MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE: Eat The Turkey, Vomit the Gravy
Thanksgiving! The week in which the Empire descends once more into gluttony and materialism. It has been so long without an excuse to devolve into primal man, consuming and farting! The fourth of July is so, so far away at this point. Let us not slide into complete debauchery this week. Let us be gracious. I’m thankful for you ladies and gentleman who frequent this establishment. You eat the appetizers, tip the doorman, and thankfully don’t let the others know that the abandoned warehouse down the street near the bowling alley has become my personal scat hovel.
God is good.
This is Monday Morning Commute, the column where we share the various activities that are getting us through the week. A little bit of a curveball this time around though, what with the aforementioned holiday. So what are you mortals, deities, and demigods of the Netterwebs during this Thanksgiving week?
Holla back, youngin’.
Eating: Mad mashed potatoes.
My favorite part of Thanksgiving is the mashed potatoes. Imma run a train up, down, and through the potato portions at the various dining room tables I’ll be sitting at this week. I gobble dat shit up, smearing it in my beard. Thank ahead. Think forward. I’ll need a snack later. Boom! Break it off, mow it down. Yum, yum, yum. I don’t really dig on turkey, but if I pop some in my mouth while I’m getting my spud grind down, it isn’t that bad. Did you know mashed potatoes had crazy amounts of protein? No? That’s because they doesn’t! But who gives a fuck. YOLO, or something.
Playing: Blops 2, Borderlands 2.
Same two games I’ve been playing as of late. They satisfy me in different ways. Blops 2 brings the bro-dude muscle head nonsense. Pounds away on my nethers, then leaves the apartment. Borderlands 2 hugs me while I sleep. As the heat kicks on in the cold house, the people of the Pandora-Land snuggle up against me, bracing against Winter’s Bite. Blops 2. won’t call, but I don’t need it to. Something for everyone.
Excited for: This time of year.
The older I get, the more I look forward to the holidays. Not for any sort of material gain. I get presents, but as I age I find myself not wanting to ask for much, and feeling unworthy of the parcels I do receive. Instead, my decaying corpus gets quite the thrill out of hanging out with Rendar, Bateman, and the rest of my compatriots. Give me some beers and a good warm room to run our mouths in. That’s all it really takes to achieve uber-contentedness for my simplistic ass these days.
And boobs. Probably boobs, too.
I ruined this, didn’t I.
Watching: Silver Linings Playbook.
Let’s try this again! I thought I was seeing this last week, but the venture was lathered in failure. The film didn’t open nearly close enough to my dungeon, and as the sun sears my flesh and the Misses is embarrassed to be seen with me, we had to abstain. Next Friday it is spreading its wings, and I hope to pray to glory be and riding it to Valhalla. You can ride films to heaven, you know. All it takes is a heavy amount of drinking, the power crystal, and the ability to pierce logic and reason. Let us ride together on this Thanksgiving week. You can feed me turkey legs (with mashed potatoes, obviously), as we sail the golden seas towards the warm comfort of Oblivion.
Listening: Circus Maximus, Nine.
Oh golly, watch out. This is some seriously cheesy progressive metal I’m busting out and snapping into my ear drums as of late. There is a certain erotic shame that comes from enjoying such overwrought wankery. I feel naughty. Jamming out to it in my car, I have to fight my metal-boner. People passing by see a thirty year-old white dude air noodling. It isn’t the best. Though, it isn’t the worse. People have caught me eating a hot dog while updating Twitter before. Fascists had a problem with me, making air gestures and overall just running down my PMA, yo.
So I think maybe that’s it for me this week. What are you folks up to on this wonderful abridged work week?