I’ll never forget the night I fucked Miss Americana 1973.

We’d met earlier in the evening for some casual drinks. Sitting in the Holo-Lounge, we ran a huge tab and sparred with one another. We both pulled punches, knowing that the other was far too vulnerable to be dealt a true blow. She was as defenseless against my clever quips as I was against her cheekbones   and ass. Oh boy, was I defenseless when I was against her ass!

Anyways, banging a supermodel in a space station hotel suite is hardly an event worthy of a bedpost-notching. Hell, the name R. Frankenstein isn’t on three different brands of jetpack-vibrators because my stinky-little-peenie hasn’t gone off-planet. No, I’ll never forget my sexual encounter with Miss Americana 1973 because of what she gave me.

My first LSTD experience.

She had just climaxed, yanking out a clump of my hair and pouring a bottle of Pepsi on my belly (per my request) when I started to feel…off. At first I chalked up the tingling at the back of my head to either coital-bliss or an impending tumor. So I kept feebly thrusting. And the tingling persisted. So I kept feebly thrusting. And the tingling grew stronger. So I kept feebly thrusting. And the tingling turned into music.

And then the walls began melting and Roger Rabbit materialized so that he could tickle my ass and Miss Americana 1973 metamorphosed into a squid-creature that would’ve made even the likes of Lovecraft squirm and cry like a babby and then I began to cum but my dick shot out staples instead of ejaculate but I felt no pain only the wonder of producing steel from my sexual reproductive organ and I had to apologize to my squid-lover of the evening because I had shot staples all over his back but I made sure to clean them up with a rainbow.

When I awoke the next morning, Miss Americana 1973 was nowhere to be found. It seemed that I was completely alone in the suite. But then I closed my eyes and I saw that I had visitors – the spellbinding memories from the night before.

The remembrances of my first sexually-transmitted hallucinogenic experience.

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Hello to all of you – the heroes, bombshells, brats, nerds, Capitalist-hating-Commies, stuntmen, nurses, Commie-hating-Capitalists, post-modern Romantics – that visit Omega-Level? Thissere’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, your spot for sharing the various means by which you’ll survive the workweek. Hit up the comments section and share what you’ll be reading, watching, playing, eating, or listening to this week.

It’s internet show-and-tell at its most dastardly.

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Hello there, fellow drone-bees! The workweek is upon us yet again, and we once again find ourselves hiding our true desires behind dead-skin masks. For forty hours a week, even the strongest and most original amongst us assume the personae of the tired and damned. In these times, we are nothing if not the hollow shells we’ve worked so hard to fill during off-hours.

Gatsby is jolted in the middle of the night, awakened by the American nightmare that sees him whimpering ,”Gatz…Minnesota…Dan Cody…”

Draper drinks and screws and sells himself into a life of luxury, and yet cannot shed the skin of Whitman’s despondency.

Kent writes the headlines that Superman inspires, but Kal-El will never get over the fact that he is the last survivor of a doomed lineage.

In spite of our most transcendental aspirations, there will always be forces working to keep us tethered to the material realities. And the most formidable of these forces is the bastard-thief known as the workweek. So there’s any hope of saving ourselves, we’ve only got one option.

We must remove our entertainment-swords from their scabbards and use them to slit the throat of the bastard-thief.

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Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! I’m going to show you the various bits of entertainment I’ll be using to preserve my spirit during the workweek. Your task, should you feel up to it, is to hit up the comments section and show off the ways you’ll be keeping your heart alive.

Let’s do this!

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[face of a franchise presents two individuals that’ve fulfilled the same role. your task — choose the better of the two and defend your choice in the rancor pit that is the comments section]

For nearly seventy-two years, Robin has assisted Batman in reclaiming the streets of Gotham from the clutches of the criminal element. Along the way, Robin has served as the perfect complement, adding a sugar cube of idealism to the coffee cup of justice-via-vengeance that is Batman. Robin is firmly embedded into the fabric of comics, embodying for most what it means to be a supporting character.

There’s no denyin’ that Robin is the most celebrated superhero sidekick of all time.

However, what is up for debate is who to credit with the best performance as Robin. Let’s take a look at the two combatants!

From 1966 to 1968, the Caped Crusader protected the airwaves with his iconic ABC series. While most comics fans can probably pick Adam West out of a crowd, they may be hard pressed to identify Burt Ward, the man responsible for the televisional depiction of Robin. In reality, Ward is largely responsible for solidifying our modern conception of Robin as a figure of wonderful idiosyncrasy. Without Burt Ward, we might not think of Robin as dude who wears green underwear in public, proudly refers to himself as the Boy Wonder, and constantly yells out, “Holy [insert campy reference here], Batman!”

The other praise-worthy portrayal of Dick Grayson was crafted by Chris O’Donnell. Director Joel Schumacher was so enamored of O’Donnell that he cast him in both of his neon-powered, head-scratching Batman flicks. With two films’ worth of canvas, O’Donnell paints Robin as less of a whimsical teen acrobat and more of a callused twenty-something carny. Additionally, Chris O’Donnell was so courageous in his performance that he donned the first Robin suit to feature nipples. Yowzah!

We all know who Batman is.

But who is Robin – Burt Ward or Chris O’Donnell?

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Having never traveled there myself, my knowledge of Mexico consists primarily of piecemeal anecdotal references. In my mind, the streets of Mexico City will forever be lined with folks headbangin’ away to Live Shit: Binge & Purge. As far as I know, these same Mexicans are so blessed as to taste the wonders of El Pelon every time they eat. And, of course, the nation’s favorite athlete is La Flama Blanca.

As far as I can tell, Mexico is a beautiful country.

However, I’d be a liar to suggest that I’ve ever thought of Mexican beer with anything more than a fleeting interest. Sure, Corona might be a good choice for barbeques and picnics and other days spent in the sun, but its light body leaves serious beer-drinkers desiring more. Similarly, I like the Dos Equis Guy‘s style, but that doesn’t mean that I want to drink his beer.

In an effort to perfect the image of Mexico in my mind’s eye, I’m dedicated to finding an exported beer that meets my (admittedly elevated) standards. As such, tonite I’m sipping on a product of Cucapá, a genuine Mexican micro-brewery.

The south-of-the-border concoction at hand: La Migra Imperial Stout!

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For those of us in the United States, today is Presidents Day. If I’m not mistaken, the holiday came about by merging the observances of Washington’s Birthday and Lincoln’s Birthday, and then including every other dude to ever serve as commander-in-chief. Personally, I think that this inclusivity is a bunch of malarkey. I mean, Washington was pretty dope for setting the presidential precedents, so I get wanting to celebrate his life. And Lincoln? Hell, the dude freed the slaves and preserved the Union! Who doesn’t want to give Honest Abe a high-five?

So while there’ve definitely been a few president-studs, they’ve most certainly been outnumbered by the duds. As I sit around today, watching television and reading books and not doing an ounce of work, I’m going to pick and choose the presidents to whom I give thanks. It only seems right.

I’d like to start by giving mad props to Benjamin Harrison, known for serving a single term between President Grover Cleveland’s two terms! Truth!

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Without further adieu, welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! This is the spot where I ramble about some rubbish, and then show you the various ways I’ll be entertaining myself over the course of the week. Your task is to hit up the comments section and show off your own strategies for surviving the workweek.

Okay, let’s go for it.

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[face of a franchise presents individuals that’ve fulfilled the same role. your task — choose the better of the options at hand and defend your choice in the rancor pit that is the comments section]

Speaking from personal experience, I can say without hesitation that there is no relationship on the planet comparable to brotherhood. Friendships, business partnerships, and marriages are all pretty cool, but the connections between their members don’t carry the same weight as those between brothers. After all, we’re talkin’ about dudes bonded by BLOOD! And hell, I know that there’re some cool sisterhoods out there, but sorority members don’t have anything that fraternity members don’t have as well.

And yes, that includes slumber-party conversations about periods and boys’ dinkies.

In fact, the only relationship more inherently powerful than brotherhood is that of the METAL BROTHERHOOD! When you take two dudes that share genetic material, give them musical instruments, and encourage their bad ideas, then you’re bound to get something diabolically beautiful. Brothers – dudes that’ve spent their formative years hanging out, watching movies together, beating the shit out of each other, stealing nudie mags for one another – are more adept at collaborating on solos and breakdowns and subversive lyrics than anyone else.

With that in mind, we must now ask – who are most deserving of being known as The Brothers Metal?

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Welcome to Friday.

After the shitstorm that is the workweek, there’re plenty of ways to unwind. If your favorite sports team is in town, you could head to the game and cheer on the athletes. After all, sports heroes love their fans! Or, if sports aren’t your thing, you could go to the theater so as to bask in the relaxation of a concert. And if worst comes to worst, you could do your chores and then waste time with your friends.

But when it comes to end of the week refreshment, there’s really only one perfect accompaniment. Whether you’re playing video games or shredding on an eight-string, there’s a surefire way to make your experience more enjoyable. This means of party-amplification is, of course, sippin’ on a fine-ass brew.

This Friday sees me sampling Bannatyne’s Scotch Ale.

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Hulloh there, fellow crewmates of Spaceship OL! There seem to be more of you than ever, which is goddamn spectacular! C’mon out from behind those crates of surplus Atari 2600 games, there’s no need to hide! We’ve got plenty of Bantha fodder for everyone, and we’re just about to dive into the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

What’s that, you ask?

Simply put, the  MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE is OL‘s attempt to vaccinate its patrons against the vile disease that is the workweek. So before you plunge headfirst into five days of 9-5 misery, check out the bits of entertainment I’ll be using to safeguard myself against ennui and spiritual ruin. Then, if you’re daring, you can hit up the comments and show off your own set of curative salves and topical creams.

It’s Internet show-and-tell at its very best.

Quit delayin’, let’s dance!

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I just woke up from a nap. The time-stamp on my compu-deck is 9:45PM. The natural inference is that I’m going to stay up too late, not get enough sleep, and drag ass all day tomorrow.

This is going to be a problem.

So how will I combat the First World Problem of being overtired at work? Well, with huge scoops of entertainment that’ll either sharpen my mind or further dull it! And how will I tell the lovely OL patrons which mind-bullets I’ll be loading into my metaphor-pistol? Why, with this very post – the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

C’mon, hop aboard and check out how I’ll be coping with the indentured servitude that is the forty-hour workweek. After you see which snake-oils I’m sipping on, hit up the comments section and show off your own curative elixirs.

1,2,3. 1,2,3. Keep it up.

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There is no greater trial of will than that of the reigning champion. Sure, on the one hand champions are bathed in the adulation of admirers, those lesser-thans who need this hero to represent them in all the ways they can’t represent themselves. On the other hand, great kings also inspire the dissident hordes who want nothing more than to see the crown filched from head, smelted down, and forged into shackles.

When you’re on top, some people love you. But others want to watch you fail. And as such, you have to constantly watch the throne.

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