Hey friends. Today was a rockier commute than usual. The long, long weekend giving way to a long, long drive into Boston. Long, long silences when I tried to drag effort out of my students like poison from a wound. But I can’t blame them, because fuck this semester has been going on for a long, long three months. My head is pounding. My stomach is seething after a day of daring to fill it with food products that are neither slathered in gravy, nor cheese. Still. The Column-Spice must flow.
These — these are the various things I’m looking forward to this week. That I shall latch onto, not unlike a tick. And hopefully suck the life-blood out of, allowing me to not call out sick. Which would follow with me festering under a blanket. Eating my weight in Laffy Taffy. I can do this. You can do this. We can do this.
Welcome to Monday Morning Commute.
Oh god. OH GOD. Oh god! This trailer for Star Wars Rebels is the fucking berries, man.
It hadn’t been my intention to light the mailman on fire.
I’d just wanted to give him a good scare. A shake-up. A reminder that I’m entitled to nothing less than the respect granted to all employers. `Cause love `em or hate `em, it’s the employers that give us the money for bill-payin’. Don’t believe me? Well, get caught screwin’ your boss’ husband and see how long you can keep payin’ for cable television and discount lapdances and beer and horny-videos and everything else worth livin’ for.
But seriously, I never thought the mailman’d actually go up in flames.
The way I sees it, I’m the mailman’s employer. Why’s that? Well, the mailman’s paycheck comes from taxes. And since I pay taxes most years, it’s my money that becomes his money. Sine qua pro bono. As his employer, it frustrates me to no damn end to see him royally bangin’ the job up the `ole keister. Parcel-delivery is one of the foundations of our friggin democracy! Without it we ain’t more than savages! There’s no excuse for the job bein’ done haphazardly!
And there’s no ignorin’ the fact that the mailman’s been stealin’ my goddamn TV Guides!
So yesterday, I waited by my mailbox. As the mailman approached I asked if he had my TV Guide. When he told me it must’ve been lost in the shuffle, I politely informed him that he was going to lose all of his “filth-riddle ass hairs.” Seizing his moment of confusion, I pushed him into my bushes, sending letters and packages all over the sidewalk. I quickly pulled down the back of his state-issued shorts and covered his buttcheeks with hairspray. As he screamed and squirmed and protested, I kept sprayin’, followin’ the cannister’s instructions to “apply thoroughly.” As I lit the match, I told him that I believed in poetic justice and his theft of my TV Guides had really been chappin’ my ass.
It hadn’t been my intention to light the mailman on fire. But I can’t say I regret it. Where’s my TV Guide?
Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! I’m going to list the activities that’ll keep me entertained throughout the week. Your task is to hit up the comments section and share your own suggestions for fun-havin’!
Rock! Roll! Lose control!
Oh god. Oh yes. Star Wars: Attack Squadrons has been announced. A free-to-play dogfighting game featuring all of the classic space ships from The Universe. I am sprung. Sprung, I say! Watch out, my lightsaber is igniting! Easy penis-to-saber puns! For everyone! Wee!
Hit the jump for the teaser trailer.
I bag on J.J. Abrams a lot, but I’m pretty fucking excited about this news. Homeboy isn’t an auteur or anything, but he is visually stunning, and more than competent. In 2015, we’re getting Whedon-powered Avengers 2, and Abrams-fueled Episode VII. Praise the Makers.
Netflix has closed a hell of a deal. Starting in 2016, they have the streaming rights to Disney, Marvel, and Pixar flicks. Does this count Star Wars? Is the Force going to be streaming?
…Not even giving a measure of a fuck with the cheesy headlines today. Behold this Star Wars organ that churns out the movie’s theme with haunting goofiness.
What could get me to go to Montreal? Aside from hot French women? Star Wars. It is the Montreal Science Centre that’s the sight of the Star Wars: Identities exhibit which seems pretty fucking cool.
Star Wars posters coming out of Hungary are a surreal mess. I’m not really certain what’s going on in them, and I’m actually pretty fucking stoked about it. It’s pretty much just Pyramid Darth Vader holding it down in the desert or some shit.
Hit the jump to check them out.
This is the sort of machine that Pepsibones or I would dream up at the dinner table while our family was trying to eat. And then they’d all deride us, our girlfriends and our parents, calling us sickos and pre-vurts. Well guess what, naysaying family members! Someone else thought this up, and it’s awesome, and like, sort of real.
Seen here is an unusual example of excess G’s being harnessed for the good. The patent holders, George B. and Charlotte Blonsky, contend that the centrifuge could be a boon to “more civilized women,” who, they surmise, often lack the muscle strength needed to easily push out a baby. Centrifugal force would act as a sort of invisible midwife, lessening the muscular force required for birthing. Would it work, though? Could one create enough outward force on the baby to make a difference — without simultaneously making the mother lightheaded? I sent the patent to April Ronca, who used to research the effects of zero G on fetal growth and birth for NASA. “That is an interesting invention,” she replied.
Note the elasticized “pocket-shaped newborn net” – lest the baby shoot out and bump its head with double-G force.
Scientists are fucking awesome! And someday I hope to come up with a device this cool.