Monday Morning Commute: Vinegar & Wine.

Vinegar & Wine

Servin’ a life-sentence on Spaceship Earth is a tedious, painful, agonizing wonder.

Why’s that? For one thing, there’s the fact that everyone you love will die. Your best friend. Your kid sister. Your longtime mistress. Your high school math teacher.

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Along the way you’re guaranteed to deal with inevitable body-breakdown. Maybe you’ll abuse your body. Maybe somebody else will fuck it up. Even if you think you’re unscathed, the sands of time are wearing away at your flesh-vehicle’s gears. Every single day. Every single moment. Until when, you ask?

Until they’re so smooth that they don’t move shit.

But alas! There’s hope! Even those of us who’re agin’ more like vinegar than wine have a fightin’ chance at experiencin’ glory! Not only are we fortunate enough to have been imbued with consciousnesses, but we get to live in a hyperreal future! Are things royally fucked up? Sure! But we live in times in which anything is possible!

So if you start to feel a chill as an existential shadow lurks over your shoulder, spin around and blast that motherfucker with a science fiction repulsor ray!


Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! I’m goin’ to show off this week’s strategies for keeping me pleased with existence. I suggest you liven up the party by entering the dance circle that is the comments section.

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Wee: Scientific American is all “end the ban on psychoactive drug research!”

Walter Bishop.

All across the land, jittery-handed folk are raising their hands! Hoping that Scientific American‘s pean directed at the virtues of psychoactive drug research is heeded! I mean, I mean…why not? I’ve Fringe. Walter Bishop has convinced me that psychoactives allow you to deny space, time, and plot coherence.

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Opinions Vary: Monsters of the Week Episodes F**king Rule


A couple of weeks ago I was yanking purple-tip to Almost Human’s premiere. It was jazzy, I was jazzed, my underoos were sticky but stern. (What does that even mean?) In the middle of my fluids-flinging, our own incalculably talented J-Hawtsauce pointed out that he had a hard time swallowing the episode orders that network television demanded. The good sir lamented the puffed-up nature that having to bring twenty-four (or so) episodes to bare every season can produce on a show.

At the time I claimed that I didn’t have a problem with what were essentially procedural television shows with a science-fiction tinge. After all, I love the X-FilesFringe titillates me, and since I’m lazy and don’t feel like thinking I’ll nominate Battlestar Galactica as (a stretch of) an example.

Monsters of the week episodes rule! (Sort of.)

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Monday Morning Commute: Calories Are A Harsh Mistress


Hello friends. Welcome aboard the Mother-Ship. Adopt your seat of choice. Notice how the syntho-foam molds itself perfectly to your buttocks. And — And! — should you telepathically wish it, begins to invade said buttocks. Go ahead. We didn’t spend all the money on the syntho-foam for nothing. We ain’t judging.Once you’re settled, pull the visors over your retinas and ingest this forthcoming list. The list? A drug-fueled (specifically antihistamines) delineation of the things I’m enjoying this week. Correlate the list within your rotting, offensive organic dome-piece. Whilst, of course, writhing against the synto-foam’s pseudo-phallus. Then when you’re done, hit the comments section with your own list of enjoyments.

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Monday Morning Commute: It’s More Of A Fringe Science


Welcome, friends. Welcome to the Space-Ship Omega’s weekly column, Monday Morning Commute. Within these walls, I, the captain, and you all will share the various arts and farts that we’re interested in during a given week. The foci are generally said arts (and poots!) that are upcoming, but feel free to share past-dalliances that are on your dome-piece as well.

Time is of the something!

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We have connected two brains, folks. Some real-up science-fiction nightmare shit. It’s real. Really real!

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Monday Morning Commute: Then Our Sweatpants Boners Swung.

Monday evening in the Northeast section of the American Empire proper. Cold winds, comfortable clothes. Shut windows and caffeine in the veins. I’m relaxing. I’m also Caffeine Powered, my (literal) brother Rendar Frankenstein tagging me in for this iteration. I’m swinging over the top fucking rope, ready to drop sweet chin music upon all your unsuspecting asses. Gape for me baby, and allow my Love Heel to caress your Soul-Clit.

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Test For Multiple Universes Finds Four. Oh Fringe Science, ILU.

If you follow this site, you know I love me some fringe science. Science that probably isn’t true in a zillion years, but has enough of a shred of evidence that it can tickle my Science-Fiction g-spot. How about multiple universes? Oh baby!

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