Monday Morning Commute: Hark, the Lady Spring Sings
Mother Nature must be feeling guilty for those of us in New England. Friday morning I awoke to an onslaught of the Slushy Shit. It was draped across my car, down my driveway, coating the streets. What had been proposed as four inches of snow had turned into two feet of nightmare whilst I slept. Perhaps feeling a smidgen bit cruel for this deceit, Ole Lady Nature has turned the last two days into full blown Spring. You know you’ve been double-fisted by the Winter when forty-degree days are a salve on your soul. A balm on the chapped balls that weather has wrought. I’ll take it, and mix it together with some Daylight Savings Time. Despite the bullshit that is yanking an hour of weekend slumber out from underneath our feet, the bonus sunlight at the end of the day is bueno. As someone who is known to eat chapped stick in single bites while screaming at passersby when my sadness overwhelms me, any extra rays are salvation. They burn away the delirium that the Darkness brings.
Enough about me. How the fuck are you gals, guys, and every other combination? This is Monday Morning Commute, the column where you and I share the various happy happenings in our lives on a given week. The ointments that help soothe the irritation of the grind.
Let’s do this.
I need a fucking law degree to figure out cable plans.
For years, I have been telling myself that I would get FiOS once it was available at my apartment. Now that it has arrived, Jesus Titty Fucking A Sasquatch, I don’t know. There is the vague promise that it will be bigger, faster, stronger than Comcast. I don’t even know if that is true. But furthermore, I have no idea if it would be cheaper. And that’s what I’m really interested in figuring out. The service’s website fucks you in the ass with legalese and hidden fees. No mind you, this ain’t the sort of awesome ass-drilling that has us guys throwing rope all over our bellies as our prostates are gloriously massaged. It is cruel, and unforgiving. By the time you get through selecting your fucking Big Bad Bundle, and choosing a Fucking Cable Box For An Extra Charge, and Adding In Fees, Taxes, And Other Bullshit…I frankly have no idea.
I’m reading Ghost Story, which means I’m almost caught up on the Dresden Files.
Fuck. Time is running out for me. After almost six months of spending time with Harry Dresden, I’ve nearly completed all of Jim Butcher’s books starring him. By this time next week, I fear my life shall be without the Good Wizard Detective. What shall I do then? I mean, I’ve already started to keep myself busy by hacking at a nearby tree in order to fashion my own staff. The Land Lord doesn’t seem to approve, but it is difficult to take a run at a tenant who is proclaiming their supernatural abilities. While covered only in peanut butter, with their favorite Hulk Fist-shaped butt plug dangling loosely from their tired anus. So Land Lord temporarily retreats, allowing me to hack more wood. Prepare myself. But that’ll only take so long. Then what? What’s next, what’s next?
Seriously, Tomb Raider is fucking amazing.
When I’m not running around the neighborhood chasing cats with my staff while wearing only a grin and a butt plug, I’m spending most of my time playing Tomb Raider. This game is the berries, folks. Chocolate covered berries that are guarantee to rub your action-glands until your pantaloons stick. If you’re a lass or lad with only an Xbox and you’ve never gotten to enjoy Uncharted, grab this game. Sure, the story is utter fucking dreck. Blah, blah, Lost Island. Yadda, yadda, Spirit God something Mystical Mythical snore, snore. Forget that. The sheer glory of running through an armada of baddies is exhilirating. One moment I’m picking off some douchebag with my bow, the next moment I’m unloading an entire clip of shotgun food into some errant asshole’s tummy. Serious.
Whenever stray from Dew, it is to let Cherry Coke Zero plunge into me.
The sheer lightning bolt that Diet Dew delivers into my fat simian-brain ensures that I will never stray too far from its jittering hands. However, I have found a new choice of yummy-caffeine when I am looking for a more subdued buzz. That son of a bitch is Cherry Coke Zero. It goes down smooth, and it has much better manners than Mr. Dew. It’ll kiss me on the neck from behind while I’m cooking it a delicious Sunday dinner. Sometimes it brings me breakfast in bed. It’s sort of sad, though. It’ll never win my heart entirely. I like the bad boys. The dangerous ones. Sorry, CCZ. Sorry.
So that’s me, folks. What are you digging this week?