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.