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.

–-

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.

–-

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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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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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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Come one, come all!

Step right up folks, no need to be shy! Thissere’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, Omega-Level’s weekly session of pop culture show-and-tell! I’m going to show off the various entertainment-runes I’ll be using to ward off the workweek-trolls, and then you can hit up the comments section and display your own wares.

It’s a goddamn breeding ground for all ideas nerdcore.

This week it looks like I’m finally paying tribute to those wonders to which I’ve been negligent. Enough is enough, I owe it to myself to experience the rockin’ tunes and fantastic episodes and whimsical passages that’ve eluded me. Time to map out this week’s mind-commutes!

Let’s do this!

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Rodrigo’s eyes went skyward, following the rocket as it pushed against unseen forces. Gravity. Defeatism. Self-appointed moral barometers. The seven-year-old was watching magic incarnate, and although he knew this to be the case, he couldn’t find the words to express it.

“It’s…it’s…it’s…” was all that Rodrigo exhaled when his opinion was polled.

Once the rocket had disappeared, Reggie tried to pull his kid brother towards the car. Unsuccessfully, of course. Rodrigo kept his neck craned, concentrating on the fading wisps of purple exhaust. Imagining the strange world the crew was going to explore. Contemplating how wonderful it’d be if the planet’s inhabitants actually accepted the offer.

From what the scientists said, they could be quite stubborn.

“D’ya think the aliens are going to come back with `em?” Rodrigo inquired through a gap-toothed grin.

“Well,” Reggie began, pausing to take his brother’s hand while crossing the street, “for their sake, I certainly hope so.”

“Why’s dat?”

“`Cause they’ll never get here on their own. And they’re hurtin’ for certain – more people than resources, more hatred than love. Sometimes even the brightest of rainbows can’t shine through the storm clouds. Doesn’t mean the rainbow ain’t there, jus’ needs a sweet breeze to clear out the air. Get what I’m sayin’?”

“Uh-huh,” Rodrigo mused, idly scratching his scalp. “The rocket-men are gonna go help the aliens `cause the aliens are in big-time trouble.”

“You got it, buddy.”

The seven-year-old pushed his legs into double-time to keep pace with his older brother. Other days, he’d dawdle behind. But at this moment, there was an electricity in the air and Rodrigo’s inquisitive mind was surging. So many details to consider and questions to answer.

“Hey Reggie, how long’ll it take the rocket-men to get to Earth?”

–-

Welcome to MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! This is the spot where I rummage through the entertainment-debris that’ll be occupying my mind during the workweek. Your task is to hit up the comments section and share what you’ll be doing to survive the 9-5 life. It’s like a show-and-tell cocktail with a nerdcore garnish.

C’mon, let’s give each other some bad ideas.

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Hey there!

How’s it going? If you’re a citizen of the Empire like I am, then chances’re that you might have the day off of work for the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday. I’d like to think that I’m going to spend the day contemplating the racial disparity that’s marred the history of the United States. Perhaps I could even set aside some time to figure out a way to try to oppose the inequality that lingers to this day.

But the fact is that I’m more apt to sleep in late, eat pizza, and straight-chill.

Hey! Don’t judge me! I’m just bein’ honest! If you know something I can do to help the world, let me know and I’ll see what I can do. But if nothing else, I’ll probably figure out some nerdy way to empathize with racial tensions.

Okay, okay – thissere’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! I’m going to show you the different bits of entertainment I’ll be using to assemble my own anti-stress mech. After you check out the ways I’m going to entertain myself through the workweek, your task is to hit up the comments section and show off your own wares. Yes, this is essentially show-and-tell, minus the rules and kindergarten teacher who was probably hot back in the 1970s but is now a crabby old bitch.

Let’s rock.

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What’s up Star Children? How the fuck are you doing this evening? Rendar threw the Symbol Omega into the sky and asked me to take custody of this steed for this week’s installment. I have a goddamn stomach ache, and I think it’s because its the first day in a week I haven’t gorged on some sort of confectionery nonsense. (Though to be fair our own Eduardo Pluto somehow tricked me into eating an entire fucking box of Runts but that’s neither here nor there.)

Fuck! Fucking fuck. Where was I? Oh yeah! This is MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, the column where everyone throws down their sorrows and lists the distractions and distinctions that is keeping us all from killing ourselves amid the capitalism torture-grind-rack-thing.

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Today is January 2nd, the nightcap on what is typically thought of as the holiday season. The wrapping paper’s been discarded, the ornaments have been put back in the box, and Uncle Bosco’s been evicted from his spot on the couch. This our last chance to sample the holiday pastries before their thrown out, to empty the champagne bottles into our guts when no one’s looking, and to lounge around in sweatpants without worrying about judgment.

This is a glorious day.

I’m doing my best to revel in this final moment of jubilation, as I know that when tomorrow hits I’m going to be a miserable bastard. I don’t hate my job, but it’s incredibly time consuming and I often find myself dreaming of finding a job that’s less demanding, even if that’s synonymous with less lucrative. Which is kind of insane, because I don’t exactly make mad cheddy-donkies right now.

I know I’m not alone.

And thus, I present the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! This is OL’s weekly 9-5ers Anthem, the spot where we share our strategies for surviving the workweek. After you check out the various bits of entertainment I’ll be using to salvage my sanity, hit up the comments section and show off your wares.

Let’s do this.

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