Weekend Open Bar: The OMNIVERSE Is Hell On Your Retinas!


To perceive oblivion is to invite your own doom. Ignore Yog-Soggoth’s dark, piercing clarion call. Turn your eyes away from his enticements. Do the same for the other Elder Ones. They whisper promises that shall only fill their bellies with your psychic-vomit, as your ears bleed and your ocular holes find themselves filled to the brim with gelatinous, former-eyes. Yeah, I know. It’s a letdown. The limitations of our meat-sacks. But hey! Until the great Transhumanism Movement of 20XX, we can spend our time bound in these rot-vessels together! Hanging out at the Weekend Open Bar.

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Weekend Open Bar: His Name Was Stan

his name was stan!

It’s the Weekend, folks. Let’s enjoy it together. Let’s enjoy it for Stan. The (maybe)-character from True Detective‘s second season turned punchline for half of the internet. Stan‘s no longer with us, but I have it on good authority that he would have insisted that we enjoy the Weekend together. I also have it on good authority that he was a fan of the site, and particularly of this weekly column. Stan liked nothing more than lurking in Weekend Open Bar.

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Monday Morning Commute: Creation-that is the great redemption from suffering

creation -- mmc

It’s Monday! Which means a Morning Commute. How did mine go? Well — I was rear ended for the third time in two years as I drove on I-93 South towards UMass Boston. People! Look up from your fucking phones. I beg you. My spaghetti-brain begs you. My consistently whiplash’d neck begs you. I hope, I pray to the Old Ones, that your commute was better than mine. The only perk? The Immediate Migraine and Sore Neck meant I got to go home. Though after thinking about it, a day of lost wages and suffering doesn’t seem like fair trade for a Monday on the couch. Eh. Whatever!

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Weekend Open Bar: Calcified Third-Eyes from the Fluoride Escapades


It’s fucking July 24th! That can only mean one thing! My summer class is done! It’s fucking Friday! That can only mean one thing! I’m done with work for the week! It’s fucking Weekend Open Bar! That can only mean one thing! It’s time to gather in this column with fellow denizens of the Space-Ship OMEGA. Share what you’re doing this weekend!

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Monday Morning Commute: self-appointed (meta)physical limitations


Roberta knew falling in love with Clauius, the thick-poled Cyborg was a mistake. He could see Infinity, perceive The All. His pistons would (practically) never age. His psyche could only expand. But still. Those eyes. That class. And don’t get me wrong. Clauius knew that falling in love with Roberta was a gamble only a foolish Flesh-Sack would make. She would age. Certainly, he was not immune to Entropy. But by the Circuitry Above, he could practically watch her decay happen in real-time. And when he sped up his relativistic perceptions, he did. But those eyes. And that brain. And so fell they love. Her programming and his programming (programmed by her programming) too much to overcome. For a moment, they will Find a Way. And for a moment we all Find a Way. There be romance, and mundanity, and hurt, and humping, and a cadre of other experiences. Most of them banal, some of them transcendent.

This is Monday Morning Commute | The arts, farts, blips, and blops that I look forward to during a given week. Share what you’re looking toward to. Join the community. Share your highlights, your misery.

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Press Start: SWERY directs Shenmue 3 in my dreams

You know how some people are still waiting for hoverboards? Well, in the same way I’m still waiting for Motoko Kusanagi-style cyborg shells. Not that I want to be a 400 pound metallic hottie, more that I just want a set of unstoppable bionic eyes that don’t crap out on me between my relentless cycle of monitors. Playing video games is tough. It burns. Join me…..

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Monday Morning Commute: BROCK AT THE MOON.

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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GEORGES ST-PIERRE Consulting On Video Game; Get His Swag As Pre-Order

Georges St-Pierre, blood of my blood. I see you, your perfect abs and your gorgeously thick thighs. I see you, and I write letters to my girlfriend that I never mail telling her how we’re leaving together. You are consulting on Sleeping Dogs, which I will never buy despite your contributions to it. You have no idea the pain this brings me.

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