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.

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Remember how last week I was all excited for life? This week is the glorious inversion of such a feeling. A viscous ladling of ennui is rattling around my belly, daring me to frown. There isn’t so much a reason for me to be sad, rather I’m just like “oh hey, I exist.” Eh, what can you do. Some weeks are more thrilling than others. So I turn to you, dare readers, in this newest of Monday Morning Commutes. Tell me what you’re enjoying this week. Inspire me. I beseech thee. And thee. And thee.

Hit the jump for my tepid chocies for the next seven days.

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Sup fuckers. Don your war crest. Paint your face with the blood of those who have fallen before you staves, swords, axes. This is getting real. The following week is filled with enough revelry to burst my little heart. Were I a coward. But I am not such thing. My arteries are thickened from excessive, caffeine-fueled pumping. The next seven days are a gauntlet of awesome that justify this meager little column. Nay, these seven days justify my generally effusive demeanor. This is MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, the column where we pontificate on the various little objects filling our hurt-holes. The arts, farts, funny books, and video games we are using as a salve to soothe the general burn of existence.

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Scanners wasn’t wrong. Inter-facing with the Omega Space-Ship through the circuitous telephone network is difficult. As we speak, the hemoglobin slithers down my nasal cavities. My sclera pool into murky, red misery.  I do this for you, my friends. Seldom are the days when you get the pleasure of knowing the gentle-man at the other end of an exchange is a fugitive. Yet today, you have this pleasure. The modern-man with his fascist government attempts to hold me-you-us down, insisting that digitally interfacing with a Slurpee machine with our digits (along with other mushy parts) is against some sort of law. Embrace the disembracement of the flesh, let us love all matter within the known Cosmos.

Or just let me fuck my Slurpee machine in peace. It loves me so.

Quickly now, let us not waste time. While Spring is close, it is still nipply out. Running out of the 7-Eleven as I was chased by the Illuminati’s thugs, I wasn’t able to retrieve my pants. So I am balls-out, warbling nonsense into the last known pay phone in my town. Soon I’m going to need to take the quarter out from underneath my tongue to continue this man-phone-internet-Word-Press exchange thanks to the cost of communication. And once I lose my Tuning Coin, who knows how things are going to go.

This is Monday Morning Commute. I’m going to tell you the things I wish I was doing instead of being on the run from the Trilateral Commission’s goons. You’re going to tell me what arts and farts you’re enjoying this week.

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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.

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What’s good in the hood, folks? Been a hell of week! Hell of a fucking week. I suffered a butt-drubbing last week at the hands of a son a bitch in a FedEx truck. The little Japanese Car that Could, which had shuttled me to work and back for many a year, Now Simply Can’t. Smash-pow! Don’t ever stop for pedestrians. That is the lesson learned. Crazy Taxi those motherfuckers. Grand Theft Auto right through their right of way. No, I’m just kidding. Don’t do that. Unless you’re fleeing from laser-cocked zombies, who want to nourish their hunger on your balls. Or labia. Laballs. Where was I? I blame the concussion. Oh yeah! This is Monday Morning Commute. The column where we share the various arts, farts, sexual proclivities (still waiting for someone to break that ice), and other general things you’re enjoying on a given week.

Let’s party, gals and guys.

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This is Monday Morning Commute.

It’s been one of those interminable Mondays. The sort that strike during the deadness of winter, challenging me not to stick the gas pump up my ass while singing falsetto at everyone staring at me. The dumb, dank, dirty snow. The middle-finger flipping ashen sky. One of those Mondays when I have to write this little column, and unfortunately all I can muster is, “man, I’m pretty much not excited about anything.” Everything is dirty underneath my bitter little gums today. Here is a list of begrudgingly rustled things that I’m kind of, sort of, enjoying.

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Aloha! Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! What is it that I do here at the MMC? Well, first I gather up all of Spaceship OL’s passengers – nerd-culture slovens and amigos and infidels alike! Then, I show `em the various bits of art and trash and fast-food debauchery that I’ll be devourin’ during the course of the week. At this point, I deactivate the laser-shackles and let the wayfarers bludgeon one another with their prospective plans for destroying ennui and undermining workplace productivity.

It’s a thing of goddamn beauty.

C’mon, jump in and join the madness!

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Welcome, friends. This is Monday Morning Commute, the column that details the various music, movies, books, and general chicanery that we as a collective are basking in on a given week. I am currently typing this bad boy from the empty confines of a general writing workshop I run at State University Y. This lovely University that employs me is one of the few actually open in the greater Boston Area after this weekend’s blizzard, which means that I have trekked onto campus for one meager hour (all of my other students cancelled). None the less. What can we do? So I will make use of my time, penning this paean to to the things I dig.

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Now begins the dark age, when the football fiasco pop-culture zeitgeist begins to slumber until September. Without any weekly caloric-crushing, fantasy football fist-pumping, the average male wanders around lost. Not me. No way. Thanks to the courtesies extended by the various arts that I indulge in on a weekly basis. This is Monday Morning Commute, the column where we gather to discuss these interests. Look at that fucking segue, and fondle me. As you do so, I’ll pat you gently and caress your soft face. We are in this together.

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