and avert her eyes. There are no Gods to be found where I intend on going with Sir Nathan.
None.
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What are you fools doing this week? Hit me! Byah! Karate chop! High-kick. Et cetera.
