It’s the final trailer for Star Wars: The Last Jedi, what the fuck else do you need to know? Watch it! Then come back!

Are you back? Nice! Impressions? What did you think?

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They still haven’t killed me.

That’s not to say there haven’t been a few close calls. That time I pulled the job on the Federation Bank on Ganymede? Goddamn, that pig went belly-up the second I scratched the skin, but I walked out with an empty clip and sack full of cash. Needless to say, I won’t be going back to Jupiter anytime soon.

Or that time I stowed aboard the Belt Skipper in the hopes of finding my beau for a real lunar tryst of a weekend. Of course, I was discovered halfway through, and that fuck of a captain tried the `ole airlock gag on me. Thing is, that shit only works on the criminally unprepared, and I’m nothing if not one prepared criminal. Fucker punched the release and I flashed him the bird before wrapping myself in a solar sail and then leisurely drifting to a comrade’s outpost.

Oh, and then just yesterday I was having a drink at Old  McQuarrie’s — bourbon and white wine, if you care – and all of a sudden the place goes neon! Bullets and beams whizzing past my head, Old McQuarrie crying behind the bar and doing that thing he does where he says those prayers and grabs at the – whatcha call it – that’s right, the Rosary beads! They managed to kill an old pervert sitting next to me, which is a shame because even though he’d spent a half hour shamelessly trying to get into my pants, everyone in the community really loved him.

So anyways, I end up having to basically gut Old McQuarrie’s with the better part of my arsenal – and I don’t just mean bullets and blades, I’m talking about pulse charges and pheno-drones, too. But, when someone’s trying to take your life, you don’t think to yourself, “Maybe I should save something for next time,” `cause the truth is that there might not be a next time.

They still haven’t killed me.
And I’ve got the privilege of next time.
But next time? They might just kill me.

—-

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, you salty dogs!

Y’either know the drill or y’don’t. If y’do, just keep movin’ along! If y’don’t, well here’s what’s what: first I warm you up with some half-baked bit of writing nonsense (see above). Then, I share what I’ll be thinking about or watching or listening to or doing over the next week. Finally, you hit up the comments section and share your own tentative plans?

Why do we do this here at OL? Well, because life can be brutal but solidarity can be liberating. We’re all just trying to make our days manageable — or enjoyable or maybe even, in rare instances, triumphant — and sometimes a good suggestion goes a long way.

Enough blathering, let’s freakin’ dance!

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Here is brief trailer snippet from the MarketingWizards at DisneyLucasFilth to announce a full Last Jedi trailer dropping tomorrow. Not only that, though! Tickets go on sale tomorrow night as well.

After the jump, because fucking Twitter video.

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Want a look at Supreme Leader Snoke’s ground beef lookin’ assface, prior to The Last Jedi? OL and them Topps trading cards got you covered.

Hit the jump!

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Want a clear ass look at Supreme Leader Snoke, from The Last Jedi? You know, better than that blurry-as-fuck dur dur build the suspense hologram you see in The Force Awakens? Then hit the goddamn jump!

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Yeah, I know you’ve already seen these already. But! I was busy at work! So lay off! But! I want to save them for posterity. So lay off!

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…cause everything must get a 16-bit remix, right?

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Rian Johnson took a good, long look at Kylo Ren’s scar in The Force Awakens and was like, “nah” to its placement. Which explains why it looked different in the trailer for The Last Jedi. And cooler, too. I’m down with it. Calm down, nerds!

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It’s the freakin’ weekend, baby!

That can only mean, well, an assortment of things for yours truly. Overeating. Watching wrestling. Sleeping late. Continuing to overeat. Playing video games. Watching playoff hockey. All sorts, oh, oh, all sorts of glorious, hedonistic, self-indulgent, wildly self-masturbatory excessivism.

But! It’s the Weekend! Some come, fellow garbage lurkers. Come and spend time here in the Weekend Open Bar.

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They tryta tell ya not to worry.
“Don’t worry about it, everything will be fine.”

They tryta tell ya that it’s not really fuckin’ weird.
“What you’re feeling, right now, it’s perfectly normal.”

They tryta tell ya that what — or, I guess, who – you’re seein’ is familiar.
“Look! There he is! He’s opened his eyes! See, he’s waving to you! Wave back!”

But I’ll be goddamned if I ain’t never seen nothin’ less familiar.
“Go ahead – go into the room and give him a hug!”

And I’ll be good goddamned if there ain’t nothin’ I’d ever wanted to destroy more.
“Here, let me bring you in! I can only imagine what waiting for The Reuniting has felt like.”

Unfortunately, turns out that paperworkin’ and payin’ and waitin’ all felt like shit, and that shit felt like gold compared to this shit.

Unfortunately, turns out that bein’ Reunited with your once-dead son don’t feel so good as they tryta tell ya.

Unfortunately, turns out that seein’ your once-dead son openin’ his eyes and wavin’ at ya don’t feel so good when ya could only afford to upload his mind into a bootleg clone.

They tryta tell ya not to worry.
Worry.

—-

Come one, come all, step right up, folks: this is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

First, I spit prose-nonsense at you (that’s the stuff at the top). Then, I try to apologize for it by sharing a list of pop culture detritus I’ll be chewing on all week (that’s the stuff you’ll see after the jump). Finally, you hit up the comments and tell us what you’ll be entertainment-consuming this week.

Right this way, hombres!

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