Hello there! If you’re reading this it means that Frankenstorm hasn’t totally rocked you. Not yet, anyways. Or, if you took the proper precautions as I did, you’re safe in a bunker, leisurely tapping away on a hard-shelled laptop produced in 1995 and powered by a Soviet-surplus generator.

Mother Nature is a powerful woman of antiquity, but I’m a crafty miscreant in the digital age.

Anyways, welcome to the Monday Morning Commute, the weekly meeting at which we confess our darkest entertainment secrets. Can’t tell your boyfriend about that comic book you bought? Come to the MMC! None of your coworkers will appreciate the Japanese import you just got in the mail? Come to the MMC! Pretty sure your wife doesn’t give two buttery squirrel shits about the fact that you’re going to beat Super Mario Bros. 3 without the use of a single warp or whistle? Come to the MMC!

I’m going to get things started. But then it’s up to you to share what you’ll be doing this week. C’mon, it’s electronic show and tell!

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Hello friends. Welcome to the jamboree. Lately the status quo on Spaceship Omega has been a blinking red sign that reads “busy, busy, busy, busy, busy.” Rendar has gotten himself embroiled in a class-action lawsuit against McDonald’s. Something about dipping his testicles in hot coffee that wasn’t hot enough, didn’t leave scars large enough, I’m not sure. He pulled down his pants and I turned away when I began to see the boils and then I started screaming.

And me?

I’ve been chugging along, writing my thesis for my Master’s Program. All along the oblivion known as the “Real World” has been staring me in the eyes, rubbing its belly and chuckling manically. We are going to have to tussle very, very soon. Throw thirty+ hours of tutoring on top of that, and whelp…let’s just say the Spaceship has been on auto-pilot. None the less! With all this busyness, we could all use some escape.

This is Monday Morning Commute, the column where we spout off the various arts and crafts keeping us from stabbing ourselves during the grind of the 9-5. The following are my jams.

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Gather round, children. Taste the delicious taste of my nectar. This here sugary paste didn’t distill itself. No sir. No ma’am. Salutations to all genders, the myriad of multiple possibilities in a world where binary is only for coding! Ha! Speaking of delectable, what a pun, no? Where I am from you respect your mother and sharpen your pun. Did I ever tell you the story about how my Great Great Great Vat Father was shanked behind a stim stage for mouthing off without a retort? Old mucous-face tried to parry with a master of repartee and when his wits ran dry, his blood ran fluidly. Never forget what Jean-Paul said. Oh sure he was a coke-head and was banging the chicks working under him and sure he ultimately went even way too Red for my socialist, anarchist, burn-it-down ass. None the less. Remember when Jeanie said.

Words are loaded pistols.

What does that have to do with this column? Nothing. This is Monday Morning Commute. Gather around the watering hole, us shackled to the churning of the capitalist tides! How are you hiding from the next sixty years of brain-numbing repetition? This week, which arts are you finding salvation in? Movies, music, television, funny book, new sexy toys. I want to hear it all. Share it.

This is what I am digging.

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He’d read all about Transcender’s journey to Saturn, and the havoc that was wreaked upon that that hotel. It upset his constitution to think that the System’s savior, the genetically-perfected designed to fend off nether-threats, could be derailed so easily. And by such trifles, nonetheless. Alcohol. Women. Drug-beams. All of the vices that, according to many, had done in Earth in the first place.

To the moonbeam death-child, Transcender Yonder had lost his way. Which may have been true. But as seven-year old, there ain’t no way he could understand Transcender’s appreciate of fine pussy and bourbon.

Headphones clamped on tight, the moonbeam death-child tried to tune out his negative thoughts. Rather than dwell on the various ways he’d like to torture Earth’s mightiest drunkard – testicle-electrocution, force-fed glass sandwiches, and atomic bombings at the top of the list – he made his peace with the omniverse. Heck, three songs in, the moonbeam death-child laughed at the thought that people didn’t always realize that music aligns the brainwaves to the same frequencies that neutrinos use to slip between dimensions.

How comical!

So relaxed by the music was the child that he fell into a deep slumber. So relaxed was this slumber that he didn’t notice the blanket being draped over his listless frame. And so gentle was the draping that he smiled the hearty grin of the runt who’s looked after by the alpha male.

Transcender Yonder was finally home, and was glad to see that his moonbeam death-child, whether or not he’d admit it, didn’t hate him.

—-

Thanks for checking out the Monday Morning Commute! This is the spot where I ramble about the make-believe and the real-believe alike, sharing with you the various ways I’ll be entertaining myself throughout the workweek. After you peep my means of destroying ennui, hit up the comments section and share yours. C’mon, you know how it is – work sucks, life rules, let’s party until we’re dead!

Are you ready to rock?

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Quickly! With rapidity. This is Monday Morning Commute, churned out on a break from work. There are scant words, so let us speak through Images and not Words or something.

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If you listen closely during Autumn here on the Eastern seaboard of the Empire, you can hear the gentle hum of the Universe. Raised hairs on the nape of your neck, don’t despair. You are sensing during the Fall the quiet passage of Existence. For some it drives them into intoxicants, lonely. For some, it drives them to intoxicants, relishing the diminished weather. For me, I find a gentle joy in the gathering of family around roasted beasts, around football games, around the scattered leaves and the comfy clothing.

This is Monday Morning Commute. The column where we all gather and share what we’re enjoying on a given week. Let us not acknowledge the grind this week, but rather enjoy our little community. Humming along towards star stuff repurposing, humming along together.

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Can you feel the winds of progress caressing your face?

If there’s a breeze at your back, you need to turn around! Post-haste! Hurry up, goddamn it, or else you’re goin’ to miss it! No, not the future — the future’s already old news. Passé. The stuff of anthropology. Hell, every average seventeen year old possesses a single electronic device that can be used to make phone calls, research vast informational databases, watch movies, listen to music, and navigate via GPS.

And that average seventeen year old also wants the newer model.

But rather than letting these futuristic winds whip our backs, let’s trudge forward. Scratch that — let’s sprint. `Cause the fact of the matter is that it’s easy to spin our wheels here in the future. Hell, how could it not be? We’ve got everything that our parents and grandparents could’ve ever imagined. But if we hold our heads high, welcome alien gusts that tussle our hair, and keep movin’ ahead, we could go to some incredible places.

Let’s go beyond the future.

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Thanks for tuning in to the Monday Morning Commute! As per custom, I’m goin’ to show you the various bits of entertainment and brain-rot that I’ll be using to get through the workweek. After scoping out my pile of fun-detritus, hit up the comments section and tell us what you’ll be doin’ this week.

Time to party.

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What’s up, friends. It is Powered by Caffeine here. Rendar can’t come tonight. He’s in the woods with a couple of other friends, howling six-word odes dedicated to Hemingway. Prior to uttering these supplications to Lieutenant Shotgun Suicide, they strip down to their underwear and chest-chop each other while telling one another how fucking masculine it is to take five fingers off the sternum. It is not until their pectoral muscles are bright red and they’re wheezing that they bark at the moon. It is an annual late summer festival, and I dare not come between him and such a spectacle. So here I sit, grinding away on the Mothership per usual. This here is Monday Morning Commute, the column where we give the rundown on the various arts and crafts we’re enjoying on a given week.

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“Ain’t even close enough to get me where I need to go.”

Rodrigo scrutinized the cup in his hand, sighing at the fact that there weren’t even enough coins to cover the bottom. Four hours at this goddamn shuttle station, and he’d earned no more than two dollars in assorted change. Which was a shame considering the lengths to which he was going to elicit the goodwill of the ticket-wielder passengers. He’d offered up the absolute cream of his milky anecdotes, skimming off the grimiest details about the mission to Saturn that’d first dented his sanity.

Gravity-maladjustment brain-bubbles killing crew members. Robotic death camps. Radiation sickness. A three-vagina’d Siren that forced herself on him and bore a son he’d later kill with a curling iron.

But nobody believed Rodrigo.

At this point, he was a week without a shower and even further from a clean shave. His fingernails were the color of rust and his breath smelled of sushi prepared in a bathroom stall overflowing with excremental exuberance. It didn’t matter that he still wore the boots from the Saturn mission and held onto the remnants of his helmet, without his DigID Card no one’d ever believe that he was Rodrigo Graham.

To the people walking about the Deimos Interplanetary Shuttle Station, he was just another space urchin.

As such, Rodrigo begged for change and the they kept on walkin’, content to gaze into their brain-rot glo-screens for updates every nano of the second.

shuttledelays.rodrigograhammemorial. civilunrestonearth. honeydon’tforgettopickupaquartofsynthmilk. livenudesfordeadsouls. superbowlreturnstohomeplanet. brutalstormsravagevenutiancolony.

And those that glanced up long enough to see Rodrigo’s desperate lips jabbering about still couldn’t hear the pleas. How could they? They were deaf with sound, ear-chewing on the synthesized bubblegum audio that piped into their brains without reprieve.

Rodrigo Graham was a hero of a human race that’d lost its humanity.

—-

Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! I’m going to detail some of the ways I’ll be getting excited about life during the next week. Then, you hit up the comments section and share your own strategies for defeating boredom!

Let’s do this!

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Want to know how to have a whole mess of fun?

Hide your grandpa’s medicine. Steal it from wherever he keeps it, and then put it somewhere else. Ideally, you’re goin’ to want to go at least two rooms over. After all, geriatric hips are rustier than robot dongs. And remember, you’re aimin’ to maximize your entertainment.

For example, if Grampy’s bottle of pills rests on the bathroom sink, filch that motherfucker and bring it to your kitchen. Once there, turn the bottle upside down and open it up over your dog’s dish. There’s no joy quite like that of besprinkling Alpo with Valtrex. Then, while you’re waiting for your parent’s parent to discover just how badly he’s been goofed, stand guard so as to make sure that Fido doesn’t start snackin’ away.

After all, the dog didn’t do anything.

—-

Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! I’m going to show you some of the ways I’ll be keeping myself entertained during the hellish stretch known as the workweek. Then, you hit up the comments section and describe the weapons you’ll be wielding against the 40-Houred Beast of Burden. Yes, this is essentially electronic show-and-tell.

And no, you may not be excused to go to the nurse. Everyone must participate.

C’mon, let’s do this!

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