OmegaPlays: The Messenger Part 1 – Bags Hit Puberty At The Age Of 4

Aw yeah, motherfuckers! This week we started The Messenger. And, it fucking rules! You know what else also rules? Ian talking about how he murmurs to his wife post-coitus, “Don’t Grow My Children.” And, you know what also-also rules? Bags confessing that he essentially hit puberty at the age of 4, during Wrestlemania or some shit. Good times. Horrifying times. For your consumption and enjoyment.

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Weekend Open Bar: Passionfruit

weekend open bar passionfruit

Oh, fuck! It’s the Weekend. Oh, fuck! It’s the Weekend Open Bar! Oh, fuck! My wife told me I only have ten minutes to Open the Bar. And, and, and, you know. Between fiddling with the volume control on my speakers, messaging a couple of friends, and, you know. Do you know? ‘Cause I don’t. Where the fuck is the time going? Oh, fuck! Time, it bleeds, life it bleeds, the universe it slowly, slowly bleeds out. Us, it, none of us truly conscious of it! Stay focused though, man! There ain’t time for your usual existential blatherings.

This is Weekend Open Bar!

The cure-all, catch-all weekly column at the end of the work week! Where I, your Captain and Local Garbage Lord, implore you to come and hang out! Share what you’re eating, watching, watching while eating, playing, et cetera. So on. So forth.

Get high, get drunk, get hard, get soft, whatever, whatever, whatever! It’s all good here.  So long as you don your most welcoming and affable of affectations and share what you’re up to this weekend. Shoot the shit, if you will.

This is Weekend Open Bar!

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Monday Morning Commute: the whirlybird of universal disconstants

the whirlybind of universal constants

Looking back upon my past, over the past (six months), of the past (several years), two questions have arisen. The first one, perhaps obvious, is: who am I? The second one, perhaps obvious, perhaps not obvious, is: who was I? It’s easy to sift through the wreckage, the diamonds, the wrecked diamonds of your past these days. Facebook and Timehop provide constant reminders of what you were doing, this day, year, years, eons, ago. A feedback loop of experience. Remembering the remembrances, especially if you share those memories of memories. A feedback loop of experience.

I don’t know if I’ve gotten older (slowed down) or I’ve gotten older (matured) or if I’ve gotten older-older. But, this much is certain: I do not recognize the Man piercing time-space from the Linear-Past. Or more accurately: I do not recognize when I stopped being the Man piercing time-space from the Linear-Past, and became the older-older, more haunted, more nostalgic CaffPow.

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Monday Morning Commute: They Thought It Was An Accident

they thought it eas an accident

Welcome to Monday Morning Commute! On time, half-assed, and here for your whole-hearted dismissal. I am currently supine. Clad in sweatpants and malaise. Trying to see Monday Night RAW over my laptop. This is my worldview. This is my worldview: we live short lives in absurd conditions, and goddamn if I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Welcome to Monday Morning Commute! The column where I share the various things I’m looking forward to during a given week. This is a neat little week, filled with a substantial amount of anticipated-things and enjoyed-objects. I hope you’ll share your own MindMusings after reading through my little lame assed list.

Let’s do this!

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